Oliver had taken off his shoes and his coat. A bit of ivy climbed the walls—a few pale, unhealthy strands, nothing he’d care to trust his weight to.

The past few days were beginning to catch up with him. It felt almost as if he had been woken briefly in the middle of the night and was being sucked back into the dream. Yes, he cared for Jane. More than he wanted to think.

And he’d volunteered to climb into her sister’s room in the middle of broad daylight.

“Why am I the one doing this again?” he asked.

“Because,” Jane whispered next to him, “I’m wearing skirts.”

He was going to get shot. Or captured. Or…

Or maybe he wasn’t. He hadn’t felt like this in…oh, years. His pulse beat with excitement. The house was silent.

“Don’t worry,” Jane said. “The kitchen garden hardly produces because my uncle doesn’t like setting snares for rabbits. If he discovers you, the worst he’d probably do is demand an explanation. A lengthy one.”

“And I’ll say, ‘don’t mind me, I’m just here to steal your niece. There’s nothing to worry about; I’ve made away with one of them already, so two will hardly slow me down.”

“Precisely.” She smiled at him, and suddenly, the climb to her sister’s window didn’t seem quite so long, nor the possibility of discovery so painful. He clambered up onto the window ledge on the ground floor, used it as a stepping stone, and then swung up to the top of the window frame.

The drainpipe buckled; he readjusted his weight, shifting onto the slick stones. He made his way up the wall carefully, until he could hook his hands over the window ledge that Jane had promised belonged to her sister.

He tapped quietly on the window and waited.

Nothing. He didn’t even hear anyone stirring in the room.

“Emily?” He didn’t dare speak much above a whisper, but his breath scarcely fogged the window. He tapped again, this time more firmly. “Miss Emily.”

“She’s not a heavy sleeper,” Jane whispered loudly, just below him. “And she never sleeps during her afternoon naps.”

“Well, I don’t see anyone inside.” He rapped his knuckles against the windowpane. “Emily,” he tried a little louder.

Nothing.

Nobody. He could see the bed from here, and while the shadows somewhat obscured his view, it didn’t even look as if there were a telltale lump.

“Jane,” he said softly, “when was your uncle going to have your sister taken away?”

He could hear her breath suck in. “Not so soon,” she said slowly as if trying to convince herself. “Surely not so soon. He would want to make certain I was out of the way before he moved. I’m…I’m almost positive of it.” But her voice wavered on the almost, and he suspected she wasn’t as sure as she felt.

He would have guessed it would take longer. But then, he’d been wrong before.

“Might she have gone out for the afternoon?” he asked.

“No, of course not. Titus never lets her, and if she had slipped out herself, she would have left the window ajar.” Oliver tried the edge of the window; it was closed all the way, but it hadn’t been fastened on the inside. It was difficult work, getting the leverage he needed to hoist it up a few inches; the window squeaked in the casement. But he finally managed to raise it.

“She really isn’t in here,” he reported. He’d already completed the breaking portion of breaking and entering. No point stopping now. He climbed through the window.

“Look in the clothespress,” Jane called from the ground. “See if her valise is there.”

He crossed the floor, treading as softly as he could in hopes that the floor would not squeak. It didn’t, but the clothespress door made a soft noise of protest when he opened it.

There were a few items of clothing inside, scattered about in a mess, but no valise. Oliver returned to the window. “Is your sister generally a tidy person?”

“Yes.”

“Because someone has tossed her things around. Much of it, I gather, is gone. There is no valise, and what clothing remains is strewn about. It looks like someone packed in a hurry.”

“Oh, God.” On the ground, he could hear the fear in Jane’s voice. “On the desk—look on her desk. Is there a small green cactus?”

“No.”

“She’s really gone. Oliver. What are we going to do?”

He’d never met her sister, but he’d have panicked if any of his sisters had been in similar straits.

“In an hour or so,” Jane was saying, “Dorling will arrive back in Nottingham. It’s only a matter of time until Titus gets a telegram. He’ll know that I’ve disappeared.”

Oliver shook his head. “I am going to climb down. And then we are going to talk. Rationally. For one, if he’s already removed your sister, it doesn’t matter what he knows of you. The strategy changes.”

“Right.” She nodded. “Right.”

He started making his way down.

He could see her pacing on the ground out of the corner of his vision.

“This morning… What was I thinking?”

“Wouldn’t have made any difference,” he said, shifting so that he could brace himself against the side of the house.

“But if we had—”

“We couldn’t have made the trains run any faster, and we were on the first one out. Don’t blame yourself whatever has happened.” Coming down was trickier; he couldn’t see his footholds, and it made for slower going. But when he was within a few feet of the ground, he pushed off the wall, jumping the last little bit.

He landed and turned to Jane. It was wrong, what was going through his head. He should have been in full sympathy with her, for whatever it was that had happened to her sister.

But he didn’t feel sorry. He was selfish, so damned selfish. He didn’t care about her sister at all.

All he could think was that she’d said this would last until they found Emily. It’s not over. It’s not over yet. He’d have more of Jane.

“But if I—”

He took her hand. It’s not over yet. It’s not over yet. He shouldn’t be smiling. And yet he couldn’t keep a hint of triumph from his voice.

“Maybe the worst has happened,” he said, “and maybe she’s been put away. But what has been done can be undone. All we need to do is find out where he’s sent your sister, and from there…”