When he returned to his house, Cranshawe thumbed idly through his morning mail before going in to breakfast. Nothing but a thin trickle of invitations; the Season was coming to an end. There was one letter that had apparently come from out of town. He took it into the dining room with him and set it beside his place on the table while he went to the sideboard to fill his plate with steaming food. He opened the letter after the first pangs of his hunger had been satisfied.
Suddenly Cranshawe's fork clattered to his plate and he leaned back in his chair, a smile spreading slowly across his face.
"So, my dear Henry," he mused aloud, "we have come to the play's last scene. And I predict it will be a lively and a satisfying one. I think you owe me that extra time, my dear, though I shall not be able to avail myself of more than one night. I have never had to wait so long for a woman, but I find that the longer I wait, the greater my appetite.
He proved that one of his appetites, at least, was in no way dulled. He finished his breakfast before ordering that his horse be resaddled immediately and brought to the front of the house, and that his curricle and pair be ready to leave in one hour's time. Before leaving the house, he ordered his valet to pack a bag for him with enough clothes to last him for a couple of days, and a trunk to be taken to Dover the following day in preparation for a trip to the Continent.
Cranshawe rode directly to Suzanne Broughton's house and followed the butler upstairs to that lady's bedchamber. A maid answered the knock on the door and would have barred the way into the room, saying that her mistress was still in bed, but Cranshawe shouldered his way past both the butler and her.
"Why, Oliver, my dear boy," Suzanne said, startled, "to what mad passion do I owe this honor?"
Cranshawe ignored the flimsy and scantily cut nightgown, the long, thick hair that fell around her shoulders, and the seductive smile that spread across her face.
"I don't have much time, Suzanne," he said. "Dismiss the servants, please."
Suzanne waved away the pair, who were still standing in the doorway, and slid lower on her pillows. "Well, Oliver?" she asked.
"I have all but achieved my goal," he began. "The dear duchess has invited me to her brother's house in Sussex. She is alone there. Once this day's work is over, Suzanne, I believe you will find your way quite easily back into Eversleigh's graces. Who knows? Perhaps he will even divorce the little whore and marry you."
She smiled. "And why have you raced over here to tell me this, Oliver?" she asked.
"I want you to drive him mad, my dear," he said. "See him today and tomorrow. Drop hints in his ear, sympathetic hints, of course, that will help you gain your own ends. You must not, of course, tell him where he may find us. But your word in his ear will make my letter the more credible when he does receive it."
"I have always said you are the devil, Oliver," Suzanne commented. "Now I perceive that you are on your way to hell."
"But what a way to go!" He laughed.
"I believe you really fancy the freckle-faced redhead," she said.
"I must confess that I do not expect to find the process of seduction at all unpleasant," he replied.
"Go, you rogue," she directed, and don't worry. Marius shall be driven mad. So mad, in fact, that he will be forced to seek comfort in my arms."
They both laughed.
Before the luncheon hour, Cranshawe was on his way to Roedean, driving himself in a fast curricle. He stopped only once to change horses and to partake of some refreshments.
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Philip was stretched out on his stomach on the schoolroom floor, one hand inside Oscar's cage. He was trying, in vain, to train the parrot to perch on his wrist. Oscar fluttered around inside his cage, flapping his wings and treating the intruding hand to a string of oaths.
"Oh, bless my soul, what are we going to do about that bird?" said Miss Manford, who was busy clearing away books and papers at the end of the morning's lessons. "Do find the pink blanket, Philip."
Cleopatra purred contentedly on Penelope's lap in the window seat. Her back was being stroked at a very comfortable tempo.
"I wonder where Henry is now," Penelope sighed.
As if in answer to her question, there was a brief tap on the door and James Ridley walked in without invitation, waving an opened letter in his hand.
"Eugenia, children," he said, unusual animation in his voice, "she is safe!"
"Henry?" shrieked three voices in unison.
"Yes," he said, the duchess is at Roedean. Sir Peter Tallant has just written to inform the duke of the fact."
"Does his Grace know?" Miss Manford asked.
"No, I am afraid not," Ridley answered. "It is almost impossible to know where he might be found. I have sent a messenger to White's, though, on the chance that he will go there for luncheon."
He hurried from the room again, while its three occupants all proceeded to talk at once. Brutus decided to add his voice to the general chorus.
Fifteen minutes later, as Miss Manford and the twins were about to sit down to their midday meal, James Ridley again rushed into the schoolroom, this time without so much as a courtesy knock.
"Bless my soul!" Miss Manford said. "What is it, James?"
"Cranshawe is on his way to Roedean," he announced.
All three gasped and stared at him openmouthed. Then three voices were all clamoring for attention.
"How did he find out?" Philip asked.
"How do you know he is going there?" Penelope asked.
"Oh, the poor dear duchess, will she be safe?" wailed Miss Manford.
"I have not heard from his Grace yet," Ridley said, agitatedly. "It may take hours to find him. And there is not a moment to lose. I shall have to go myself."
"Where?" Miss Manford asked, hands flapping. "To Roedean? Oh, James, do have a care. He may be armed and dangerous. But, yes, of course, you must go. oh, how brave you are."
"I'm going too," Philip announced.
"And me," said Penelope.
"Oh, really, no children," wailed Miss Manford, "you must stay out of this. But, of course, the dear duchess may need our help and comfort. oh, dear, I wish I knew what to do."
"It is most courageous of you to be willing to go, my dear Eugenia," said Ridley, -and I really believe it might be for the best. I shall order his Grace's fastest-traveling carriage brought around immediately. I shall pen a swift note to leave for the duke and hope that he returns some time this afternoon."
Twenty minutes later the carriage was on its way, carrying four anxious people, and-inexplicably-three pets. The twins had loudly proclaimed that the latter could not possibly be left behind, and Miss Manford had been too agitated to argue.
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Eversleigh had been at White's since midmorning. He had left home early, but he was experiencing the same frustration that Giles had felt. He did not know where else to look for Henry. He had no leads. His evening spent going from one stagecoach stop to another had proved fruitless. It was not that no one had seen Henry. Everyone had seen her. According to many of the people he questioned, she had been driven off in every possible compass direction. Eversleigh had never suspected that so many young Englishwomen had auburn curls and freckles and possessed gray cloaks or green pelisses (the two outdoor garments missing from his wife's wardrobe) and brown bonnets. He had given up his inquiries in despair before midnight.