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“I never drink the filthy stuff.”
“You’re not rational. I don’t know what’s got into you, and I’m not sure I care. But the women are gone. I took them in for only a few days—”
“You couldn’t put them up at a hotel?”
“You don’t understand a damned thing,” Clevedon said. “They have a business to run. They can’t afford to lose time. They needed a place to work. They needed help. Bringing them here was the simplest plan. They drove themselves to distraction to finish a dress for Clara—”
“Don’t speak of her and them in the same breath, you philandering swine.”
“They’re gone, you idiot! I had them packed up and out of here in seventy-two hours. They were gone on Saturday morning.”
“And you were in bed with the brunette on Friday night,” Longmore said.
It was completely unexpected. It was like one of Longmore’s lightning blows, coming from the one angle one wasn’t prepared for.
For a moment Clevedon saw red, literally: flames danced before his eyes. He clenched his fists, and when he spoke, his voice was deadly calm. “The temptation to knock you down is nearly overwhelming,” he said.
“Don’t act all nobly outraged with me, as though I’ve compromised her virtue.”
“Only a blackguard would speak of any woman in that way.”
“You were with her,” Longmore said. “You weren’t even discreet. I was at White’s when one of the fellows told me he’d seen your carriage in Bennet Street. They started speculating about what you were doing there. I slapped my head and pretended suddenly to remember that you and I had appointed to meet there, and you were waiting for me. I went out of the club and down to Bennet Street. I stood in a doorway and waited for you to come out. And waited. And waited.”
“How bored you must have been,” Clevedon said, his heart pounding. Not with guilt, the more shame to him. It beat against the turmoil within. It beat with remembering those few miraculous hours.
Longmore tossed back the last of his brandy, stalked to the tray and refilled his glass from the decanter there. He took a long swallow. “You’re making yourself a laughingstock,” he said. “I’ve never seen you behave in this way over any woman. The creature has her hooks in you, that’s plain enough. If this were the usual thing, I’d merely warn you in no uncertain terms to show a little damned discretion. Plague take it, Clevedon, you might have had the sense to tell the coachman to wait where all of bloody St. James’s Street couldn’t see him!”
“It didn’t occur to me,” Clevedon said. “I didn’t plan to stay above a quarter hour. I’m sorry you were obliged to wait for so long.”
“It was boring,” Longmore said. “And damned aggravating. What the devil am I to do? Is this fair to Clara? Should her brother tell her that the man she’s been waiting for has well and truly lost his head over a milliner? It’ll hurt her, you know. She’s always been so tolerant of your foibles. She has a soft spot in her head, I daresay. But this— You know this isn’t the usual thing for you.”
“It was goodbye,” Clevedon said tightly. “It was longer than I’d intended, but it was goodbye. Do you understand? All Mrs. Noirot ever wanted was to dress my duchess. I’ve never been more than a means to that end. She doesn’t care who the duchess is, but I think she prefers Clara because Clara’s beauty is up to the beauty of her bedamned brilliant designs. I was infatuated—and you know how I am: Once I set my sights on a woman, I’ve got to have her. But that’s done. It was goodbye, Longmore. And I must ask you, out of regard for Clara, to keep it to yourself. Telling her will only cause her needless pain, and why should she suffer over an episode of stupidity?”
“You swear it’s over?” Longmore said.
“I—”
Clevedon broke off as the door opened. Halliday appeared on the threshold. He was holding a small silver tray. This was not a good sign. Halliday never stooped to carrying notes. That was a footman’s job.
“I do beg your pardon for disturbing your grace, but I was told that the message could not wait,” the house steward said.
Clevedon didn’t wait for him but crossed the room in a few quick strides, snatched the note from the tray, and tore it open.
There was no salutation. Merely six words: “We need your help. Lucie’s run away.” It was signed M.
Clevedon and Longmore reached the shop not twenty minutes later. The child had disappeared sometime after returning home with the nursemaid from the Green Park. Sarah had readied a bath for Lucie, but when she came back into the nursery, where the child had been playing, she was gone. They’d searched the house, every inch of it, Marcelline told him.
“She got out,” she said. “She climbed out of an open window at the back of the house. I should never have left a window open if I’d any idea she’d do such a thing.”
She must have learned the trick from Clevedon. That was how he’d got her out of the burning house. She’d kept her eyes closed, but she might easily have heard others talk of the rescue. He hadn’t talked about it, but anybody might have worked it out, once they saw the broken window.
“Any idea what set her off?” he said. “That might offer a clue—”
“She had a prodigious temper fit,” Marcelline said. “But she seemed to calm down afterward. Sarah said she was cheerful enough when they went to the park.”
Sarah clapped her hand over her mouth.
“What?” Clevedon said. “If you know something, say it. We haven’t a moment to lose.”
