A Night Like This

by Julia Quinn

  He hadn’t realized her hair was so long. When she had it done up, with her pins and combs and whatever else it was women used, it looked like any other hair bun. Well, any other hair bun when worn by a woman so beautiful it made his heart stop.

  But down, her hair was glorious. It spilled over her shoulders like a sable blanket, rippling into soft, luxurious waves that came to an end at the tops of her breasts.

  He allowed himself a wicked little smile. He liked that her hair didn’t cover her breasts.

  “What are you smiling about?” she murmured, her voice thick and lazy with sleep.

  “You’re awake,” he said.

  She let out a little mewl as she stretched, and he happily watched as the bedsheet slipped from her body. “Oh!” she chirped, yanking it back up.

  He covered her hand with his, tugging it down. “I like you that way,” he murmured huskily.

  She blushed. It was too dark for him to see the pink on her skin, but her eyes looked down for just a moment, the way they always did when she was embarrassed. And then he smiled again, because he hadn’t even realized he’d known that about her.

  He liked knowing things about her.

  “You didn’t say what you were smiling about,” she said, gently pulling the sheet back up and tucking it under her arm.

  “I was thinking,” he said, “that I rather like it that your hair is not quite long enough to cover your breasts.”

  This time he did see her blush, even in the dark.

  “You did ask,” he murmured.

  They fell into a companionable silence, but soon Daniel saw worry lines begin to form on Anne’s forehead. He wasn’t surprised when she asked, softly, “What happens now?”

  He knew what she was asking, but he didn’t want to answer. Snuggled together in his four-poster bed with the canopy pulled closed around them, it was easy to pretend that the rest of the world did not exist. But morning would come soon enough, and with it, all of the dangers and cruelties that had brought her to this point.

  “I will pay a call upon Sir George Chervil,” he finally said. “I trust it will not be difficult to determine his address.”

  “Where will I go?” she whispered.

  “You will stay here,” Daniel said firmly. He could hardly believe she’d think he’d allow her to go anywhere else.

  “But what will you tell your family?”

  “The truth,” he said. Then, when her eyes widened with shock, he quickly added, “Some of it. There is no need for anyone to know precisely where you slept tonight, but I will have to tell my mother and sister how you came to be here without so much as a change of clothing. Unless you can think of a reasonable story.”

  “No,” she agreed.

  “Honoria can lend you a wardrobe, and with my mother here as chaperone, it will not be untoward in the least for you to be installed in one of our guest bedrooms.”

  For a split second she looked as if she might protest, or perhaps suggest an alternative plan. But in the end she nodded.

  “I will see to a special license right after I see to Chervil,” Daniel said.

  “A special license?” Anne echoed. “Aren’t they terribly extravagant?”

  He nudged a little closer. “Do you really think I’m going to be able to wait a proper engagement period?”

  She started to smile.

  “Do you really think you can wait?” he added huskily.

  “You’ve turned me into a wanton,” she whispered.

  He pulled her against him. “I can’t quite summon the will to complain.”

  As he kissed her, he heard her whisper, “I can’t, either.”

  All would be right with the world. With a woman like this in his arms, how could it be otherwise?

  Chapter Twenty

  The following day, after getting Anne settled as a proper guest in his household, Daniel set out to pay a call upon Sir George Chervil.

  As expected, it hadn’t been difficult to find his address. He lived in Marylebone, not far from his father-in-law’s Portman Square residence. Daniel knew who Viscount Hanley was; indeed, Daniel had been at Eton at the same time as two of Hanley’s sons. The connection was not terribly deep, but the family would know who he was. If Chervil did not come around to his way of thinking with appropriate speed, Daniel had every confidence that a call upon his father-in-law—who undoubtedly controlled the purse strings, including the deed for the tidy little Marylebone home upon whose steps Daniel was now ascending—would do the trick.

  Within moments of knocking on the front door, Daniel was ushered into a sitting room decorated in muted shades of green and gold. A few minutes later, a woman came in. From her age and attire, he could only deduce that she was Lady Chervil, the viscount’s daughter George Chervil had chosen to marry instead of Anne.

  “My lord,” Lady Chervil said, offering him an elegant curtsy. She was quite pretty, with light brown curls and clear, peaches-and-cream skin. She could not compare to Anne’s dramatic beauty, but then again, few could. And Daniel was, perhaps, somewhat biased.

  “Lady Chervil,” he said in return. She looked surprised by his presence, and more than a little bit curious. Her father was a viscount, so she must be used to receiving high-ranking visitors, but at the same time, he imagined it had been some time since an earl had called upon her in her own home, especially if it had been only recently that her husband had become a baronet.

  “I have come to call upon your husband,” Daniel told her.

  “I am afraid he is not home just now,” she said. “Is there anything with which I may assist you? I am surprised that my husband did not mention your connection.”

  “We have not been formally introduced,” Daniel explained. There seemed no reason to pretend otherwise; Chervil would make as much clear when he returned home and his wife mentioned that the Earl of Winstead had paid a call.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said, not that there was anything for which to apologize. But she seemed like the sort of woman who said I’m sorry whenever she wasn’t sure what else to say. “Is there anything with which I might assist you? Oh, I’m so sorry, I asked that already, didn’t I?” She motioned to a seating area. “Would you care to sit? I can have tea brought out immediately.”

  “No, thank you,” Daniel said. It was an effort to keep his manners polite, but he knew that this woman bore no blame for what had happened to Anne. She likely had never even heard of her.

  He cleared his throat. “Do you know when your husband is expected back?”

  “I shouldn’t think it would be too long,” she replied. “Would you like to wait?”

  Not really, but Daniel didn’t see any other alternative, so he thanked her and took a seat. Tea was brought out, and much small conversation was made, interspersed with long pauses and unconcealed glances at the mantel clock. He tried to distract himself with thoughts of Anne, and what she must be doing at that precise moment.

  While he was sipping tea, she was trying on clothing lent to her by Honoria.

  While he was tapping his fingers impatiently against his knee, she was sitting down to dinner with his mother, who had, much to Daniel’s pride and relief, not batted so much as an eyelash when he announced that he planned to marry Miss Wynter, and oh, by the way, she would be staying at Winstead House as their guest, since she couldn’t very well continue on as a governess to the Pleinsworths.

  “Lord Winstead?”

  He looked up. Lady Chervil had her head tilted to the side and was blinking expectantly. She had clearly asked him a question—one he had not heard. Fortunately, she was the sort of woman in whom good manners had been ingrained since birth, and so she drew no attention to his lapse, instead saying (and presumably repeating), “You must be terribly excited about your sister’s upcoming nuptials.” At his blank look, she added, “I read about it in the newspaper, and of course I attended your family’s lovely musicales when I was having my season.”

  Daniel wondered if that meant that she was no lo
nger receiving invitations. He hoped so. The thought of George Chervil sitting in his home made his skin crawl.

  He cleared his throat, trying to keep his expression pleasant. “Yes, very much so. Lord Chatteris has been a close friend since childhood.”

  “How lovely for you, then, that he will now be your brother.”

  She smiled, and Daniel was struck by a tiny arrow of unease. Lady Chervil seemed to be a most pleasant woman, someone with whom his sister—or Anne—would be friendly were she not married to Sir George. She was innocent of everything, save for marrying a scoundrel, and he was going to upend her life completely.

  “He is at my house right now,” Daniel said, trying to assuage his disquietude by offering her slightly more charming conversation. “I believe he has been dragged over to help plan the wedding.”

  “Oh, how lovely.”

  He gave her a nod, using the opportunity to play the game of What-Must-Anne-Be-Doing-Now? He hoped she was with the rest of his family, offering her opinion on lavender-blue and blue-lavender and flowers and lace and everything else that went into a family celebration.

  She deserved a family. After eight years, she deserved to feel as if she belonged.

  Daniel glanced at the mantel clock again, trying to be a bit more discreet about it. He had been here an hour and a half. Surely Lady Chervil was growing restless. No one remained in a sitting room for an hour and a half, waiting for someone to come home. They both knew that propriety dictated that he offer his card and depart.

  But Daniel wasn’t budging.

  Lady Chervil smiled awkwardly. “Truly, I did not think Sir George would be gone so long. I can’t imagine what is keeping him.”

  “Where did he go?” Daniel asked. It was an intrusive question, but after ninety minutes of chitchat, it no longer seemed importune.

  “I believe he visited a doctor,” Lady Chervil said. “For his scar, you know.” She looked up. “Oh, you said you had not been introduced. He has . . .” She motioned to her face with a sad expression. “He has a scar. It was a riding accident, just before we were married. I think it makes him look dashing, but he is forever trying to minimize it.”

  Something unsettling began to roil in the pit of Daniel’s belly. “He went to see a doctor?” he asked.

  “Well, I think so,” Lady Chervil replied. “When he left this morning, he said that he was going to see someone about his scar. I just assumed it was a doctor. Who else would he see?”

  Anne.

  Daniel stood so quickly he upset the teapot, sending lukewarm dregs running across the table.

  “Lord Winstead?” Lady Chervil asked, her voice laced with alarm. She came to her feet, too, hurrying after him as he strode for the door. “Is something wrong?”

  “I beg your pardon,” he said. He did not have time for niceties. He’d already sat here for ninety bloody minutes, and God only knew what Chervil was planning.

  Or had already done.

  “May I help you in some way?” she asked, hurrying after him as he made his way to the front door. “Perhaps I can convey a message to my husband?”

  Daniel turned around. “Yes,” he said, and he did not recognize his own voice. Terror had made him unsteady; rage was making him bold. “You may tell him that if he touches so much as a hair on my fiancée’s head, I shall personally see to it that his liver is extracted through his mouth.”

  Lady Chervil went very pale.

  “Do you understand?”

  She nodded unsteadily.

  Daniel stared at her. Hard. She was terrified, but that was nothing compared to what Anne would be feeling if she was now in the clutches of George Chervil. He took another step toward the door, then paused. “One more thing,” he said. “If he comes home tonight alive, I suggest you have a talk with him about your future here in England. You might find life more comfortable on another continent. Good day, Lady Chervil.”

  “Good day,” she said. Then she fainted dead away.

  “Anne!” Daniel bellowed as he ran into the front hall of Winstead House. “Anne!”

  Poole, the longtime butler at Winstead House, materialized as if from nowhere.

  “Where is Miss Wynter?” Daniel demanded, struggling for breath. His landau had been stalled in traffic, and he’d run the last few minutes of the journey, tearing through the streets like a madman. It was a wonder he had not been run down by a carriage.

  His mother emerged from the sitting room, followed by Honoria and Marcus. “What is going on?” she asked. “Daniel, what on earth—”

  “Where is Miss Wynter?” he panted, still gasping for air.

  “She went out,” his mother said.

  “Out? She went out?” Why the devil would she do that? She knew that she was supposed to remain at Winstead House until he returned.

  “Well, that’s what I understand,” Lady Winstead looked over at the butler for help. “I wasn’t here.”

  “Miss Wynter had a visitor,” Poole said. “Sir George Chervil. She left with him an hour ago. Perhaps two.”

  Daniel turned on him in horror. “What?”

  “She did not seem to care for his company,” Poole began.

  “Well, then why on earth would she—”

  “He was with Lady Frances.”

  Daniel stopped breathing.

  “Daniel?” his mother said with rising concern. “What is going on?”

  “Lady Frances?” Daniel echoed, still staring at Poole.

  “Who is Sir George Chervil?” Honoria asked. She looked at Marcus, but he shook his head.

  “She was in his carriage,” Poole told Daniel.

  “Frances?”

  Poole nodded. “Yes.”

  “And Miss Wynter took his word on this?”

  “I do not know, my lord,” the butler said. “She did not confide in me. But she walked out to the pavement with him, and then she entered the carriage. She appeared to do so of her own volition.”

  “Bloody hell,” Daniel swore.

  “Daniel,” Marcus said, his voice rock solid and steady in a room that was spinning. “What is going on?”

  Daniel had told his mother some of Anne’s past earlier that morning; now he told all of them the rest.

  The blood drained from Lady Winstead’s face, and when she grabbed Daniel’s hand, it felt like a panicked claw. “We must go tell Charlotte,” she said, barely able to speak.

  Daniel nodded slowly, trying to think. How had Chervil gotten to Frances? And where would he—

  “Daniel!” his mother nearly screamed. “We must go tell Charlotte now! That madman has her daughter!”

  Daniel jerked to attention. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, at once.”

  “I’m coming, too,” Marcus said. He turned to Honoria. “Will you stay? Someone needs to remain here in case Miss Wynter comes back.”

  Honoria nodded.

  “Let’s go,” Daniel said. They raced out of the house, Lady Winstead not even bothering to don a coat. The carriage that Daniel had abandoned five minutes earlier had arrived, and so he put his mother inside with Marcus and took off running. It was only a quarter mile, and if the roads were still clogged with traffic, he could reach Pleinsworth House faster on foot.

  He arrived moments ahead of the carriage, breathing hard as he raced up the steps to Pleinsworth House. He slammed the knocker down three times and was reaching for the fourth when Granby opened the door, stepping quickly aside as Daniel practically tumbled in.

  “Frances,” he gasped.

  “She’s not here,” Granby told him.

  “I know. Do you know where—”

  “Charlotte!” his mother yelled, yanking her skirts up well over her ankles as she ran up the steps. She turned to Granby with wild eyes. “Where is Charlotte?”

  Granby motioned toward the back of the house. “I believe she is seeing to her correspondence. In the—”

  “I’m right here,” Lady Pleinsworth said, hurrying out of a room. “My heavens, what is going on? Virginia, you
look—”

  “It’s Frances,” Daniel said grimly. “We think she may have been kidnapped.”

  “What?” Lady Pleinsworth looked at him, and then at his mother, and then finally at Marcus, who was standing silently by the door. “No, that can’t be,” she said, sounding far more confused than worried. “She was just—” She turned to Granby. “Wasn’t she out for a walk with Nanny Flanders?”

  “They have not yet returned, my lady.”

  “But surely they have not been gone so long as to cause concern. Nanny Flanders doesn’t move very quickly any longer, so it will take them some time to get ’round the park.”

  Daniel exchanged a grim glance with Marcus before telling Granby, “Someone needs to go look for the nurse.”

  The butler nodded. “At once.”

  “Aunt Charlotte,” Daniel began, and then he related the events of the afternoon. He gave her only a very brief account of Anne’s background; there would be time for that later. But it did not take long to tell her enough so that her face went ashen.

  “This man . . .” she said, her voice shaking with terror. “This madman . . . You think he has Frances?”

  “Anne would never have gone with him otherwise.”

  “Oh, my heavens.” Lady Pleinsworth swayed and became unsteady on her feet. Daniel quickly helped her to a chair. “What will we do?” she asked him. “How can we find them?”

  “I’ll go back to Chervil’s house,” he said. “It’s the only—”

  “Frances!” Lady Pleinsworth shrieked.

  Daniel turned around just in time to see Frances come tearing through the hall and hurl herself at her mother. She was dusty, and dirty, and her dress was torn. But she did not appear to have been injured, at least not deliberately.

  “Oh, my dear girl,” Lady Pleinsworth sobbed, clutching Frances to her with frantic hands. “What happened? Oh, dear God, have you been hurt?” She touched her arms, and her shoulders, and then finally showered her small face with kisses.