George released his hold as she sank limply into the pillows, her eyelids drooping over her terrorized eyes. The marks of his fingers were shadows in the darkness on the white of her throat. He placed his hand over her mouth. She was still breathing, but light and shallow. He took a thick scarf from his pocket and tied it around her mouth, knotting it at the back of her head. Then he pulled back the bedclothes and looked at her unconscious form, every curve and hollow outlined beneath the thin lawn shift.

He dragged his eyes from her, conscious of the passing of every minute, and opened the armoire. He pulled out a thick cloak and rummaged through the dresser drawers, finding a pair of silk stockings.

Bending over her, he bound her ankles together with one stocking, pulled her arms in front of her, and tied her wrists with the other; then he swaddled her still form in the cloak, bringing the hood over her head. Her breathing was still shallow, but it was regular. He maneuvered her over his shoulder, took one last look around, then made for the door. His excitement was such that it was difficult to move slowly and cautiously along the deserted corridor. At any moment he expected a door to open, to be accosted with a shout of outrage. But he reached the door to the internal staircase without mishap.

He slipped into the darkness, closing the door behind him. The house was pitch-black and there was no Lucien to guide him. He waited, his heart hammering, his hands wet, until he was steady enough to step down the steep, narrow flight, an arm encircling his burden. He could feel the shape of her, could smell her hair and skin, could feel her breath warm on his neck.

At the foot of the stairs he stepped into the narrow lobby. The side door was slightly ajar, and his heart leaped. He was a second away from success. He stepped through the door and into the alley.

A shrill whistle made him jump. Bur it was Lucien, beckoning from the end of the alley. George set off at a lumbering run, Juliana's head bumping against his back. A hackney stood in the street, Lucien already inside, shivering with cold and wet.

"Goddammit, but I'll get an ague with this night's work." he complained as George tipped Juliana off his shoulder onto the bench and clambered up after her. "So you got her." He examined his wife's unconscious body with an air of mild curiosity. "What did you do to her? She's not dead, is she?"

George loosened the cloak, tipped back the hood. Juliana's head fell back against the stained leather squabs. Lucien raised his eyebrows at the gag, then leaned over and lightly touched the bruises on her throat, observing casually, "Dear me, quite rough weren't you, dear boy?"

"I wasn't taking any chances," George replied, sitting beside Lucien, where he could see his victim as she lolled against the cushions with each jolt of the iron wheels over the cobbles. He smiled and stroked his chin.

Lucien's teeth chattered, and he fumbled for the flask of cognac in his pocket. With a shudder he put the neck to his mouth and tipped the contents down his throat. "Dear God, but I'm cold." He drank again, desperate to warm the icy void in his belly. His hands and feet were numb, his fingers blue-white, as if his blood had stopped flowing. He cursed again as his chest heaved and he was convulsed with a violent spasm of coughing.

George had never seen anyone cough with such violence. Lucien grabbed for a handkerchief and held it over his mouth. George saw the white cloth darken with blood. Instinctively, he moved a little away from him along the bench, fearing some contamination. He reached into his pocket for a small vial of smelling salts.

Lucien continued to cough, his hollow eyes blood-streaked with the strain. But he watched through the paroxysms as his companion uncorked the vial, leaned forward, and pushed it beneath Juliana's nose.

"What d'you want to wake her for?" Lucien croaked. "Wait until we get there, you fool. You don't want her making any trouble."

"She won't," George said sullenly, but he sat back again, replacing the vial in his pocket. He wanted to be there when she came to. He wanted to see her eyes open. He wanted to see her realize what had happened to her. He wanted to see her eyes fall upon him and know that she was powerless as she felt the bonds at her wrists and ankles, the gag in her mouth. But he would wait. He turned his head to look out at the black night, and he missed the moment when Juliana's eyes fluttered, opened, then closed again.

Her throat hurt. It was agony to swallow. She couldn't move. She couldn't open her mouth. The faint stinging tang of smelling salts was in her nose. She kept her eyes shut. What had happened? The memory of the terrifying nightmare flooded back. The hands at her throat. George's face, swollen and greasy and triumphant.

No nightmare.

She kept still, trying to work out why she couldn't move; her befuddled brain took what seemed an eternity to conclude that she was gagged and bound.

"We're coming up to the Bell now."

Lucien's voice. Dear God, she had both of them to contend with. A cold sweat broke out on her back. How could they possibly have spirited her away from the house without someone's knowing? Where was Tarquin' Why hadn't he been there? Tears pricked behind her eyes, and she tried to swallow them. Her throat was agony, but she couldn't bear the idea of tears seeping down her face, into the gag, and she unable to move her hands to wipe them away.

The hackney rattled to a halt. There were noises. Running feet, shouting voices. Light shone on her closed eyelids as she was hauled up and out of the chaise, still swaddled tightly in the cloak. George hoisted her over his shoulder again. She risked opening her eyes and saw that they were in the familiar yard of the Bell of Cheapside. A postchaise stood at the door, horses in the traces, ostlers sheltering from the rain under the eaves of the inn.

She was carried across. George thrust her into the interior of the chaise and slammed the door. "The lady's sick," he told the ostlers. "Sleeping, so don't disturb her. We'll be back in a minute." To Lucien he said, "Let's get a bite of supper. I'm wet as a drowned hen, and parched as the desert."

Lucien glanced at the closed door of the chaise, then shrugged and followed George into the taproom. "What happens if someone looks in?"

"No one's business but mine," George growled into a cognac bottle. "Besides, she's not going to make a sound. She can't move. Who's to look inside?"

It wasn't his business, Lucien reflected, shivering with that bone-deep cold. He'd not been responsible for the abduction. He drank thirstily of the brandy but waved away the meat pie and bread and cheese that George was eating with greedy gusto. He felt ill and knew from experience that the ice in his marrow presaged one of his serious bouts of fever. Perhaps he should take a room there and sweat it out.

But he wanted his thousand guineas, and he wasn't prepared to leave George until he had them firmly in his hand. He understood the man couldn't lay hands on such a sum until he got home; therefore, Lucien would accompany him home. Besides, it might be amusing to see how his wife reacted when she recovered her senses.

Juliana lay in the chaise just as she'd been thrust, half on and half off the seat. She thought she could maneuver herself fully onto the bench, but if she did that, they would know she had moved. Instinctively, she knew that she must maintain her unconsciousness until they reached wherever they were going. At some point they would have to untie her. She was acutely uncomfortable, every muscle twisted and crying out for relief. She tried to take her mind off her discomfort, wondering what the time was. How close to dawn. What time had she been abducted? And where, for pity's sake, were they taking her?