The first footman had pushed through to her side. "My lady, the sailors are growing restive."

"Sailors!" Chillingworth grabbed for her arm.

Alathea eluded him. Pushing past the footman, she hurried to the stairs. "I haven't time to explain." She threw the words back at Chillingworth, following as fast as he could in her wake. "Just get that note to Gabriel."

Reaching the less-crowded stairs, she lifted her skirts and hurried up.

"Alathea! Stop!"

She didn't. She kept doggedly on to the top, then rushed through the archway and on out of the house.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Chillingworth stared after her. An influx of guests swept down, making it impossible for him to follow her. Other guests who'd heard him bellow cast him odd looks. His lips setting grimly, he ignored them. "Damn!" He looked at the note crumpled in his fist, then he turned and surveyed the throng. "Serve Cynster bloody well right."

He found Gabriel in the card room, shoulders propped against the wall, idly watching a game of whist.

"This"-Chillingworth thrust the note at him-"is for you."

"Oh?" Gabriel straightened. His tickle of presentiment changed to a full-blown punch. He took the note. "From whom?"

"I don't know. Alathea Morwellan charged me to see it to you, but I doubt it's from her. She's left the house."

Gabriel was busy scanning the note; reaching the end, he swore. He looked at Chillingworth. "She's gone?"

Chillingworth nodded. "And yes, I did try to stop her, but you haven't trained her very well. She doesn't respond to voice commands."

"She doesn't respond to any commands." Gabriel's attention was on the note. "Damn! This doesn't look good." His expression hardened. He hesitated, then handed the note to Chillingworth. "What's your reading of it?"

Chillingworth read the letter, then grimaced. "He's effectively told her to 'come immediately' three times. Not good."

"My feelings exactly." Retaking the note, Gabriel stuffed it into his pocket and pushed past Chillingworth. "Now all I have to do is figure out where the hell she's gone."

"Sailors." Chillingworth followed in Gabriel's wake. "The footman said the men waiting for her were sailors."

"The docks. Wonderful."

They were nearing the stairs when Chillingworth, still behind Gabriel, said, "I'll come with you-we can take my carriage."

Gabriel threw him a look over his shoulder. "I'm not going to feel that grateful, you know."

"My only interest in this," Chillingworth replied as they went quickly up the stairs, "is in getting the damned woman back so she can plague you for the rest of your life."

Reaching the top of the stairs, they made their way through the gallery, then descended the grand staircase and strode across the front foyer. They swept up to the main door, shoulder to shoulder-

Looking back over his shoulder, down the steps to the forecourt, Charlie Morwellan collided with them on the threshold. He fell back. "Sorry." He started to bow then recognized Gabriel. "I say-do you know where Alathea's gone?" He looked toward the road leading to the City. "I can't understand why she had to go with that rough lot-"

Gabriel grabbed him by the shoulders. "Where did they go? Did you get any idea?"

Charlie blinked at him. "Pool of London, Execution Dock, as a matter fact."

Gabriel released him. "You're sure?"

Charlie nodded. "I was getting some air-terribly stuffy in there-and struck up a conversation with the sailor by the carriage." He was talking to two departing backs; Charlie started down the steps in their wake. "Here-where are you going?"

"After your sister," Gabriel ground out He shot a glance at Chillingworth. "Which carriage?"

"The small one." Chillingworth was striding along, scanning the ranks of carriages drawn up along the road.

"I might have known," Gabriel muttered.

"Indeed you might," Chillingworth retorted. "I, at least, had plans for the night."

Gabriel had had plans, too, but-

"There it is!"

Together with a score of other coachmen, Chillingworth's coachman had left his master's unmarked carriage in the care of two of their number while the rest adjourned to a nearby tavern.

"I can run like the wind and 'ave your man here in a jiffy, guv'nor," one of the watchers offered.

"No-we haven't time. Tell Billings to make his own way home."

"Aye, sir."

The carriage was wedged between two others; it took the combined efforts of Gabriel, Charlie, and the two coachmen to clear the way sufficiently for Chillingworth to ease his carriage free. He waited only until Gabriel swung up to the box seat alongside him and Charlie leaped on the back before giving his blacks the office.

"Billings is going to have a heart attack." Chillingworth glanced at Gabriel. "But never mind that. What's going on?"

Gabriel told them, omitting only the extreme extent to which the Morwellans were at financial risk.

"So she thinks she's going to meet this captain?"

"Yes, but it's all too pat. Why tonight, the last night before the petition is lodged? I spoke with his shipping line only last Friday and they had no expectation of the captain sailing so soon. Struthers himself didn't expect to sail for weeks."

"This Crowley character. What's his caliber?"

"Dangerous, unprincipled-a gutter rat grown fat. One with no known scruples."

Chillingworth glanced at Gabriel, taking in the cast of his features, the granite-hard expression thrown into harsh relief by the street lamps. "I see." His own expression hardening, Chillingworth looked back at his horses.

"Alathea'll be all right," Charlie assured them. "No need to worry about her. She's more than a match for any rogue."

Unslayable confidence rang in his tone; Gabriel and Chillingworth exchanged a glance, but neither made any move to explain that Crowley was no mere rogue.

He was a villain.

"Pool of London," Chillingworth mused, reaching for his whip. "Vessels can leave directly from there."

With a flick of his wrist, he urged his horses on, clattering down along the Strand.

Chapter 20

The coach carrying Alathea rocked and swayed as it rumbled along the dock. Clutching the window frame, she peered out on a world of dark shadows, of looming hulks rocking on the wash of the tide. Ropes creaked, timbers groaned. The soft slap of black water against the dock's pylons was as inexorable as a heartbeat.

Alathea's own heart was beating a touch faster, anticipation high but in this setting, tempered by caution and a primitive fear. She shrugged the latter off as the product of a too-vivid imagination. For centuries, convicted pirates had been hung off Execution Dock, but if ghosts walked, surely they wouldn't haunt a site so steeped in justice? Surely it was a good omen that it was to this place in all the dingy sprawl of the London docks that the captain had summoned her. She, too, sought justice.

The coach jerked to a halt. She looked out, but all she could see was the black denseness of a ship's side.

The carriage door was hauled open. A head swathed in a sailor's kerchief was outlined against the night. "If you'll be giving me your hand, ma'am, I'll be a-helping you up the gangplank."

While undeniably rough, the sailors had been as courteous as they knew how; Alathea surrendered her hand and allowed the sailor to help her from the carriage.

"Thank you." She straightened, feeling like a beacon in the dark of the night, her ivory silk gown shimmering in the moonlight. She hadn't worn cloak or shawl to the ball; the night in Mayfair had been balmy. Here, a faint breeze lifted off the water, brushing cool fingers across her bare shoulders. Ignoring the sudden chill, she accepted the sailor's proffered arm.

The dock beneath her feet was reassuringly solid, the wide planking strewn with ropes, pulleys, and crates. She was grateful for the sailor's brawny arm as she stepped over and around various obstacles. He led her to a gangway; she clutched the rope as they climbed, crossing the dark chasm above the choppy water between the dock and the hull.

She stepped onto the deck, grateful when it did not heave and tilt as much as she'd feared. The movement was so slight she could easily keep her balance. Reassured, she looked around. The sailor led the way to a hatch. As he bent to lift the cover, Alathea inwardly frowned. When the captain had said he plied cargo from Africa, she'd imagined a ship rather bigger. This vessel was larger than a yacht, yet…

The thud of the hatch cover had her turning. The sailor gestured to the opening, lit by a lamp from somewhere below.

"If'n you'll just climb down the ladder, ma'am…" He ducked his head apologetically.

Alathea smiled. "I'll manage." Gathering her skirts in one hand, she grasped the side of the hatch and felt for the top rung with her foot. Carefully placing her slippered feet, she stepped down the worn wooden rungs. A rope formed a handrail; once she'd gripped it, the rest was easy. As she descended, a corridor opened up before her. It ran the length of the vessel, with doors on both sides staggered along its length. The door at the very end was half open; lamplight shone from beyond.

As she stepped onto the lower deck and let her skirts fall, Alathea wondered why the captain had not come out to greet her.

The hatch clanged shut.

Alathea looked up. A thick iron bolt slid heavily across the hatch, locking it in place. She whirled, clutching the ladder's rope-