There were only two pieces of comfort. One was that Eversleigh had paid off the moneylender; so they at least knew that Henry was in no danger from him. The other was that Ridley's spy had reported that Cranshawe was behaving in no way out of the ordinary. He was still at home or frequenting his usual haunts. He had had no visible contact with Henry.

But those were small comforts. Giles cursed himself now for ever having been weak enough to accept help from his sister. He should have been man enough to go to Peter or Eversleigh and begged a loan. He might have known that Henry did not have that sum on hand, that she would do something silly in order to get it.

The worst aspect of the situation was that one felt so helpless. One did not know where to start looking or where to make inquiries. Giles had made some afternoon calls on mutual acquaintances. But the necessity of making his inquiries in such a roundabout way that no one would suspect the truth was frustrating in the extreme. He longed to grab each person by the throat and demand to know if she were hiding Henry in a closet somewhere. He did not know what he would do today. It seemed fruitless to go back to Eversleigh's, and yet he could not imagine himself staying away from there.

"What the devil is Henrietta doing at Roedean?" Peter was saying.

Giles stared, the words so pertinent to his thoughts that his mind could not grasp the meaning for the moment.

"Henrietta at Roedean?" Marian echoed.

The fact finally registered on Giles' mind that Peter was holding a letter in one hand.

"What is that? Let me see!" he cried, grabbing the sheet of paper from his brother's hand.

"Giles, really," Marian said, shocked.

"Evans says there that she arrived two days ago, alone," Peter explained to his wife.

"How very peculiar!" said Marian. "She had quarreled with Eversleigh, you may depend upon it, my love. I al-ways knew that Henrietta was too undisciplined to cope with marriage to a duke."

"Yes, and be is not the man to help her cool her heels, either," her husband agreed. "I confess myself disappointed in Eversleigh. I had thought him to be made of sterner stuff.''

"So she is there, after all," Giles was muttering. "I deserve to have my nose punched for not guessing. Of course, the little numbskull would get the servants on her side.''

"This needs to be investigated personally," Sir Peter said decisively, throwing down his napkin beside his empty plate. I shall see about having the carriage made ready immediately after luncheon. My love, will you have a valise packed for me? I shall be away from home for at least one night, I should think. I shall write to Eversleigh and tell him where he may find his wife."

"If he wants her back," sniffed Marian.

"I shall come with you, Peter," Giles decided impulsively. He abandoned his plate of still-untouched eggs and followed his brother from the room.

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Oliver Cranshawe had gone riding before breakfast. He had hoped to see the little duchess in the park. She had been lying low for the past two days avoiding him, he believed. The silly little chit! Did she think she could avoid him forever? If she did not reappear very soon, he was going to have to pay her a call. And to hell with Marius if he were there too. He could hardly prevent his cousin and heir from entering the house.

Cranshawe was quite determined to press his advantage. He must be very close to winning. And what a victory it would be. Once he had bedded the chit, he would inform Marius of the fact-probably by letter. He would go to France until the worst of his cousin's temper had cooled. Cranshawe did not fool himself into thinking that he would stand a chance in a duel with Eversleigh, even if he had the choice of weapons. But the marriage would be ruined. The duke was too proud a man to take her back after another man had possessed her, especially his heir.

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.