“No, I have to leave now, Corrie. I like your hair nice and simple, all braided on the top. You wouldn’t look good with an army of ringlets marching over your head. Or any ribbons. Forget ribbons, particularly those bought for you by a man.”

Corrie supposed it was a compliment. She wanted another waltz and so she said, “I believe Devlin is beyond that very fat lady, speaking to another young man who looks remarkably wicked himself. Hmmm. Let me see if I can get his attention.” She went up on her tiptoes and whispered against his ear, “I think I shall tell him my name is the Ice Princess. I wonder what he will have to say about that?”

But her performance was wasted because James wasn’t listening. He’d turned at the tug at his sleeve. It was one of the waiters hired for this evening, and he pressed a note into James’s hand. “A gentleman said you was to have this, sir. Right away, he said.”

His heart began to drum, deep and sharp. He left her without a word, and looked neither right nor left at the young ladies who were staring after him. He walked through the long row of French doors that gave onto the Lanscombe balcony.

He stepped out, saw a couple embracing at the far end, and wanted to tell that old roué Basil Harms that he wasn’t far enough in the shadows. He wondered what man’s wife he was seducing.

He walked quietly down the steps on the far end of the balcony and strode into the Lanscombe garden toward the back gate. He didn’t have a gun, curse it, and perhaps this wasn’t the smartest thing he’d ever done in his life, but on the other hand, there was a chance this was news about the man who wanted to kill his father. There was no choice really. Besides, who would want to hurt him? No, it was his father they were after. The lights from the ballroom dimmed until he was in blackness and saw only the outline of the narrow gate some fifteen feet in front of him. He wasn’t stupid. He looked all around him for possible danger, listened, but it was quiet. The man he was supposed to meet was waiting for him by the back gate.

What sort of information did the man have? James hoped he had enough money on him to meet his price.

He heard the rustling of leaves just off to his right. He whirled around but saw nothing, no movement, no light, nothing at all. Surely there would be no lovers this far away from the mansion. He waited, listening. Nothing. He was alert; he was ready.

It was at least ten feet to that narrow gate with ivy climbing up it, cascading wildly over the top, rather like that silver cascade over Titan. The eight-foot-high stone walls of the Lanscombe garden were also covered with ivy, miles of the stuff, thick, impenetrable. His steps slowed. He scented danger; he actually smelled it.

Suddenly a man came out of the shadows to stand at the end of the path, right in front of the gate. In a deep rolling voice, the man said, “Lord Hammersmith?”

“Aye, I’m Hammersmith.”

“I have information to sell ye, me lord, all about yer pa.”

“What do you have?”

The man pulled a sheaf of papers from his old black jacket. “I want five pounds fer the lot of it.”

He had five pounds, thank God.

“Before I give you anything, tell me what you have.”

“It’s names, me lord, names and places the gentleman what gave me the papers said yer pa would want to see. Some letters too.”

Five pounds. Even if it was worthless, it was worth the five pounds, to be sure.

James was reaching into his pocket for money when the man dropped the papers, jerked up a gun, and said, “Ye don’t move now, me fine lord. Ye just stand there nice and straight and don’t ye even wink an eyelash.”

JAMES WAS ALREADY in motion. His leg shot out, clipped the gun, and sent it flying into the ivy against the garden wall. The man yelped, grabbed his hand. James was nearly on him when a thick blanket came flying down over his head and he heard the voices of two men, one of them whispering, “No, don’t yell, ye fool. We’ll jest bundle him all up like this so’s he can’t kick out and break our necks.”

“I want to kick ’is balls off, Augie, kickin’ Billy like that, nearly broke ’is wrist the bastid did.”

James was jerking at the blanket, trying to find a corner, when a gun barrel nicked him on the shoulder, then another one hit him hard on the head. He was cursing loud enough to bring the watch when the pain bowed him to his knees. Another blow on the head. He fell, swaddled in the thick wool, and knew no more.

Corrie’s scream never came out of her throat. There was nothing she could do except yell and jump on them and likely get herself banged on the head with a gun, and what good would that do James? She looked on, horrified and enraged, and stuffed her fist in her mouth.

She watched them gather him up, then one of the men, much larger than the others, heaved James, still wrapped in the blanket, over his shoulder.

“Not a feather, this one. Let’s git our braw lad out o’ this place, quick.”

Her heart was pounding loud enough for the Lord to hear, but she followed, her slippers light on the cobblestones as she ran toward the back garden gate. She watched them push the gate open, saw a carriage in the alley, two bays harnessed to it, standing quietly, heads down, at rest. One of the men climbed onto the bench and picked up the reins. It was Billy. He leaned back. “Git moving, Ben, ye want to tie our gent up good. He’s a strong ’un, kicked me wrist so sharp it sent pins through me fingers. I ain’t niver seen a man move like that. We’ll keep an eye on ’im.”

She watched them toss James onto the carriage floor, then jump up after him.

A man leaned out the window, hissed, “Go, Billy, scrabble ’em, now! We’ve gots a ways to go.”

Corrie watched Billy click to the horses and wave the reins. The carriage slowly moved toward the entrance of the alley, behind the mansion, onto Clappert Street.

She didn’t think, didn’t weigh consequences. She simply ran after the carriage and leapt lightly up onto the back runner, grabbed the straps and pulled herself close to the carriage. It was the tiger’s perch, and she knew it well. When she’d been younger she’d loved to ride in the tiger’s perch behind James or Jason, singing at the top of her lungs, feeling the wind tearing at her old leather hat and braid, tearing her eyes.

The only difference between now and then was that she was wearing a beautiful white silk ball gown, lovely white slippers on her feet, and no old leather hat. Nor did she have a wrap.

It didn’t matter. Three bad men had kidnapped James. Where were they going to take him?

She had to keep down, keep quiet, not fall off, and not let the men see her. Well, she’d certainly hidden from James and Jason enough times, following them, even plastering mud on her face so they wouldn’t see her in the bushes, and they’d never known she was there, watching them wrestle, throw knives at targets, practice cursing. But this was different, she’d agree with that. What would she do when they stopped, well, something would come to her, it had to.

Why had they taken James? To get to his father, of course. The note that waiter had pressed into James’s hand, all a ruse. He shouldn’t have come out into the Lanscombe garden alone, the idiot.

Thank God she’d seen everything. She drew in a deep breath as the horses lengthened into a trot. The streets were nearly empty. Thank God for the half moon. She would figure out something. She had to save James. It was that simple.

She had no idea which direction they were going because they’d gotten nowhere near the Thames. Suddenly she saw a sign to Chelmsford. Ah, they were going east. Wasn’t Cambridge in this same direction?