I smiled at that. “The Church of Gravendon.”
“Indeed. Were you forced to tell them the truth? Silas hinted at something quite salacious last night but didn’t go into details.”
“He’s a good friend.” I leaned back, the leather seat cold against the bare skin of my back. “I told them the entire story and directed them to contact Mrs. Harold of Stokeleigh and Silas Cecil-Coke of Coke Manor with their inquiries about my alibi. I doubt they will; the inspector seemed painfully embarrassed by the entire tale. But the option is there, if they need further satisfaction that I’m innocent.”
“Which they shouldn’t. I wish I would have been able to prevent all this, Julian, but I didn’t know they were even there until you were being dragged out. But believe me, I would have stopped them.”
“I know.”
“At least you managed to see to your pet. I would have taken care of her, you know, but I do know how you like to personally oversee things.”
I had been looking out of the window, staring at the busy streets and the dull iron of the autumn sky, so it took a minute for me to process what I’d heard. “See to my pet? Ivy? I assumed she would be safe with you—”
“And she would have been. But I am not criticizing, Markham, merely pointing out a fact. It’s perfectly natural that you arranged for her to be taken to her aunt’s.”
I was so confused. “But I didn’t arrange it. There wasn’t any time—and besides, it wasn’t necessary. Like I said, I knew Ivy would be safe with you.”
The Baron narrowed his eyes. “Your valet took her away. Why would he do that, if not on your express command?”
Gareth. Gareth had Ivy.
The Baron must have seen something in my face. “What is it?”
“We have to find her. Now.”
What was Mr. Markham doing now, I wondered. How was he feeling? Apprehensive? Angry? Determined?
I knew he would keep his promise. In my lap, I held his tuxedo jacket, and there was that leaf, now paper thin and brittle, nestled inside the chest pocket.
I always mean the things I say.
I glanced away from the jacket in my hands and up to the window. We’d taken a cab home to Esther’s, although the trip from the Gravendon mansion was taking much longer than I remembered it being last night. Outside the window, I saw only unfamiliar things—low brick buildings and wet docklands. Esther didn’t live anywhere near here.
“Do you think we’re lost?”
Gareth looked up to me, his blue eyes glinting in the dark. “I think we’re going exactly where we need to go.”
“I guess…”
He was over to my side of the cab in an instant, something in his hands. Something that gave off a sweet smell. Nothing about this gesture or the accompanying prop made sense to me, and I half wondered if I was dozing right now, dreaming some impossible dream.
He leaned forward, his hand coming to rest on the cab wall behind my head, and I pressed myself against the wall, trying to give myself space, worried for an insane second that he was going to kiss me. “Gareth, what are you—” I was cut off by a large cloth being forced over my face.
What the hell was happening?
I twisted and kicked, feeling my shoe connect with his thigh, then again with his knee. With monstrous strength, he held the cloth fast and I knew from reading the cheap novels Thomas so abhorred that there was something in the cloth, and that I must not breathe it in if I could help it. So I held my breath and went limp, sagging against the seat as if whatever potency that was in the cloth had taken effect. As I watched through my mostly closed eyes, Gareth relaxed his grip ever so slightly, and that’s when I knew I had to act. Any longer and I would pass
out, so it had to be now.
I reached up with one hand and dug my thumb into his eyeball, and he fought me off. It was the distraction I’d hoped for, directing all his attention upwards while my hand moved downwards. And with a swiftness sped by prayer more than skill, I found the soft package between his legs, squeezed and twisted as hard and as far as I could.
Gareth screamed and the cloth fell away, and even though it was a terrible idea, the prey animal in my mind couldn’t stomach the thought of not bolting, not running, and I opened the cab door and flung myself onto the street.
I tried to land on my feet, but my ankle bent sharply to the side. I cried out, falling onto my hip and hands, and I saw the cab screech to a halt, the puzzled cab driver standing on his perch and trying to figure out what just happened.
I had a choice. I could trust this man, this stranger, who was three feet away from my would-be kidnapper and possibly paid by him or I could run.
I was Ivy Leavold. Of course, I chose to run.
