"There!" Bobby tried to stand despite his broken foot and the close confines of the curricle. "'Tis the very--Faith, yer passin' it!"

"Stop bouncing yourself about," Eric ordered as he reined the horse a bit further down the street. He looked back at the house and frowned. "I've never been in the house myself, but I believe--" he gave Bobby a sharp look. "Are you quite certain this is the house you were in?"

"Aye. The very one."

"I believe that Baron Vengrave lives here," Eric mused. "He was rather famous at one time, I've heard. But he doesn't go into Society anymore--the man's practically a recluse."

"What has that t'do with anything?" Bobby demanded.

"If he doesn't go into Society, he likely would not have been at the Masque," Preston explained.

Eric fastened the reins to the curricle's dash. "I'll call upon him and see what this is about."

Preston frowned, "Is that the best way to proceed, my lord?"

Bobby didn't bother with manners--"Are ye bloody daft?"

Eric blinked, not used to having his decisions challenged, and certainly not by a pair of street urchins. "I know what I'm about," he insisted in a tone meant to put both boys back in their proper place. "You are to wait here until I return." He got out of the curricle, ignoring the derisive snort from behind him. He walked up the steps and knocked smartly on the door.

In the curricle, Bobby watched with the disgust. "Bloody hell. Bloody spalpeen. I should be drivin' off in this fancy trap o'his. Bloody amadan of a Sassenach."

"Ssh, Bobby," Preston cautioned. "He'll hear you."

"Does he truly believe that divil is goin' t'be invitin' him in f'r tea and then take him t'where he's holdin' Hank a prisoner?"

"Here he comes," Preston nudged Bobby to keep quiet.

"You must be mistaken about the house," Eric said when he returned. "Vengrave has been from Town for more than a fortnight."

"Bedad, but y'must be the biggest gommach I ever had the bad cess t'meet." In spite of the crutch and his injury, Bobby had scrambled out of the curricle and was stumping toward the house before either Eric or Preston could stop him.

"Here!" Eric exclaimed. "Get yourself back in this carriage at once!"

"He's very certain this is the correct house," Preston told him.

"Nonsense," Eric snorted. "The man's been in the country for more than a week."

"The man instructed his butler to say so," Preston countered. "It wouldn't be the first time staff has been told to say their master is 'not at home.'"

"Don't be ridiculous. I told the man who I was. Do you believe the Baron would not be at home to a Marquis?"

"But--" Preston shook his head and gave up the argument. He ignored Eric's cursing and hurried around the side of the townhouse in search of his friend.

Bobby was waiting at the base of a tree and grinned when he saw Preston. "Faith, and didn't I know ye'd be after followin' me?"

Preston looked up at the first floor windows. "Do you suppose the window is still unlocked?"

"Not likely."

Both boys turned at the sound of Eric's voice. Bobby favoured him with a fierce scowl. "Shouldn't y'be on yer way, me lord?"

Preston was impressed that Bobby could make the title sound like a vile insult. It even managed to permeate Eric's complacent self-assurance, and the aristocratic jaw tightened somewhat although he refused to acknowledge Bobby's taunt. "One can only assume that you intend to break into this residence whether I agree or not."

"Aye, that's the right of it." Bobby tried to hoist himself onto one of the lower branches. "I know in me heart Hank is inside these walls and I mean t'free him from that bleedin' divil as he did me."

Eric watched in silence as Preston struggled to help Bobby. A wry smile tugged at his lips almost involuntarily. "I suppose I should be quite happy to see that neither of you has the slightest knowledge of criminal behaviour. You both are quite useless as housebreakers."

Preston and Bobby both stopped what they were doing to stare as Eric strolled around to the back of the townhouse. After a few moments, they followed and found Eric waiting for them by the doors that opened in from the small garden.

"Loathe though I am to encourage your behaviour," Eric said, one hand on the door handle. "I just saw a mob of servants leave through the kitchen door. Likely with the master of the house away, the staff has taken a day off." He opened the door and peered inside briefly before turning back to his companions. "If you insist upon doing this, now would be the best time."

Bobby didn't need any more encouragement than that. So quickly that Eric didn't have time to react, he had stumped into the house and headed for the stairs.

"Here!" Eric hissed, rushing after the boy. "We don't know that all the help are away." He caught up with Bobby halfway up the stairs. "Show me which room you say holds the bodies," he ordered, sounding as though he still didn't believe it existed. "We can search for Rayner after we've determined if this is the correct house."

"It is that," Bobby insisted as they reached the first floor landing. He glanced over his shoulder. "Where is Preston?"

"One can only presume he decided to stay downstairs to keep watch," Eric said dryly. "He seems a clever fellow."

"Aye, he is," Bobby returned, making his way down the hallway. He stopped and looked carefully up and down the hall, then at the door in front of him with the first sign of hesitation. "'Twould be this door, t'go by the windows outside." He reached for the door knob, but then pulled back.

"What's the matter?" Eric joined him at the door.

"Musha, I don't know that I want t'go in again," Bobby squeezed his eyes shut.

"Not to worry," Eric jostled him out of the way slightly. "I still doubt there's anything of the sort here, and if there is, the door will likely be locked." He blinked when the doorknob turned easily, but recovered himself quickly. "Care to have a look at Lord Vengrave's study, lad?"

Bobby backed away as Eric pushed the door open and stepped inside, but he immediately sensed a change in the Marquis' demeanor.

"Merciful God..." Eric breathed. He walked further into the room as though compelled by and invisible force.

Bobby finally worked up the nerve to follow Eric into the room and for a moment he was relieved. "Faith, 'tis not corpses a'tall."

"Not quite," Eric kept his voice low.

"They...are they dolls?"

"Vengrave was a famous portrait doll maker at one time," Eric explained. "But he supposedly gave it up years ago."

"But these dolls look--"

"As though they were modelled after the dead," Eric finished. "And life-sized, I'd wager." He took a step away from a child's figure whose face was frozen in a rictus of pain and backed into the arms of a porcelain woman who looked as though she'd died in agony, as well. "Damnation. It's no wonder you jumped from the window."

"D'ye suppose the divil digs up the bodies?" Bobby was carefully staying in the center of the room, well away from any dolls.

Eric frowned at him. "You were hardly dead and buried when he tried to snatch you from the street."

Bobby's eyes widened. "Blessed Mother, he kills and then makes their portraits?"

"I believe so," Eric studied the skeletal thin doll or a youth that had could very well have died of starvation. "And not always quickly, I daresay. One hopes he does the same with Rayner."

"Are ye mad?" Bobby gasped. "Yer after wishin' for Hank t'be starved?"

"He will still be alive if that is the case."

"Excellent deduction," hissed a voice from the doorway. "You are to be commended, Lord Blackmoor."

Eric caught Bobby's arm when the boy would have spun around and instead made him turn slowly. It took a great deal of effort, but Eric managed to keep his expression fixed in a disdainful sneer as he faced the man holding a pistol on them from the doorway.

"The American does indeed have several more days to live," Vengrave acknowledged. A grin twisted his hard face. "Sadly, the same cannot be said for either of you."

Diana crumpled yet another hopelessly blotted sheet of paper and tossed it aside. "Bloody hell," she gritted out between clenched teeth.

"My lady," Sheila was torn between shock and laughter.

Diana took a fresh sheet and jabbed her pen into the inkwell again. "Of all the abominable nerve--" she glanced at Sheila. "Do you not find his orders the height of arrogance?"

In spite of the situation, Sheila couldn't help smiling. "Faith, but isn't being ordered hither and yon by the Fancy part of life for someone of my station?"

"I suppose it would be," Diana looked thoughtful, then shook her head. "But I am not accustomed to following the orders of a gentleman--even if he is a Marquis."

"Aye, 'tis plain enough to see that."

"Truly, Blackmoor has no call to pack us off in such a manner," Diana grumbled. Her pen continued to move rapidly across the paper as she spoke. "I count Rayner as a friend and it is quite plain that there is an attachment between you and he."

Sheila colored up to her forehead, "Lady Silverbridge--"

"What's more, your brother is involved." Diana stamped the wax seal with more force than was strictly necessary. "It really is appalling of him. So..."

"So?"

"So will you join me when I make my way to Chapel and York Streets?"

"Ye're after followin' them, my lady?"

"I am. The moment these letters are sent off I'll have the coach brought around." Diana rose to summon a footman.

"The coach?"

"Unless you feel it would be better to ride. It certainly would be quicker, I suppose. Do you ride?"

"Aye, but d'ye believe this t'be a sound notion, your ladyship?"

"Not a bit, but I mean to do it all the same." Diana picked the letters up when a footman entered the parlor, then darted a quick glance at Sheila. "Will you join me in this unsound notion, Miss O'Brien?"

"I will that," Sheila replied without hesitation.

Diana grinned as she turned to the footman. "Please have these letters delivered immediately. And have George saddle Stargazer and Sorlars and bring them around at once."

"At once, my lady," the footman bowed and departed.

"Come, Miss O'Brien," Diana grabbed Sheila's hand and started for the stairs. "There is just time for us to change before the horses arrive."

"And what d'ye wear when settin' off for a rescue?" Sheila asked in a dry tone that would have impressed even the Marquis.

Diana paused, but only briefly. "An excellent point. The time would likely be better spent loading my father's pistol."

When Preston nearly ran into Vengrave's butler on his way to the staircase, he was certain he would be on his way to Newgate Prison next. He managed to slip behind the parlor door and held his breath until the man had passed him.

Concerned though he was about catching up to Eric and Bobby, Preston waited until he was certain the butler had gone back down to the kitchen. Taking a deep breath, he crept from the parlor and up the stairs, but froze near the top when an unfamiliar voice drifted toward him.

"...very foolish of you to concern yourself with the colonial, Blackmoor. But there is the comfort of knowing that you and the little Paddy will live on forever thanks to my talents."

"A great comfort."

Hearing Eric's sarcasm, Preston was emboldened to move up a few more steps and peer across the floor. He watched as three pairs of feet made their way down the hall. Then came the sound of a lock unlocking and the feet moved through an open door.

"Bloody hell."

Eric's exclamation drew Preston even further up the stairs until he could see in through the half-open door. A glimpse of pale blond hair confirmed what Bobby had been saying all along, but left Preston wondering what to do next.

"Hank, are ye badly hurt?" Bobby asked, but there was no reply from the Viscount.

"I'm not entirely certain how the pair of you will be immortalized," Baron Vengrave continued. "But I will most certainly have to decide before sundown."

Preston knew what "immortalized" truly meant in this case, and it was enough to send him scrambling back down the stairs. His concern over meeting up with the butler had vanished into bigger fears, but he still checked for the man before rushing through the kitchen--which was fortunately empty.

Once out on the street, Preston looked up and down for a hackney, but the street was deserted except for a single vehicle. After another desperate look around, Preston hurried to the Marquis' curricle. He had heard Eric give Lady Silverbridge's direction when they were in Covent Garden, so finding the ladies would not be a problem. As he climbed into the curricle, Preston realized his problem was that he never in his life had either ridden or driven a horse.

Nothing for it now, he decided. Taking a deep breath, he snapped the reins sharply over the backs of Eric's high-spirited pair of horses.

On to Part XII
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