by Ruth Axtell
He returned to the ballroom. With a sigh of relief he spied Miss Phillips standing with Captain Forrester.
The captain smiled broadly. “I haven’t seen you dance all evening. We must find you a partner.”
He tried to smile but couldn’t manage it. “You haven’t by chance seen Miss Barry?”
Miss Phillips looked sympathetic. “Not since supper. By the time we came in, she was sitting with Mr. St. Leger and his party. When we had finished, she had already left. Céline and I did find it strange she had not sought us out to go into supper, but since she sat with a group, we thought she would be all right.”
“Yes, I saw her then too,” he said distractedly. “But I have been looking for her since they left the supper room and have not seen either of them.”
Miss Phillips bit her lip. “Perhaps she is in the retiring room. I could look for her if you think it’s necessary.”
Captain Forrester gave him a keen look from under his dark blond brows. “Is this St. Leger a decent sort of chap?”
Lancelot hesitated to say anything in front of Miss Phillips. Better he allow them to believe he was only a jealous suitor. But he needn’t have said anything. The captain seemed to understand and turned to Miss Phillips. “Why don’t you search the rooms set apart for the ladies? Marfleet and I can find Mrs. Phillips and inquire of her. If she hasn’t seen Miss Barry, we’ll scout outside a bit. Maybe she needed some air. We can meet in a few moments at the entrance of the ballroom.”
Miss Phillips nodded, a frown furrowing her brow.
“Thank you,” Lancelot said to the captain when they parted from Miss Phillips.
“No need. So, this fellow’s a bit disreputable?”
Lancelot nodded grimly. “Let us just say he is not the marrying sort, to my knowledge. But he usually does not interest himself in respectable young ladies.”
They searched for Mrs. Phillips as they spoke in undertones.
“Why Miss Barry, do you think? Her dowry?”
“No—none to speak of. All I can think is that she has little protection here in London, only Lady Beasinger, an impoverished widow.”
Captain Forrester nodded.
They approached Mrs. Phillips, who sat with some matrons in a quiet parlor. When she saw their serious faces, she excused herself.
“Is something the matter?”
They told her and she began to move toward the ballroom. “Let me help you search for her.”
“Miss Phillips will rejoin us at the entrance there. We’re going to search outside.”
A quarter of an hour later they met again. Lancelot’s gut tightened in worry when he saw Miss Phillips and her sister-in-law standing alone.
“No sign of her?” he asked.
Mrs. Phillips shook her head, glancing at each of them in turn. “You didn’t find her either?”
“No,” Captain Forrester answered tersely. “We’ve looked both in the front and back of the house. We even asked your coachman if he’d seen her. Nothing.”
Lancelot didn’t want to speak but felt he must say what he found most significant. “We’ve seen no sign of St. Leger either.” He squared his shoulders. “I’m going to inquire of the footmen if they saw any couple matching their description leaving.”
Up to now they had been discreet in their search.
Mrs. Phillips drew in a sharp breath. “You don’t think—”
She left the thought unspoken, but Captain Forrester said, “It’s too soon to know what to think, but we must locate Miss Barry without delay.”
Lancelot addressed Mrs. Phillips. “Perhaps if you pleaded fatigue, you can make your excuses and depart. If the captain will make inquiries of some of her dance partners with the excuse that you are leaving, I can ask some of the servants for any information.”
When they agreed to this plan, Lancelot went in search of the footmen. He questioned the porter, all the footmen, and even the butler to no avail. He began to question the coachmen and grooms loitering outside with their owners’ carriages, but no one had noticed a lady and gentleman leaving. It would be too common a sight to cause undue notice.
His alarm growing with each passing minute, he finally descended the service stairs to the kitchen area, where he was able to get information from a kitchen maid.
“I saw a gent escorting a young lady out the back way,” she told him.
After giving her some coins for her trouble, he raced outside to the mews. When he flashed some coins to a stable hand, the man grunted. “Seen a lady and gent leave from here.” He jutted his grizzled chin down the alleyway leading out to the main street.
“Did you glimpse their faces at all? I mean, did they appear to you as a young couple or an older couple?”
“Oh, young for certain, sir. The lady appeared a bit unsteady on her feet as if she’d imbibed a bit too freely o’ the punch.” He chuckled with a shake of his head. “The gent had ’is arm around her, steadying her like.”
Lancelot’s stomach lurched. “How long ago?”
The man removed his cap and scratched his head. “A half-hour ago, mayhap less, mayhap more.”
Lancelot gave the man the half crown and turned away, his insides feeling scraped raw. Could it have been St. Leger and Miss Barry?
He remembered the man’s description. The lady appeared unsteady. Had she drunk champagne again, enough to make her foolish enough to leave alone with St. Leger? What could she have been thinking?
Fear clawed at his throat even as anger threatened to obliterate his reason. If St. Leger dared lay a hand on her—
He found the others standing together at the entrance to the ballroom. “Have you found out anything?” Mrs. Phillips asked.
He stepped closer with a glance around to assure he was not being overheard. “A young couple left in a carriage parked in the mews perhaps a half hour ago.”
Miss Phillips stifled a gasp, but Mrs. Phillips maintained her steady gaze. “Just about when supper was over. Do you think it could have been St. Leger?”
He chose his words carefully. “I must assume it was since we haven’t found them anywhere.”
“Then we shall have to track them down.”
He had already thought what best to do. “Madam, I think you should go home with Miss Phillips. Everyone will assume Miss Barry has left with you. You mustn’t overtire yourself,” he added without embarrassment. As a vicar and missionary, he was accustomed to addressing topics others would find unmentionable in polite society.
Before she could protest, Captain Forrester said, “Marfleet is right. I will go with him to search for Miss Barry. Perhaps you will find her home when you arrive.”
Mrs. Phillips shook her head. “She wouldn’t have left without informing me.”
Miss Phillips spoke up. “Do you think she could have gone to Lady Bess’s instead?”
“She had plans to spend the night with us. She would not have changed anything without informing us.”
Lancelot hadn’t wanted to mention the other thing, but now found himself forced to. “A groom told me the lady appeared . . . unsteady on her feet.”
Both females turned wide eyes on him. “She appeared unwell?” Mrs. Phillips asked.
He hesitated before nodding. “Perhaps she was too unwell to make her way to you.”
“Then St. Leger would have informed me—if he was any kind of gentleman,” Mrs. Phillips said between her teeth. She looked at him directly as if coming to a decision. “Very well, I shall call for my carriage. If you could send word as soon as you know anything. We shall be up. If you find her, you must bring her to my home straightaway . . . before any harm is done.”
“Don’t worry, either of you. We shall find them. Come, I’ve already called for your carriage.”
After they had seen the ladies off, Lancelot said to the captain, “I’m going to talk with some of St. Leger’s set and see if I can find out where his lodgings are.”
“I already inquired of them. None had seen her since they sat to
gether at supper.” He frowned. “I couldn’t help noticing a bit of reticence on the part of a couple of them. That fellow—Cubby, I think they call him—and another one, Layton. Do you wish me to accompany you?”
“Better not. We need to be as discreet as possible. I fear already we’ve probably raised people’s curiosity.”
“I shall call a hackney if you wish.”
“I shall be with you directly.”
Lancelot made his way through the ballroom. He spotted Cubby standing with Layton.
They nodded to him. Both men seemed to observe him with amusement. Lancelot gritted his teeth, praying for a civil tone of voice. “A word, if you please,” he managed in a low tone.
They moved apart with him.
He didn’t bother with a preamble. “I need to know where St. Leger takes his lightskirts.”
Displaying no surprise at his question, Reggie Layton flipped open his snuffbox and took a minuscule sniff before looking at Lancelot again. “You will pardon me if that is not a question I choose to answer lightly. Point of honor, you understand.”
Lancelot gave him a level look. “When it involves a young lady, it no longer becomes a point of honor to hide his haunts from someone concerned with her welfare.”
“Perhaps you should ask his man.”
“A valet will hardly divulge his master’s whereabouts to an outsider.”
The man turned away from him with a sigh. “I’m afraid I cannot satisfy your—er—curiosity, no matter who is involved. Point of honor,” he repeated, his voice fading away in the din.
Lancelot ground his teeth. Cubby was watching him with uncertain eyes.
Knowing he wouldn’t speak to him in front of the other man, Lancelot made a slight indication with his head and then made his way out of the ballroom.
With effort he kept from pacing the floor. Instead, he prayed. Dear God, have mercy on Miss Barry, wherever she is, whoever she is with. If it’s with St. Leger, help me find her. Let me find her in time.
He stood by the doorway, ignoring the people who walked in and out, the laughter and conversation floating by him.
Too engrossed in praying—and imagining what was happening to Miss Barry—he didn’t notice Cubby approach him until he cleared his throat beside him.
Relief poured through him like a sluice of water. He straightened from the wall and motioned to an anteroom. “There’s a small parlor here.”
As soon as he’d closed the door behind him, Lancelot faced Cubby. “Can you give me any information about St. Leger’s whereabouts?”
Cubby looked pained and didn’t quite meet his eyes. “All I know is Miss Barry didn’t seem to be feeling well and he told me he was taking her home.”
“Not feeling well—not inebriated?” He forced out the last word through stiff lips.
Cubby puffed out his cheeks, a shadow marring his guileless blue eyes. “Hard to say. She did seem a bit giggly, but so do most of the young ladies present here.” He shook his head, pondering. “Didn’t seem quite herself though. Strange-like, even at supper.”
Lancelot narrowed his eyes, trying to fathom his meaning. “‘Strange-like’—how?”
Cubby tipped his head up and scratched his chin under the high cravat. “Can’t remember precisely, apart from the giggling.” He snapped his fingers. “I know! She went to take something off her plate and didn’t connect with it.”
Lancelot frowned. “What do you mean?”
“You know.” He made a motion to illustrate. “Say I’m going to spear a piece of meat and my fork clean misses it.”
Lancelot’s frown deepened. “That sounds like intoxication.”
Cubby lifted one shoulder. “Perhaps . . . still, it didn’t seem that way. But could be. You give a young lady one glass of champagne and it goes to her head.”
“Was she drinking champagne?”
Cubby blinked. “Yes. I remember seeing it because it was the pink variety. Oh, not at the table. St. Leger brought her lemonade there, but before we went into the supper room, I remember seeing her with a glass of the bubbly.” He nodded, growing more sure. “But she wasn’t garrulous or overly loud the way one would expect with someone . . . you know . . . who’s—” He made a motion of bringing an imaginary glass to his lips.
“Thank you.” Lancelot’s worry grew as Cubby confirmed his fears. He hesitated, deciding how to return to his first question but mindful that time was passing. “Do you know if there is anywhere St. Leger would take a woman . . .” He left the question dangling.
Cubby’s plump cheeks turned pink, and he looked to the side. “Well, ahem, you know . . . uh . . .” Finally, he sucked in a breath and said in a low voice, “There is an inn, the Apple and Thistle on the Knightsbridge Road. He’s been known to go there.”
“Thank you.”
As he moved past him, Cubby held him back with a touch on the elbow. “I hope you find her.” The words were halting, but there was a look of genuine sympathy in his eyes.
“So do I.”
He needed no further confirmation of his own suspicions, but the fact that St. Leger’s own friend believed the worst only deepened Lancelot’s sense of urgency.
Let me be in time. Dear God, let me be in time. Jesus, protect her . . .
Jessamine woke to flickering shadows on a low plastered ceiling, its dark, thick beams giving the room a medieval cast.
She shifted her gaze, sensing someone beside her.
Mr. St. Leger gazed down at her, his head propped on his hand.
She backed away from his proximity. “Mr. St. Leger—w-what are you doing here? Where are we?” She brought a hand to her head, but the movement took effort. Her limbs felt heavy. Why was she lying down? She attempted to sit but couldn’t muster the strength to lift herself from the soft bedding.
Why was she on a bed, a straw-filled mattress by the rustle and deepness of it? And why was Mr. St. Leger lying beside her, his body touching hers?
Panic welled up in her. She sought Mr. St. Leger’s eyes once more.
He smiled, the soft candlelight reflecting off his eyes, their pupils wide. “Shh,” he whispered, trailing a finger along her cheek and playing with a tendril of her hair.
“W-what are you doing? Where am I?”
“At an inn. Waiting for you to wake up, my dear.”
His answers confused her. “An inn?” she echoed.
He nodded slowly, his eyes half-lidded.
Her heart thudded, drowning out the last word. Had he said an inn? “Why?”
His fingertip continued its trip along her earlobe and down to her jaw. Blood coursed through her eardrums. “Please,” she whispered, but her lips had trouble forming words. She still felt woozy, as if she’d been drugged.
Drugged. The idea took hold in her confused thoughts as fear sent pinpricks tingling over her skin. She remembered feeling dizzy. Where had that been? Hadn’t she been at a ball?
His lips curled upward, deepening their sinister cast. Why hadn’t she noticed it before? “Please what? Stop? Or . . .” He paused, drawing his head closer until his lips almost touched hers.
The breath from his nostrils fanned her face. A scent of a masculine cologne like sandalwood tickled her nose.
Then he closed the gap between their mouths.
She brought her two hands up but could do little against his weight atop her. Her movements were weak and sluggish. She remembered feeling as if she were on a boat.
That dizziness seemed to have passed, but her limbs now felt like sodden blankets, too heavy to lift.
How long had she been sleeping? Had Mr. St. Leger done something to her while she slept?
A scream filled her throat, but it had no outlet. She was suffocating, but he didn’t draw his lips away. Instead they ground against hers, his chin abrading hers.
She began to writhe, but her movements brought his hands up to encircle her wrists. He pinned them down above her head.
She began to buck him, her panic overwhelming her, blotting o
ut all ability to think but giving her strength.
Save me, Lord, she cried silently, tears trickling down her temples. Jesus, help me!
Her efforts seemed to have no effect on her captor. “You won’t get away from me, my sweet, so stop fighting me,” he murmured along the side of her mouth, his lips moist.
She moved her face away. “Please, let me go,” she whimpered when she could find breath.
He was everywhere she turned.
Her brief burst of energy left her, and her body seemed incapable of obeying her commands. “Please, Mr. . . . St. Leger . . . please,” she begged whenever she could get a word out. “Please . . .”
He made no reply but continued to kiss her, his lips traveling down her neck. One hand loosened around her wrist, but her relief was short-lived as it began to move over her body.
Even as he began to grope her gown, she realized with a gasp of relief that she was fully dressed.
St. Leger began pushing down her low neckline.
The worst nightmare that could befall a young lady was happening to her, and she could do nothing about it. All those silly gothic novels she’d read flashed through her mind. What had seemed heart-stopping but fascinating reading while sitting on a window seat or reclining in her bed, knowing there would be a rescue for the heroine, now appeared horrific in reality.
She was ruined. No hero would come charging in the door for her. St. Leger had her pinned down so effectively she could scarcely breathe, let alone move. The heaviness of her limbs was more effective than ropes would have been.
Tears soaked the pillow cover beneath her as she continued to beg God for help.
“Don’t cry, my sweet. You will see how pleasurable it all is, I promise you,” St. Leger murmured, kissing away her tears.
Muffled voices sounded through the door. Jessamine’s breath hitched as she tried to gain enough air in her lungs to call out.
Before she could utter a sound, loud pounding shook the panels. St. Leger lifted his head, looking toward the door. “Go away—this room is occupied,” he bellowed.