His Wicked Charm. Candace Camp

Con’s face was a study in frustration, but he scooped Megan up and strode toward the waiting hack, saying in an aggrieved tone, “Yes, I know. I’m impulsive and quick-tempered, and you, of course, are logical, rational and right.”

      The coach took off as soon as they were settled. Con leaned back against the seat, arms crossed, sunk in a deep study. The driver set a pace fast enough it made Megan wince as they rattled over the cobblestones, but she didn’t protest. When they reached the house, Megan handed back Con’s bloody handkerchief and insisted on walking into the house unaided.

      “You are not carrying me in like some invalid. Theo will treat me as if I’m at death’s door.”

      They found a thoroughly distressed Smeggars hovering in the entryway. He greeted them with a cry of delight and hustled them down to the Sultan Room. Even before they reached the salon, Lilah heard the agitated male voices. Inside, the room seemed to be filled with large men—standing, pacing, arguing, looking grim.

      The butler, adept at gaining attention from years spent in the Morelands’ service, stepped in, announcing grandly, “Gentlemen! The Marchioness of Raine.”

      Silence fell instantly and they all swung around to stare at Megan, flanked by Lilah and Con.

      “Thank God!” Theo crossed the room in two strides and pulled his wife into his arms, squeezing her so hard she let out a squeak of protest.

      “What happened, Con? What’s going on?” Reed came forward. Lilah saw for the first time that his wife, Anna, was also in the room, sitting against the wall. She was still pale, her face stamped with worry.

      While Theo fussed over his wife’s injuries, the rest of the men bombarded Con with questions. Lilah left him to the interrogation and made her way to Anna. “How are you?”

      The other woman attempted a smile. “Better. The headache’s gone. It usually disappears. But it always leaves me tired.”

      “Perhaps you should rest.”

      “Thank you. I’ll be fine here. I couldn’t lie down and sleep, knowing they were still out there. I feel so awful that I didn’t go with them. If only I’d realized earlier—”

      “You mustn’t blame yourself. If you had been there, how could you have prevented it? It’s far better that you and Megan aren’t missing, too.”

      “No doubt you’re right. Tell me what happened. You found only Megan?”

      Lilah related to her everything they had done and discovered, a good deal more quickly and in better order than Con was managing with the frantic and furious men across the room. Fortunately, Smeggars wheeled in the tea cart, along with iodine and bandages for Megan’s injuries.

      “This is no time for tea,” Kyria’s husband, Rafe McIntyre, protested.

      “Oh, no, sir, I think you’ll find it’s exactly the right time.” Smeggars smiled benignly.

      “Yes, yes, you’re right, Smeggars, as always,” the duke agreed. “We’re accomplishing nothing this way. Let’s sit down and think this thing through. There has to be a way out of this. They won’t hurt my girls.”

      Rafe started to object, but Stephen St. Leger clapped a hand on his shoulder and cast a meaningful glance at the duke. Rafe nodded and subsided.

      “You’re right, sir,” Stephen said. “We shouldn’t panic. That’s what they want—to rattle us so much we can’t think.”

      As Smeggars served the tea, Uncle Bellard slid forward on his chair, gazing at Megan in his mild way. “Now, Megan, dear, is there anything else you can tell us about these men? Now that your mind is clearer. I’m sure your skills as a reporter enabled you to notice more details than the average person.”

      Megan took a breath. “You’re right. I should think like a reporter.” She closed her eyes. “There were three of them. They wore workingmen’s sort of clothes, dark, and they had on soft caps, pulled low to conceal their faces. Their carriage—no, wait, it wasn’t a carriage, it was more of a wagon. But enclosed like a…” Her eyes popped open and she sat up straight. “Like a Black Maria.”

      “A what?” The duke and others stared in confusion.

      “A police wagon,” Rafe explained. He set aside his tea and stood up, an almost-palpable energy pouring out of him. “It’s a nickname in the United States for the vehicles they carry prisoners in. They’re painted black, and they’re made to keep prisoners from escaping. The doors in the back open from the outside only, and the windows are small, high and barred.”

      Megan nodded. “Yes. That’s it. It was smaller than most I’ve seen, but I’m sure it had high barred windows.”

      “No wonder some of the women thought they were the police,” Con commented. “But at least a vehicle like that should be easier to track.”

      “What else can you remember?” The usual lazy drawl was missing from Rafe’s speech now, his words as hard and sharp as steel. He began to prowl around the room, reminding Lilah of a tiger in its cage. “Was it Kyria he was after? Con said he was dragging Kyria away.”

      “I—I’m not sure,” Megan faltered. “When I first saw them, they were pulling Kyria and the duchess toward the wagon. Of course, they were all fighting them. I don’t know if they meant to take one or two or everybody.”

      “It’s clear it was planned,” Reed said. “They had the prisoner wagon. They went straight for the Moreland women. They moved quickly.”

      “That sort of demonstration was an excellent place to take them. People thought they were the police, so they hesitated to step forward and stop it.”

      “One man stayed up on the wagon seat at first—I presume so they could get away quickly,” Megan said. “He didn’t get down until the women swarmed the first man. How could they think two men could take them all?”

      “How could they think even three could?” Stephen spoke up. “There were four women—five counting you, and it would have been six if Anna had been there.”

      “Perhaps they didn’t know the Moreland women well enough to realize they wouldn’t go easily,” Theo guessed. “They might have thought the ladies would be so shocked and frightened they wouldn’t struggle.”

      “How did they take them?” Lilah, caught up in the conversation, jumped in. When the others turned to look at her, it occurred to her that she had crashed into the family discussion. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. It’s just—how did they manage to fight five women and get four of them into the wagon so quickly?”

      “True.” The duke frowned.

      “Chloroform!” Megan popped to her feet. “The man holding Kyria had his hand over her face. I thought he was trying to muffle her screams, but I remember now, there was a handkerchief in his hand. She went limp almost immediately.”

      “I’ll kill that sorry son of a bitch,” Rafe said in a low voice that was more frightening than a shout. He looked at the duke. “How long are we going to sit around here, yammering about it? I’m going after them.”

      “How do you intend to do that? We’ve no idea where they went, and they’ve a long head start on us,” Reed said reasonably.

      “I’ll find someone who’ll talk. Trust me, I can be very persuasive.”

      “Rafe, wait.” Stephen stepped into his path.

      “It’s the Dearborns,” Con said flatly.

      “What?” Rafe swung around. “How do you know?”

      “I don’t know. But who has a grudge against the Morelands? Who is in desperate need of money? Who likes to abduct people to get their way? The answer to each of those questions is Niles Dearborn.”

      “I would have recognized the Dearborns,”