Graham’s time with Dr. Pritchard had given him new hope. Hope that he could fix Hannah again—cure her of the fear that had sent her back to the laudanum. It wasn’t enough that he visited her every morning and left again, feeling dejected and hopeless. If he had no hope, how could he expect her to? And that was why he marched himself right back to Somerset House that afternoon. He was going to get her out of bed, remind her she was loved and that everything would turn out fine. He was going to give her hope.

The butler let him in and as he handed off his hat and coat to the man, the duchess peeked out from the drawing room, her eyes wide.

“Dr. Alcott?” she said, and Graham couldn’t help but notice the high pitch of her voice.

“Your Grace,” he said, with a slight bow.

“Erhm…did you forget something this morning?”

“Yes,” he replied, at which point the duchess seemed to deflate in relief.

She stepped into the corridor. “Please allow me to fetch it for you.”

“No, no.” He held up a hand to stop her from progressing toward the stairs. “It’s not an actual thing I’ve forgotten.”

She stood like a statue, blinking up at him, so he went on.

“You see, I forgot to tell Hannah…that is, I forgot to remind her that…” Damn, why couldn’t he find the right words? “I need to see Hannah,” he finished, deciding that the young duchess didn’t really need an explanation from him as to why he wanted to see his fiancée.

He started for the stairs, but she ran in front of him. “You can’t!” she said, and now it was clear she was in a panic. But why?

“I beg your pardon?”

“That is, she’s sleeping,” she giggled, trying to shrug off her odd behavior. “I promised her I wouldn’t let anyone interrupt.”

Graham narrowed his eyes on her. She was lying, but why? What the devil was going on? “Stand aside, Your Grace.”

At this, she drew herself up to her full height and shoved her nose into the air. “How dare you? This is my home, and I’ll not be treated with such disrespect.”

“Let him go,” came another voice from behind. And older, wiser voice, that was.

“Mother! You know I can’t,” the duchess replied, breathless with outrage.

“He will find out one way or the other,” the dowager insisted. “Let him go.”

The younger woman looked as if she were going to cry as she finally stepped aside and allowed Graham to climb the stairs. He took them two at a time and then raced down the corridor until he reached Hannah’s door. He didn’t knock or even hesitate before he burst in to find…

Nothing? The bed was neatly made, the curtains closed. And no sign of Hannah.

“Hannah!” he called as he made his way back down the corridor. “Hannah!”

“She’s not here,” the dowager said as he emerged at the top of the staircase.

“Then where is she?” he demanded.

Her Grace stepped out of the drawing room again, a piece of foolscap in her hand. “Here,” she said, holding it out. “You will find her here.”

* * *

“Veronica?” Hannah had tried her best to slow her heart’s pace as she carefully limped up the stairs of Veronica’s home. Lord only knew what she’d find up here—she prayed she would merely find her new friend fast asleep in her bed.

There were three doors at the top of the landing, and Hannah had no idea what lay behind any of them. So, she chose at random, starting with the door on her left. With a trembling hand, she turned the handle and pushed the door open. Before her was a tiny room with one window and a small desk. Veronica’s study, apparently. And completely empty.

She closed the door again and stared at the next one. The one in the middle. It was eerily quiet up here. The sounds of the city were muted, and Hannah’s heart thumped loudly in her ears. But other than that, strange, unnerving silence.

Reluctance and curiosity warring within her, she moved to the middle door, placed her hand on the handle and then flung it open. A gasp forced itself out of her as she stared into the pleading eyes of her friend, who sat tied to a chair, her mouth gagged.

“Veronica!” she exclaimed, but the woman shook her head frantically, clearly trying to tell her something, but it was too late.

A strong arm grabbed her from behind and the sharp tip of a blade poked into her neck. Beeston.

“I knew this lying whore would lead you to me,” Beeston spat in her ear. “And here you are, mine again, and this time…forever.”

“I will nev—”

“Hush!” The knife pushed a little further into her skin. Much more and he’d draw blood. So Hannah was inclined to do as he said. “Now, you’re coming with me.”

“But what about Veronica?” Hannah blurted out before he could stop her.

Beeston gave a sinister laugh. “No one cares what happens to whores.”

Oh, God. He planned to leave her there for dead. If only Hannah could get a message to Grace, or even John. He knew where she was. But would he dare to come looking for her?

As Beeston shoved her down the stairs, her leg began to burn. “I can’t keep up this pace,” she winced. “You shot me, remember?”

“You will be quiet and do as I say,” he said, tightening his grip around her waist to emphasize his point.

He pushed her down the last few steps and then turned her toward the back door—the one that let out in the alleyway. There sat an unmarked carriage, black curtains drawn, and a large brute of a man sitting in the driver’s seat.

Hannah stared at the coach, wide-eyed. This was it. The end. She’d never get to see Graham again to tell him how much she loved him. To tell him she was sorry and that she ought to have let him and Evan handle Beeston. That she heard every word he said to her as she lay there, pretending to be drugged and asleep.

Her heart twisted so painfully, it was almost too much to bear.

“Move!” Beeston yelled, shoving her forward and causing her to stumble over the cobblestones. Then, with the knife pressed against her back, he ushered her into the darkness, and shoved a foul-smelling cloth over her nose.