His study had been transformed into a war-room. Montague had taken over his desk, sending out missives just as quickly as he could write them. Rothchild and Sutton pored over a map of London, arguing about the best direction to approach Sudworth’s house. And Dunkeld sat in the corner, cracking each knuckle in his hand, a sure sign that he was willing and ready to crack some heads.
“Are you certain she has gone to his home?” Rothchild asked. “Sudworth has other properties in London.”
“Which she wouldn’t know about.” John paced, trying to loosen his muscles. Fights were won more easily when he was loose. Clear-headed. Indifferent.
With the way he was feeling now, he’d get his arse kicked. “She’s been to his home before.”
Rothchild nodded and continued his argument with Sutton.
Montague sealed another letter. “With this note, every one of my contacts will be on the streets looking for her. But as yet no one has seen her near Sudworth’s house. You must consider the possibility that she just went out for a walk.”
John paused to glare at him. “In the middle of the night?”
Montague leaned back in the chair. “After the behavior at my dinner table tonight, I won’t presume to know what either of you might do for entertainment. A stroll about London in the moonlight seems positively tame in comparison. Your Miss Courtney is something of a free-spirit.”
“Miss LeBlanc,” Sutton corrected. “Courtney was the name Summerset gave her.”
Rothchild shook his head. “LeBlanc isn’t correct, either. He said her true name was something like Ever…Everrose? Everly?”
“Evered,” John gritted out. Who the bloody hell cared about a name? They were wasting time.
Montague pinched his forehead between his thumb and forefinger. “I’m so confused.”
“She’s Netta.” His Netta. “Just call her that.” John resumed his pacing. “And you don’t know her like I do. She just learned her friend had been hurt. Netta’s a vengeful, devious woman. She would want to make Sudworth pay.”
“Vengeful and devious?” Dunkeld leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees. “She sounds like your perfect mate.”
Sutton snickered.
John turned his back. He needed better friends. Ones who kept their absurd ideas to themselves. He looked to the door. Wil should be here. He understood the seriousness of the situation, but no, he had felt it more important to attend to their latest resident.
A thick hand landed on his shoulder. Sutton was attached to it, and John grimaced at the tight squeeze. “We’ll get her back, have no fear. But I think we’re all wondering just who it is we are recovering. This one seems more than your usual plaything.”
John shrugged him off and straightened the knot on his cravat. “I don’t know what you mean. She’s a lovely woman under my protection. I want to ensure she is safe. As I would with any of your wives,” he pointed out. Each one of his friends had gotten in their own fair share of trouble and John had been prepared to throw down for each and every one of their women with no questions on his part.
He sniffed. Well, perhaps a few questions. But that was only because he cared for the health and well-being of his friends. His queries had stemmed from a deep, abiding concern. That was the kind of man he was.
Unlike these interfering idiots.
Yes, he couldn’t imagine his life without Netta. And yes, he would rip out the heart of any man who hurt her. But he wasn’t like his friends. They had all happily settled down in marriage, seemingly content with their domesticity.
Marriage wasn’t in his or Netta’s future. Fortunately, he’d found the one woman more commitment-shy than he.
His friends shared a look. One that John didn’t care for.
“I don’t know what you’re thinking,” he began.
“That the last bachelor standing has been brought to his knees.” Rothchild smirked. “I’ve waited for this day for years. There will be much mocking.”
Just as he thought. Arseholes, all of them. Hearing wedding bells where none existed. He rubbed his chest. Netta would laugh at their taunts if she heard them. Where the hell was she?
“Now don’t be hasty,” Dunkeld said. “Perhaps she merely warms his bed better than most.”
The knife at his wrist slipped to his hand without thought. He threw the blade, and satisfaction licked through him when it thumped into the wall next to Dunkeld’s head. “If you can’t speak of her politely,” he said pleasantly, “you’d be wise not to speak of her at all.”
Silence descended, with a lot of significant glances between his friends.
“Fine.” John crossed his arms. “I care for her. That doesn’t change anything.” Except the fine thread of panic licking through him at her disappearance. That bit was different. “She’s clever. And diverting. And fearless. I’ve never met a woman like her.” And at this very moment she wasn’t under his protection. Who knew what damn fool thing she was getting up to?
Montague stood and circled the desk. “We’ll find her. We’ll find her, and then we’ll have a laugh at you. But not before, right men?” His voice said it wasn’t an option.
“Aye,” Dunkeld grumbled, standing. “Let’s get our arses out of these chairs and on the streets. The faster we find her, the faster the mocking can begin.”
“John, you and Sutton go to Sudworth’s house,” Montague directed. “Dunkeld and I will go to the theatre. If she’s not there, we’ll find out where her apartments are and head over.”
“We should all go to Sudworth’s.” John strode to the wall and yanked his blade from the wood paneling. He cleaned it on his sleeve before sheathing it. “That’s where she’ll be.”
Sutton dug his fingers in his beard and rubbed his chin. “You’re not thinking clearly with this one. We don’t have proof she went there. We need to cover as much territory as possible.”
“She went there.” He strode to the cannister of walking sticks tucked next to the bookshelf and chose one with a hard-edged top. He twirled it, getting a feel for its weight. Knives were all well and good, but sometimes a man wanted a real weapon, one he could bludgeon someone with.
He tossed it up and snatched it from the air. “Netta is fool enough to confront Sudworth on her own. When it comes to her friends, I fear her idiocy knows no bounds.”
“I thank you for the compliment,” an icy voice cut through the room.
Netta stood in the entrance, one hand on the door, the other on her wide hip. She tapped the toe of her slipper and glared at John.
A round face popped up over Netta’s shoulder. The features were a softer, less-defined version of Netta.
“Look how handsome they all are.” The girl grabbed Netta’s shoulders and bobbed on her toes. “You were right. Staying here will be a lark.”
John rested the walking stick across both shoulders, gripping the ends. He leaned his head back against it and blew out a breath. He drank in the sight of Netta, his muscles loosening with every inch of unscathed skin he saw.
She was safe. She was angry, but that made no matter now that she was back under his roof.
Netta lifted her chin. “Cerise told me that Sudworth has negotiated the marriage contract. His servant laughed about the impending marriage, that his master wanted a taste for the fallen sister before marrying the pure one. I could wait no longer to remove her from home.”
The chit ducked around Netta. “I hope you have chocolate for breakfast. I prefer the kind from Luxembourg, please.”
John closed his eyes. Perfect. Another damned stray to feed.
He looked up and caught the scowl directed at him as Netta wrapped a protective arm around the girl.
And if the younger one was anything like her sister, John didn’t know how he would survive.