Chapter 7

“Are you sure there is a ball here?” Louise asked Monsieur Gagnon, her dancing master, as she peered out the window at the building at which their hackney coach had pulled up. “Where are the other carriages? It seems so—quiet.”

She had expected a Cyprians’ ball to be raucous and unruly, with bold, devil-may-care gentlemen leering down the bodices of semi-clothed “ladies.” The building to which she had been brought seemed as quietly respectable as those around it.

“Bien sûr que non,” responded Monsieur Gagnon. “There is a mews at the back, naturellement.”

“Hmm.” But she stepped down from the carriage and accompanied him to the front door. She was beginning to doubt the wisdom of agreeing to sneak away with her dancing master to visit such a scandalous event. How well did she know him, after all? At the time, however, the only thought in her mind was repaying her father for escorting Miss Sedgely to the ball. Surely he hadn’t thought she would spend the evening alone in her room while he paid court to a woman young enough to be his daughter!

A burly footman opened the door, and nodded at her escort. “Madame is in the saloon. You may wait in her office.”

Office?

“But what about the ball? Is there no Cyprians’ ball here?”

The footman guffawed. “A ball? Is that what you told her?”

Monsieur Gagnon shrugged. “I did not think she would be so eager to flee with me to a bordel.”

Louise’s eyes bulged. “You brought me to a brothel? But-but, why?”

As much as she wanted to believe there was a reasonable explanation, her instincts were screaming at her that she was in danger. For one thing, her formerly amiable dancing master had a very unpleasant expression on his face when he looked at her.

“You are so crédule, Miss Durand. So imprudent. Vraiment, you are far too trusting.” When they reached their destination, he pushed her into a chair.

“Tais-toi!” he ordered when she tried to protest.

Now that triggered Louise’s ire. How dare he—a mere dancing master—address the granddaughter of a comte with such disrespect!

“I insist that you take me home immediately!”

When she rose from the chair, he pushed her down again. “What you want is of no interest to me, ma chère.”

“My father will see you in irons at Newgate!”

“Now, now, my dear. Do restrain yourself. You will be safely returned to your father, as soon as he agrees to our terms.”

The new arrival was a middle-aged woman in a low-cut gown of mulberry silk, a crimson turban with peacock-colored feathers on her head. As she approached the lamp, Louise could see that her face was painted like a strumpet’s. Or at least how she imagined a strumpet’s face would be painted.

“Terms? What terms? Who are you?”

“Lucille Harding. I am the proprietor here. Welcome to the Pleasure Palace.” The woman held out her hand, which Louise ignored.

“You may call me ‘Madame.’”

She sat down at the desk in front of them, pulled out a sheet of foolscap, dipped her quill in an inkwell, and began to write. Finally, she signed her name with a flourish, folded the paper, and sealed it with red wax.

“Instruct Jem to deliver this immediately to Mr. Durand’s residence on Gresham Street.”

“You shall not find him there. He is attending a ball at Lady Herrington’s.”

Mrs. Harding—if that was truly her name—gave her a condescending smile. “How very thoughtful of you to be so cooperative, Miss Durand. In that case, the message will be delivered directly to him at the Herringtons’.”

Assisting her abductors was not Louise’s intention. She was simply hoping that the sooner her father knew about her predicament, the sooner she would be freed from these despicable villains.

“Escort our guest to the gold room, Jem. Be sure to lock the door when you leave. Return the key to me as soon as she is settled.”

She handed over a large key, and smiled at Louise. “Some wine, perhaps, to soothe her nerves. There is a bottle on the cabinet that should do nicely for the occasion.”

What occasion was that? Louise determined then and there that she would not touch the blasted wine.

“So it’s not money they’re after, then?”

Lord Nicholas leaned forward in his chair to reread the message on his desk, his eyes still adjusting to the candlelight after having been awakened from a sound sleep by a frantic George Durand at two in the morning.

George was pacing back and forth in front of him. “Nothing so simple. The abductors are demanding that I persuade the Board of Governors at the Foundling Hospital to cease their efforts to have the brothels in London permanently shut down.” He ran a trembling hand through his hair. “How can I possibly do that? I am merely a legal consultant.”

“What’s more, even if you should manage to carry out their demands, they must know that the bill could be reintroduced at a later time.”

George halted. “They don’t intend to return her at all.” He stared at his friend in utter horror.

“Here is your brandy, sir.” Nicholas’s butler appeared in the doorway with a silver tray upon which stood two crystal glasses.

“Ah, just in time. Mr. Durand here could use some liquid courage about now.”

George fell into a leather chair, accepted a glass of brandy, and swallowed nearly all of it in one fell swoop.

“We must get her back,” he said at last. “How, Nick? She could be anywhere in London. Who knows what dreadful things they are doing to her? She must be terrified, poor thing.”

Lord Nicholas leaned back in his chair. “I can’t imagine her abductors managed to break into the house, subdue all the servants, and make off with her as smoothly as you please.” He tapped his fingers on the surface of the desk. “I expect she was complicit in some way. Is that likely, do you think, George?”

Indeed it was, thought George grimly, recalling her previous exploit. Foolish, foolish girl. She’d received the announcement of his intention to escort Miss Sedgely to this evening’s ball with cool detachment, but he had known by her cold eyes and crossed arms that this news did not please her. He should have known that she would try to retaliate with some hare-brained scheme.

He stood up and placed the glass on the desk. “The servants. I must question the servants once again. Surely someone must have seen something that will help us find her.”

“I’ll go with you. Just give me five minutes to change,” he commanded, whipping his dressing-gown off as he rushed up the stairs.

The scoundrel Gagnon—she had decided he no longer deserved the deference afforded by the monsieur—tried to insist that she drink the wine he’d poured for her. Louise, who suspected the bottle had been tampered with, closed her mouth tightly and tossed the contents of the glass in his face. While he sputtered and gazed in horror at the crimson stains on his waistcoat and sleeves, she seized the bottle and struck him in the face with it. He staggered backward, along with shards from the broken bottle and a great deal of gushing red liquid—wine or blood she couldn’t tell, but didn’t remain long enough to find out. Instead, she dashed to the door and, seeing only a deserted corridor, ran toward the stairwell.

The foyer, however, was blocked. The muscled footman stood in front of the door, idly caressing the exposed chest of a scantily-clothed doxy who was whispering in his ear. She could never escape that way. Perhaps there was a servants’ stairway. If not, she would find a window and jump out of it. Never would she remain a prisoner in this horrible den of iniquity!

Rushing past the gold room to the other end of the corridor, she was relieved to see Gagnon still immobile on the floor. Had she killed him? At that moment, she didn’t care if she had. She raced down the service stairs, finding herself just outside of the kitchen area, and fortunately, only a few steps from the back entrance. Opening the door, she hesitated only a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness and then ran as fast as she could away from the Pleasure Palace.

When she finally stopped to catch her breath, ascertaining that she was not being followed, she cast her eyes about in the darkness to discern her whereabouts. She could not see a thing. Tears came to her eyes and she felt her body trembling with fear.

Oh, Papa! How I wish I had listened to you instead of stupidly asserting I could take care of myself!

The scene at the household on Gresham Street was of great turmoil as George and Nicholas relentlessly interrogated the servants. Regrettably, no one seemed to have seen anything. As was his custom, the butler had locked every door before retiring to his bed, and even now, they were all still locked, the key in his pocket where he had put it.

“The window,” George said. “She must have escaped through the window.” When he saw the sturdy trellis that formed a sort of ladder of ivy on the wall right next to Louise’s bedroom window, he swore angrily. How had he failed to notice that there was such a simple avenue of escape? Clearly, he had underestimated his daughter’s determination to defy him.

One of the maids came forward, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. George recognized her as the parlor maid who had been temporarily assigned to serve as Louise’s lady’s maid. Brenna, was it? Or Bridget?

“Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but Miss Louise and that Gagnon fellow did more than just dancin’ when they were alone in the music room.”

“Alone?” George wanted to shake her, but Nicholas put a hand on his shoulder to stop him. “She wasn’t to be alone with him! Why wasn’t someone there with them… you, for example?”

Brenna backed away, trembling. “I’m that sorry, sir,” she managed between sobs. “I did try, but the young miss sent me to fetch things and such, and she wouldn’t be denied.”

George had no doubt this was true. What a fool he had been to believe that his daughter would not manage to circumvent a house full of borrowed servants! After that first stunt, he should have known that only a hardened jailer would serve to deter Louise from her foolish inclinations.

Waving away the young maid, he hastened toward his study, calling over his shoulder for Nicholas to follow him. Together, they went through the desk drawers until they found the bundle of letters of applicants for dancing master.

“Gagnon had references from a marchioness and two countesses,” he commented, passing them over to Nicholas.

Nicholas groaned when he saw the names. “Forgeries, all of them. I’ve never heard of any of ’em.”

“I’m a fool,” George said quietly, covering his face with his hands. “This is all my fault. If I had permitted her to remain with her aunt, none of this would have happened.”

Nicholas’s lips curled. “Were you not the one who scolded me for all of my self-recriminations after the accident? You should heed your own advice, man!” He picked up Gagnon’s letter of application.

“The direction—it could be fictional or the scoundrel could have used his actual location.”

George felt a jolt of hope go through his body. “Let us be off, then.” He pulled open a drawer, withdrew a pistol, and loaded it. “I have another in the carriage under the seat.”

Nicholas nodded, and the two men raced out to the street.

Louise had been walking aimlessly in the darkness for what seemed like hours, unable to trust anyone to help her after a drunken night watchman ripped off her domino and tried to put his hand down her bodice. Fortunately, his movements were highly impaired from drink and hers were not, so she tore away from his grasp and easily outran him.

Whenever a vehicle approached, Louise learned to flatten herself against a wall or in a doorway. Pedestrians were harder to detect, unless they were drunk, but so far she had managed to avoid them as well, just in the nick of time. But dawn was already beginning to lighten up the sky, and when that happened, she would be an easy target.

Louise had never been so afraid in her entire life. She was so tired she was sorely tempted to just curl up under a bush and sleep, hoping to awaken to find the whole debacle nothing but a horrible nightmare. Her gown was dirty and torn, revealing a great deal more of her chest than was proper, but at that point, she would have traded all that remained of her good name for a piece of bread and a cup of tea in the safety of her father’s home.

A lump formed in the back of her throat when she thought of her father. He wasn’t a noble or even a very wealthy man, but he had always cared for and provided for his family. She recalled with tears in her eyes the happy times they had shared together as a family—the fishing trips, the picnics in the park, the riding lessons on the pony he’d bought her, the stories he had told her about the great landscapes created by Capability Brown. Her mother, she recalled, had strongly disapproved of him talking about that stage of his life. Such work, she said, was beneath him. But now, a more mature Louise was starting to understand how much her father had given up to provide for his family—and how shabbily they had treated him for not being able to provide them with the aristocratic lifestyle to which they believed they were entitled.

Oh, Papa, I know I have been a dreadfully ungrateful daughter. If I ever see you again, I promise I will be the most devoted daughter that ever existed.

Not a quarter hour later, a carriage caught up with her, and she recognized her father in the open doorway, just as he flung himself out of it to pull her into his arms. Papa!

To her shame, she was crying so hard she could not speak, and she simply pressed as close as she could to his chest, wanting only to absorb as much of his love as she could.