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John Coachman had fallen asleep on the driver's box. He'd intended to nod off for a minute or two, but when he awoke, it was almost full light. He leaped from the carriage with an oath, still thick with sleep but his heart pounding with fear. Abandoning his horses, he plunged across the Garden, dodging the market folk as they put up their stalls. He'd seen Lady Edgecombe disappear in this direction, but where had she gone then? He stood wildly looking around as if he would see her sitting at her ease under the Piazza. But he knew that something was very wrong. And he'd slept through it. The duke would have his hide and throw him without a character into the street to starve.
"Lost summat, mate?" a friendly carter inquired, pausing with his laden basket of cabbages delicately balanced on his head.
John Coachman looked bewildered. "My lady," he stammered. "I've lost my lady."
The carter chuckled. "Covent Garden's the place fer losin' a lady friend, mate. But there's plenty 'ere where that one came from."
The coachman didn't attempt to explain something that he didn't understand himself. His great fear was that Lady Edgecombe had been abducted, a fine lady in this den of iniquity. It wouldn't be the first time. And it must have happened at least an hour ago. She could be anywhere in the city's maze of mean, narrow streets and dark, dank courts.
"D'ye 'ear of the business last night at Cocksedge's?" the carter asked, reaching in his pocket for his clay pipe, his basket immobile on his head despite his movements. He struck flint on tinder and lit the pungent tobacco.
The coachman hardly heard him. He was still gazing frantically around, trying to think of his next course of action.
"A group of them 'igh-class nymphs w as taken up by the beadles at Cocksedge's," the informative carter rattled on between leisurely puffs. "Incitin' a riot, or so the old bawd says. Got summat agin 'em, I'll bet. She's got the evil eye, that one, make no mistake."
Slowly the words sank in. John remembered the scene he'd witnessed earlier. The flame-red hair stuck in his memory. "What's that you say?"
The carter repeated himself cheerfully. "Took 'em to Fielding's, so I 'eard, but…" He stared after the coachman, who was now racing back to his carriage and the stamping, restless horses.
John Coachman clambered onto the box, cracked his whip with a loud bellow of encouragement, and the horses broke almost immediately into a canter, the coach swaying and lumbering behind. They sideswiped a stall and the owner raced after them, yelling curses. A child was snatched just in time from beneath the pounding hooves by an irate woman. A mangy dog dived between the wheels of the carriage and miraculously emerged unscathed on the other side.
Outside the magistrate's house on Bow Street, the coachman pulled up his sweating horses and with trembling hands descended to the street and ran up the steps to bang the knocker. The footman who answered was lofty and unhelpful until he saw the ducal coronet on the panels of the carriage. Then he was all affability. Yes, there had been a group of whores brought before Sir John an hour or so ago. Three of them sentenced to Tothill Bridewell, the others let off with a fine that their bawds had paid. And, yes, one of the women sent to Tothill had been a tall green-eyed redhead. He vaguely remembered that she'd been wearing a dark-green gown.
John Coachman thanked the man and retreated to his carriage. His world seemed to have run amuck. Lady Edgecombe taken up for a whore; hauled off to Tothill Bridewell. It made no sense. And yet there was no other explanation for Her Ladyship's inexplicable disappearance.
He turned his horses toward Albermarle Street, his mind reeling. It was backstairs gossip that there was something smoky about the way Lady Edgecombe had come to the house. The whole marriage with the viscount reeked to the heavens. And she was installed in the chamber next to the duke, her bridegroom now gone from the house.
He knew well, however, that the conclusions he drew would avail him nothing when facing the duke's wrath. It was with sinking heart that he drove into the mews, handed the horses over to a groom, and entered the house by the back door.
The house was in its customary quiet but efficient early-morning bustle, waxing, polishing, brushing, dusting. The kitchen was filled with the rich aromas of bacon and black pudding, the boot boy and scullery maid carrying steaming salvers into the servants' hall. The coachman knew he would have to confide in Catlett if he was to speak with the duke. And he knew that he must speak with His Grace before many minutes had passed.
He approached the august figure of Catlett, seated at the head of the long table sampling his ale and examining with a critical eye the offerings laid before him by the boot boy. The lad's mouth watered as he watched the dishes move down the table. He and the scullery maid would have to wait until everyone had eaten before they'd be allowed to rummage for scraps to break their own lasts.
"Eh, John Coachman, and 'ow be you this fine mornin'?" Catlett asked genially, spearing a chunk of black pudding with the end of his knife.
"I'd like a word in private, if ye please, Mr. Catlett." The coachman turned his hat between his hands, his eyes filled with anxiety.
"What? In the middle of me breakfast?"
"It's very urgent, Mr. Catlett. Concerns 'Er Ladyship and 'Is Grace."
Catlett irritably pushed back his chair. "Best come into me pantry, then. You, lad. Put me plate on the 'ob to keep 'of. I'll dust yer jacket fer ye if 'tis a mite less 'of than 'tis now."
Wiping his mouth with a napkin, he led the way to his pantry. "So what is it?"
He listened, his eyes widening, as the coachman told him of the night's happening and the total absence of Lady Edgecombe.
"Taken up fer a whore?" Catlett shook his head in incredulity. " 'Ow could that be?"
"Dunno. Accident, I daresay. She went to fetch a fan, got caught up in the riot." John snapped his fingers.
"Sir John wouldn't send Lady Edgecombe to Tothill Bridewell," Catlett declared. "So she must not 'ave told 'im 'oo she is."
"Aye. But why?"
"Not fer us to ask," Cadett pronounced. "But 'Is Grace must be told at once. Ye'd best come wi' me to 'is chamber. 'E's only been back fer a couple of hours."
The coachman followed Catlett into the front of the house and up the stairs. A parlor maid, waxing the banister, gave him a curious look, then dropped her eyes immediately as Catlett clipped her around the ear. "You got nuthin' better to do, my girl, than gawp at yer betters?"
"Yes, sir… Mr. Catlett… no, sir," she mumbled.
Outside the duke's bedchamber Catlett said, "Wait 'ere." He pushed open the door and entered the darkened chamber. The bed curtains were drawn around the bed. He twitched them aside and coughed portentously.
The duke seemed to be deeply asleep, an arm flung above his head, his face in repose curiously youthful, his mouth relaxed, almost smiling.
Catlett coughed again and, when that produced no response, went to draw back the window curtains, flooding the room with light.
"What the devil…,?" Tarquin opened his eyes.
"I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but it's a matter of some urgency." Catlett moved smoothly back to the bed, his practiced working accents crisp and well modulated.
Tarquin struggled up onto an elbow and blinked at the man. "Why are you waking me, Catlett, and not my valet?"
Catlett coughed. "I thought. Your Grace, that you'd prefer as few people as possible to be a party to the situation."
Tarquin sat up, instantly awake. His eyes flew to the armoire and its concealed door. Juliana. She hadn't returned when he'd come in earlier, but he hadn't thought twice about it. She was with his own coachman, escorted by the formidable and ultrarespectable Lady Bowen.