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room.”
    “Yes,” she said, an answer to a question he hadn’t asked. She felt foolish and silly and too young. Without another word she left him, nearly running down the path and up the stairs to the room that was less a prison at this moment than sanctuary.
    As she did so, in that space of only seconds, Emma allowed herself to feel the pain of regret and something, strangely, like longing.

Chapter 7
    A few minutes after Emma left him, Ian made his way back to his library. There was work he needed to do on the paper he’d present to the Royal Society of London tonight. The gathering was to be a small one, hosting a few visiting members of the Académie des Sciences from France. The document was more theoretical than empirical and was the basis for his current study of the bacterial content of the natural springs around his home in Scotland.
    The first of three missions he’d had on this trip to London. He hoped the first—his paper—would be well received. He still had not succeeded in the second—obtaining the Tulloch Sgàthán. The third—that of contacting his cousin Bryce—was not going to be pleasant.
    His cousin had remarked, on more than one occasion, that he didn’t wish to be saved. If he chose to travel down the road to perdition, it was his damn choice. A decision that Ian would have been more than happy to leave to him, had it not been for his mother. His mother was fond of Bryce, and more than a little concerned for his welfare.
    He needed to find Bryce, and find out just how much money he owed this time. He’d also attempt to urge Bryce not to contact his mother for money. Every time he did so, the Countess of Buchane was upset, and determined to do something to aid her adopted son.
    He’d planned to be in London less than a week, having come to learn, to be educated, to share his own knowledge. He had not come to London to be flummoxed, to be confused, or even worse—to be concerned about a woman he barely knew.
    “Y our Lordship,” his majordomo said, “this just came for you.”
    Peter reached out his hand and took the missive. His name was written in distinctive script but he didn’t recognize the handwriting. The stationery was a good quality, easily equal to that he’d recently ordered for himself.
    “Who did you say brought this?” he asked of his majordomo.
    “A young boy, Your Lordship.”
    “Is he here now?” Peter asked, having opened the envelope and scanned the contents of the letter.
    “No, Your Lordship,” the majordomo said. “He gave the envelope to me and then ran away.”
    “Pity,” Peter said, rereading the message.
    His niece had been abducted. He knew that. If he did not produce a certain object—a mirror, purportedly at Chavensworth—she might very well be in danger.
    Peter sat back against his chair, stretched his feet out on the footstool in front of him, and folded his hands across his stomach, trapping the letter beneath his hands.
    He was damned tired of feeling powerless. Something would have to be done. First that idiotic young fool and now this. He needed Emma back now.
    The message stated that he would be given one day. One day to produce an object he’d never before seen, and whose location was a mystery to him.
    Dearest Emma, his niece, the darling daughter of his older brother. His brother should have ensured that his fortune had accompanied the title. After all, what’s the worth of a title when there are no funds to accompany it?
    He was too old to marry again. His wife had borne him three children, none of whom had survived childhood, before she finally died a few years ago. An heiress might have solved the Duke of Herridge’s money problems but Peter wasn’t the Duke of Herridge. Nor was he interested in courting some young girl.
    If something happened to Emma, he would have more than control of her money. He’d have all that lovely fortune to himself.
    He’d had to abandon his plans the minute that young fool showed up. Now he was