When she finally looked up into his face, she was touched by the warmth and concern she saw there.
“What did Giles come to see you about, Andrew?”
“He wanted my advice on a personal matter,” responded Andrew.
“You mean he is finally waking up to the fact that he must do something about his marriage?”
“I was trying to respect his privacy, Sabrina,” said Andrew with a rueful smile. “But I might have known that you would go right to the heart of it.”
“I hope you gave him good advice.”
“And what would that be, Sabrina?”
“That he love his wife for who she is and not what he thought her to be.”
“Then we are of one mind, my dear,” said Andrew, smiling down at her.
The waltz ended and as he led her off the floor, Andrew said meaningfully: “Giles gave me some advice, too.”
She looked up at him quickly, wondering just what kind of advice Andrew would have sought from her brother. She was about to ask, hoping against hope that Andrew’s tone and the expression on his face meant that it was advice on a matter of the heart, when she saw Clare standing alone at the edge of the dance floor.
“Where is your partner, Clare?”
“I sent him off to get me a glass of punch. Sabrina, it has been over two hours now and Giles has not come. I can’t stand here worrying. I must go home and see if he is there.”
Sabrina took Clare’s hands in hers and turned to Andrew. “Clare is right, Andrew. If Giles were sick or even if he lingered at his club, he would have sent us a message. Will you escort us home?”
“Of course.”
* * * *
The two women were silent on the ride to Grosvenor Square, and Andrew sat there, trying to convince himself that they would find Giles in the library of his town house or having retired with a headache. The other possibility that had come to mind at the rout was far too disturbing to think about. But when they reached Grosvenor Square and inquired of the butler and Giles’s valet, they were told that Lord Whitton had not returned to the house that evening.
“He told me he was going directly to the rout, and he dressed accordingly,” said the valet. “He would have had no reason to come back here.”
“Henley, please get us a decanter of brandy and three glasses, and bring it to the drawing room,” requested Andrew.
“The fire is banked there, sir. May I suggest the library?”
Andrew led Clare and Sabrina up the stairs and sat them down upon the sofa. Now that they knew Giles was not here, he was becoming convinced that his suspicions about his friend’s disappearance were on the mark, but he didn’t want to say anything until the brandy arrived.
When the butler knocked on the door, Andrew called him in and had him put the tray down on Giles’s desk.
“Henley, will you send a footman to Lord Whitton’s club? There is still a chance that his lordship stopped there and lost all sense of time.”
“I don’t drink brandy,” said Clare when Andrew offered her a glass.
“You might need it, Clare,” he said with a sympathetic smile.
Clare took a sip and almost choked as the liquor burned its way down her throat.
“One more swallow before we talk, Clare,” encouraged Andrew.
Clare had to admit, as she took a second and then a third sip, that at least the brandy was warming her and that her stomach felt unclenched for the first time in hours.
Andrew tossed back his own brandy and pulled a chair up in front of the two women.
“I think you have an idea where Giles is, Andrew,” said Sabrina, turning her glass around and around and watching the amber liquid swirl against the crystal.
Clare glanced at Sabrina in surprise. “Why, how would Andrew know?”
Andrew cleared his throat. “I have recently been brought on to a very interesting case, Clare. I am going to act the prosecutor for a young man who is taking several very powerful criminals to court.”
Both women frowned. “Whatever has that got to do with Giles, Andrew?” demanded Sabrina.
“Nothing. In fact, I think Giles’s disappearance has more to do with me than himself. If I win this case, four men who are the proprietors of a gaming hell could go to prison. They have already offered my young client a bribe three times the amount of his losses.”
“This young man is suing over a gambling debt,” asked Sabrina, unbelievingly.
“Yes. And let us save our discussion of what is done and not done for another time, shall we?”
Clare looked over at Andrew, understanding at last dawning. “You loaned Giles your greatcoat, Andrew. That is what you told us.”
He nodded. “Giles left my office with the collar pulled up around his ears. If they did not see him go in, but only got there when my clerk left, well, they would naturally have no reason to think that anyone but Andrew More would be coming out.”
“And so they, whoever they are, think they have kidnapped Andrew More,” said Clare slowly. “But instead they have Lord Whitton.”
“I
knew
he was in danger,” whispered Sabrina, reaching out to clasp Clare’s hand.
“But they will let him go as soon as they discover they have the wrong man,” said Clare. “Won’t they?”
“When is this trial, Andrew?” Sabrina asked.
“Not for four days.”
“So they kidnapped you ... Giles, so that this young man would have to bring the case forward himself. And most likely lose.”
“He is a student at Inner Temple. But you are right, Sabrina, it is likely they didn’t want an experienced barrister representing him.”
Andrew was happy that both women were only talking of kidnapping. He hoped Messrs. Oldfield et al. were not foolish enough to attempt anything more serious. If they were desperate men, Giles could be lying dead in some alley, a possibility he certainly would not suggest to Giles’s wife or sister.
If asked, Giles would have preferred the comfort and silence of death to the pounding headache he experienced upon awakening the next morning. He had opened his eyes once and then shut them immediately, for the light made his head even worse. At first he thought he was lying in his own bed, suffering the morning-after effects of too much drink, although he was usually very abstemious.
Then he became conscious of the hardness of the mattress under him and the scratchiness of the rough wool blanket under his cheek. The sounds and smells from outside were foreign, too. Although, God knows, my breath is foul enough to have drunk myself into a stupor, he thought as he propped himself up on his elbow and opened his eyes again, determined to settle once and for all if he were in the middle of a nightmare.
The vertigo that assailed him was accompanied by an attack of nausea, and he hardly had time to get his head over the bed. After he retched up bile and what felt like all his internal organs as well, he fell back, exhausted. But a few minutes later he felt a little better, and pulling himself up into a sitting position, opened his eyes again.
He was on a straw-mattressed pallet in a small filthy, dirt-floored room. From the way the light poured down through the slatted window, he guessed he was in a cellar. But whose cellar and why? It only made the pounding worse when he tried to understand what had happened, so he sat there, breathing deeply to keep the nausea at bay and letting his senses take in all the information they could.
The noise of heavy footsteps above him seemed to indicate that he was right about being in a cellar. And his ears seemed to also be telling him that the cellar was in a very poor neighborhood from the absence of friendly and familiar street cries. Instead, there seemed to be some sort of brawling going on outside. If there had been anyone to wager with, he thought, after fifteen minutes of focusing on sounds and smells, I would wager that I am in the cellar of some rookery in Seven Dials or St. Giles. Make it St. Giles, he thought, with an appreciation of the irony. My patron saint. Maybe I have died and gone to hell for my sins. Although, I never thought I was that much of a sinner.
He heard someone, two someones, coming downstairs and was instantly alert. There was a sound of metal rasping metal, and then the door opened and two men entered the room.
These are no angels but Satan’s minions, he thought with an objective humor that surprised him given their threatening appearance.
One was short, squat, barrel-chested, and bald as an egg. The other was tall, with the cauliflower ears of a pugilist. Both reeked of unwashed bodies and clothes. Although, I am certainly adding to the aroma, admitted Giles.
“Ye’re awake I see, Mr. More,” said the erstwhile pugilist.
At first Giles thought he was speaking to his companion. Then it dawned on him that it was he who was being addressed. Mr. More? Surely his name was Whitton. God’s recording angel made a mistake and sent him to hell and Andrew to heaven in his place? Andrew’s name brought him out of his whimsical fog. For some strange reason these two thugs thought he was Andrew More. He closed his eyes and leaned back, willing himself to remember. Last night he had visited Andrew ... it was raining ... he
had
pulled Andrew’s coat around him ... the hansom cab ... that awful smell.
“Awake and cast up his accounts, hi see,” said the short man.
“Not feeling the thing this morning, are ye, sir?"
Giles groaned and shook his head. Acting helpless would give him some time to decide what course to take. Actually, considering how awful he felt, it was hardly acting.
“May I have some water,” he croaked.
“ ‘May I?’ Coo, we are being perlite now, aren’t we? Don’t worry, ye’ll be watered and fed, gov.”
“And I need a chamber pot. Soon.”
“George, will ye hinform the butler that Andrew More, Esquire needs a pot to piss in.”
George laughed and went upstairs for a pitcher of water and the aforesaid pot.
“Why am I here?” asked Giles in a quavering voice. “I don’t even know you. What possible quarrel could you have with me?”
“Don’t take this personal, gov. Hit ain’t. We are just to keep ye out of court for a while.”
Giles swung his legs over the side of the cot, and immediately his captor stood over him threateningly.
“Of course, hif ye give us any trouble, we ‘as permission to drop you.”
“At the moment,” whispered Giles, not acting at all, “I am in no condition to give trouble to anyone.”
“Hi can see that, gov. But by this hafternooon, ye moight be. Hi’m just warning ye for yere own good.”
The door scraped open, and short and squat entered with water in a dirty-looking pitcher and a chipped and uncovered receptacle.
“No food yet, gov. Ye’re stomach won’t take it, and hi don’t want to ask George ‘ere to clean up after ye again.”
George had already wiped away most of the signs of Giles’s sickness, and pushed the chamber pot under the pallet.
“Settle in and make yerself comfortable, gov,” said the tall man who as yet had no name. “George'll be back this evening.”
After his captors left, Giles took a drink from the pitcher, sloshing the water around in his mouth and spitting it out onto the dirt floor. The next mouthful he swallowed. He was thirsty enough to finish off the pitcher but stopped himself, realizing George the Toad would not be back before evening.
Immediately after drinking he needed to relieve himself, and he gingerly pulled out the chamber pot, which was surprisingly clean. He pushed it into the corner with his foot, not wanting to have it under his bed.
His legs were still shaky, but he decided a little exercise would do him good. He paced out the size of the room: eleven by thirteen, and while he paced he tried to work out a strategy.
Andrew More had been kidnapped to keep him out of court. Andrew’s case against the gambling hell owners was before the court later this week, so Giles was certain it was they who were behind this. They could make further attempts to bribe the young client, he supposed, but if that failed, they were hoping to insure that without expert counsel, the boy would lose.
What would happen if he told his captors they had got the wrong man: Lord Giles Whitton, not Andrew More, Esq. Would they let him go, just like that? Or would they kill him and drop him somewhere. If he told them who he really was, why should they believe him? Or release him, for that matter, so he could bring the law down upon them? They could kill him and leave his body in some alley where it might not be found for days. And when it was, all would suppose he had been a victim of footpads.
As long as they thought he was Andrew, Giles did not think he himself was in immediate danger. The proprietors would have known their mistake instantly, of course. But he doubted they would be stopping by for an official visit. They would have made sure that there were no obvious connections between them and their hirelings, so they could not be prosecuted for obstructing justice.
But surely Andrew would put two and two together and realize why his friend was missing. He’d have a Runner out looking for Giles, and there was every chance he’d be rescued in a day or two. If not, then he would fight his way out.
There was no real dilemma: if he sat tight for a few days, if he put up with some discomfort, Andrew would win his case and Giles would be free. It was the least he could do for a friend, he thought ironically.
* * * *
Andrew had left Sabrina and Clare to get what sleep they could and promised to return the next morning.
When he was ushered into the breakfast room the next day where Sabrina was finishing a light breakfast and Clare was merely pushing eggs around on her plate, his heart sank, and he realized he had been hoping against hope to see Giles in his usual place at the head of the table, full of apologies for causing them such worry.
“Good morning, ladies,” he said as cheerfully as he could.
Sabrina gave him a grateful smile. “Thank you for coming so early, Andrew.”
Clare merely put her fork down, placed her hand on Andrew’s and asked anxiously: “You haven’t heard anything, have you, Andrew?”
“No. And since you obviously haven’t, either, I think we may assume that Giles has either fallen victim to random foul play or was mistaken for me. Either way, we need to take some action.”