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“WHAT IN GOD’S NAME are you saying? The woman disappeared from under your nose?” Drake boomed. Now they not only were missing Miss Renaud, but Britannia hadn’t been seen since the curtain closed.
The air backstage stifled him. Either that or his valet had tied his neckcloth too tightly.
“N-no,” the guard stammered, thrusting his hands up as he shrugged. “She took her bows and I stood right where I always do. She either vanished into thin air or she exited stage right.”
Had Perkins hired a complete imbecile to guard the theater’s most important performer? “Your job is to see that Miss LeClair remains in your sight at all times.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Did anyone see Miss LeClair leave the theater?”
“No, but I thought she seemed upset before she entered for the finale,” said Gérard. “I asked her what was wrong, and she said she was worried about Pauline.”
“Of course we’re all upset about Miss Renaud as well.” Drake slapped his gloves in his palm. “Was there anyone backstage who shouldn’t have been? Did you see anything unusual? Anything at all?”
The guard scratched his head. “The lad took a missive into Miss LeClair, but it didn’t seem unusual—he’s done it before.”
Drake’s gaze shot left then right. “Where’s the boy?”
Mr. Perkins led the boy onto the stage.
Eyes round and scared, the stage boy gripped a cap in his hands. “’ere, sir.”
Drake marched toward the lad. “Who gave you the missive?”
“I didn’t do nofin’ wrong.”
“Of course not,” Perkins placed a hand on the young fellow’s shoulder. “Just tell His Grace what he asked.”
The cap twisted. “I was tendin’ the gas lights like I always do. A man came in and ’anded me the note—told me to put it someplace where Miss LeClair would see it straightaway, ’e did.”
“What did he look like?” Drake asked trying not to growl while he clenched his fists behind his back.
“Dunno. Tall and old...a-and ’e ’ad a big nose.”
“Most likely a messenger,” said Perkins.
“It seems you’ve managed to lose two dancers in one night.” Drake glared at the theater manager. “Have you received any word regarding Miss Renaud?”
“Bow Street hasn’t reported back as of yet. But she’s only been missing a few hours.”
“A few hours can mean the difference between life and death.” Drake’s gut clamped into a lead ball. “Go camp on Bow Street’s doorstep—take the boy. Tell them about Miss LeClair and have the lad give them the description of the messenger. I want to know as soon as they have the remotest clue.”
“I’ll put a man on it straightaway.” Perkins bowed and started off.
“Wait.” Drake stopped him. “Did you ask the driver to bring my carriage around?”
“Yes, Your Grace. I’ve been advised it is waiting out back just as you requested.”
“Good. I’ll be chasing a few leads—but they’re only hunches.” He made a point of looking everyone in the eye. “If you received any clue at all, I want notification immediately, is that understood?”
Perkins, Travere and the entire cast—less two ballerinas—all nodded. With a swing of his cape, Drake marched out the door and gave his coachman instructions to drive directly to Lord Calthorpe’s town house.
He didn’t care about the lateness of the hour. He didn’t care if he exposed Her Ladyship. For all Drake knew, she could be the one behind the missing women.
Damnation, if anyone tried to hurt Britannia, he would carve out their heart and show no mercy. Both women had best be unharmed or there would be hell to pay.
Being caged inside his carriage was pure torture. He pounded on the ceiling with his cane. “Faster, you bloody laggard!”
“We’re at a gallop, Your Grace!” bellowed the coachman.
Drake ground his back molars. For the love of God, he could run faster. He had a matched pair unsurpassed by anything Tattersalls might offer up for auction.
With no other recourse, over and over again, Drake slammed the pommel of his cane into the seat opposite. By the time the carriage came to a stop outside the Calthorpe town house, the velvet had been bludgeoned to shreds while sweat soaked the band of his top hat. Not waiting for the footman, Drake barreled onto the footpath, up the steps, and pounded on the door. “Open at once! This is a matter of life and death!”
The gaunt butler popped his nose out the door. “Ravenscar is it? What the devil, Your Gr—”
Jamming his card into the insolent boob’s palm, Drake shoved his way inside. “Two dancers have been kidnapped from my theater, that is what, one of whom has a rather close attachment with Lady Calthorpe. I’m certain she will be quite anxious to know of this calamity.”
The man held the card to the candlelight. “Close attachment, Your Grace?”
“Notify Her Ladyship of my presence forthwith.”
“Straightaway. Please wait in the parlor.”
“What is going on?” asked Lord Calthorpe as he plodded down the stairs, wearing full evening dress and looking as if he’d recently returned from a night at a ball.
“Ravenscar?” Her Ladyship’s startled voice came from behind the baron. “Branson, please open a bottle of claret for His—”
Drake held up his palms. “Not on my account. Something dire has happened.”
“At the theater?” asked Calthorpe.
Her Ladyship drew her hands over her heart. “Oh heavens, please tell me all is well with Britannia.”
Drake’s gaze shot to the baron. Did he know? This was no time for secrets. “I wish to heaven I could tell you she is well.”
The countess gasped. “No!”
Drake glanced between the couple, his lips thinning. Uttering more might very well ruin the woman for the rest of her days. “May I speak freely?” he asked, well aware he’d already said too much.
Her face stricken, she nodded, looking like the Maid of Lorraine, ready to lead her army into battle. “I’ve told my husband all.”
Calthorpe gestured to the adjoining room. “Please step into the parlor.”
Drake moved inside, but he didn’t sit. None of them did. Using as few syllables as possible, he explained how Miss Renaud had gone missing before the final performance of La Sylphide and how Britannia vanished afterward. “All we know is someone gave a missive addressed to her to the stage boy.”
“Doubtless, it had something to do with Miss Renaud’s whereabouts,” said Calthorpe.
Drake slammed the ball of his cane into his palm. “That is my presumption as well.”
“Oh, my Lord in heaven, no.” The baroness’ skirts skimmed the Oriental rug as she paced. “He threatened, but I never thought he’d be mad enough to act. And he brought Miss Renaud into his delusion as well.”
Shards of ice pulsed through Drake’s veins. “You’re speaking of Beaufort?” Her ladyship nodded while he gripped his cane with iron fingers. “What. Exactly. Did he threaten?”
“I thought he was just having one of his tirades.” Her Ladyship braced her hands on the back of a chair. “H-he ranted about sending my bastard so far away from England no one would ever find her!”
Drake’s gut turned to lead. “Good God.”
“We must make haste. Confront the old fool before he has time to act on his threats.” Calthorpe started for the door. “Ravenscar, your carriage is outside I presume?”
“It is.” Leading the way, Drake raced out the door.
***
MR. GIBBS SAT ACROSS the carriage from Bria, his face cadaverous in the dim light.
“Why is it taking so long?” Bria insisted, grinding her fists into the seat cushion. “I must see Pauline this instant!”
Never in a hundred days would she have suspected Mr. Gibbs, a former lawman, to be involved in kidnapping. But presently, he seemed to rather enjoy making Britannia uncomfortable. “She’s quite well.”
“What are you saying? What did you do with her?”
He pulled the curtain aside and looked out. They weren’t in London anymore. The moon shone blue on the grass as they passed. “I reckon she ought to be waking up about now.”
“Waking up? She missed the final performance. Pauline would never do that. Not unless someone poisoned her.”
“Not poison. Just something to make her sleep. Soundly. She’ll wake in some room in the boarding house none the wiser.”
“The boarding house? Why, it is only three blocks from the theater.” Britannia slid toward the door. “Sir, I demand you tell me what you are playing at this very instant!”
He grinned, sliding his fingers into his pocket. What was he hiding in there? Blast, it was too dark to make out much of anything. “You see, someone is paying me a great deal of coin to ensure you never trouble Lady Calthorpe or her family again.”
“Her Ladyship—?” Before Bria could say another word, Mr. Gibbs lurched across the carriage, grabbed her wrist and brutally twined a rope around it.
Thrashing and kicking, she fought to push him a way. “Stop!”
He reached for her other wrist, but Bria was faster. Fighting, she slammed her fist into his jaw. The cur snarled and caught her hand, throbbing knuckles and all.
“That was very unwise,” he growled, winding the rope tighter. He opened his mouth wide and stretched his chin from side to side while he knotted the bindings so forcefully her fingers grew numb.
Bria tugged and twisted, only making the bindings bite into her flesh. “You’re mad!”
“Perhaps.”
“Ravenscar will never let you get away with this. Pauline and now me? You will swing from the gallows!”
“I think not. I am very efficient at covering my tracks. Even if he does figure it out, you’ll be on a convict ship headed for Australia before he can ride to your rescue. And I will be under the protection of my patron.”
An icy chill thrummed through Bria’s veins. Australia? Convict? Mon Dieu, je suis condamnée!
With her next inhalation, the parchment in her bodice crinkled. If only she’d left the missive on her toilette, someone might deduce what had happened. How could she have been so naïve to blindly follow the directive in the missive? How could she think she could save Pauline? She, a petite ballerina take on a behemoth the size of Mr. Gibbs? Heaven’s stars, she was smaller than most women let alone men.
Australia?
She’d heard terrible things about people who perished, the abysmal conditions, the sickness, the—the rats!
Oh God in heaven, please tell me this is not happening!
