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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 straight
ened 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 out 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.

The next second it burst open, splintering the wood around the simple lock.

Jessamine gasped at the sight of two men striding into the room. She squinted, wishing she could see more clearly.

“You swine!”

It was Mr. Marfleet’s voice in a roar she’d never heard. The next instant he hauled St. Leger off her and threw him to the floor.

The other man—Captain Forrester—bent over her. She cringed with shame, drawing her body up close.

“Easy there,” the captain crooned, bending over her.

Her hands clutched at her gown, pulling it up.

“Did he hurt you?”

She shook her head, her breath coming in gasps. He helped her sit up. She strained to look around him, hearing a loud thud from the floor.

The two men were rolling on the plank floor, grunts and angry exclamations issuing from them.

“Pardon me—if you are sure you are all right.” Captain Forrester rose.

She nodded. “Please, help Mr. Marfleet.”

He bent over the men and tried to separate them. “She is unharmed. We must go.”

Jessamine groped at her waist and found her quizzing glass still tied to its ribbon. She brought it up to her eye and saw Mr. Marfleet straddle Mr. St. Leger, his arm lifted. Captain Forrester caught his fist and held it back.

Marfleet and St. Leger eyed each other, panting heavily. Mr. Marfleet was rumpled, his spectacles askew, his hair wild, but otherwise he appeared unhurt. A trickle of blood slid down the side of St. Leger’s mouth, a mouth that had so recently mauled hers. Jessamine scrubbed at her lips.

“We must get her away from here,” the captain said, his words finally penetrating Mr. Marfleet’s understanding.

Slowly, he lowered his arm and rose, keeping his gaze fixed on St. Leger. Captain Forrester helped Mr. St. Leger to stand.

“Before he challenges you to meet him on Hounslow Heath, I urge you to leave here and keep silent of what has transpired tonight. Not a word will leave your lips—or those of your friends,” Captain Forrester told St. Leger, his voice quiet but deadly serious.

When St. Leger said nothing, the captain glanced toward her. “It appears we arrived in time to prevent any lasting harm. If we hadn’t, be assured we would haul you up before the magistrates and force you to honor Miss Barry. As it is, I am sure she will be satisfied never seeing your dishonorable face again.”

St. Leger wiped his mouth, shifting his gaze to Mr. Marfleet before coming to rest on her. She cowered, crossing her arms in front of her. “Miss Barry is here willingly.”

Mr. Marfleet growled, his fists coming up. Captain Forrester held him back. “Give us your word that no breath of scandal will touch Miss Barry’s name.”

Mr. St. Leger straightened his waistcoat, then reached for his jacket on a chair. As if he were going out for a stroll, he donned the jacket then took up his greatcoat, hat, and gloves.

“If I hear so much as a whisper of anything touching Miss Barry’s name, be sure I shall hunt you down,” Mr. Marfleet said in a voice of steel to Mr. St. Leger as he stood near the door, one hand upon the handle.

Placing his hat upon his head, Mr. St. Leger looked in her direction. “Good evening, Miss Barry. I will not say it has been a
pleasure.” Before the other men could move, he addressed them. “You have my word.”

The next second he was gone, the thud of his boots fading down the corridor.

Jessamine huddled on the edge of the bed, wishing she could hide.

18

L
ancelot wished he didn’t have to face Miss Barry. He hadn’t thought of much beyond rescuing her when he and Captain Forrester had rushed here from London.

As the blinding rage faded, all he felt was cold disdain and the most profound disappointment in the woman he’d given his heart to. He didn’t think he could ever erase the image of her pinned under St. Leger.

He wiped a hand over his eyes to dispel it.

“Miss Barry, come, we’ll take you home.” Captain Forrester’s soothing tone shook Lancelot from the stupor he seemed to be in.

He lifted his gaze until it met hers. She looked disheveled but still clothed. Captain Forrester was right. They had come just in time. Overwhelming relief filled him. If that swine had ruined her, Lancelot would have killed him. He still felt the anger hovering dangerously close to the surface of his reason.

He could only watch as Captain Forrester put a hand under her elbow to help her stand. “Good, you still have your shoes on. Now to find your cloak.”

She put a hand to her head. “How long have I been here?”

“You don’t know?” Captain Forrester’s gaze met his across Miss Barry’s head. “Do you mean you were unconscious?”

“I . . . think . . . so. I remember so little.”

“You can tell us in the coach. We need to get you back home before anyone suspects you were not at the ball.”

At the last word, she put a trembling hand to her lips, and tears started to trickle down her cheeks. Lancelot felt more pain than any blows St. Leger had given him. He clenched his fists in an effort not to be softened by her tears.

“I can’t go home—I can’t go—”

“Shh,” Captain Forrester whispered. “We’re taking you to Mrs. Phillips. She’s waiting for you. No one knows anything and no one need know anything. It’s thanks to Mr. Marfleet here that we found you in the nick of time. The ball is still going on, no one need be the wiser that anything happened to you.”

Slowly she raised her head and met Lancelot’s gaze. There was a stunned, lost look in her eyes. Her mouth quivered, and she covered it quickly with her hand.