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real harm to anyone."
"My husband's face " Sara began hotly, thinking of the slashing.
"A punishment he deserved," Lord Ashby declared. "In the past Craven cuckolded many powerful men.
He's fortunate that
none of them ever decided to make a gelding of him."
He had a point, much as she disliked to admit it. "Your 'source of amusemenf nearly cost me my life."
Sara said under
her breath.
Ashby frowned impatiently. "Mrs. Craven, I see no reason to go over the same ground yet again. I give
you my word of
honor that the problem will be addressed in the way I have described. Lady Ashby will never set foot in
England again.
That should be enough to satisfy you."
"Yes, my lord. Of course I trust your word." Sara lowered her gaze deferentially. "If you'll excuse me, I
must find my
husband now."
"Craven was here with Lord Raiford," Lord Ashby informed her.
Sara was disconcerted by the news. "Here? But how "
"They suspect that Joyce might have had something to do with your disappearance. I told them I had no
knowledge of her whereabouts. They left not ten minutes before your arrival."
"Where did they go?"
"I did not ask. It was of no consequence to me."
Sara was relieved that Derek hadn't been injured. But he must be distraught, even frantic, not knowing
what had happened
to her. She bit her lip in consternation. "Well, at least they know there's a chance I'm all right."
"They don't have much hope," Ashby said dryly. "I must say, your husband seemed quite indifferent to
the entire situation."
Sara's heart thumped anxiously. She knew it wasn't indifference at all, but a surfeit of emotions Derek
couldn't handle. He
was keeping it all inside, denying his grief and fear to everyone, even himself. She had to find him.
Perhaps the best place to
begin her search was the club. With dawn arriving soon, surely the men would want to survey the
damaged building by the
light of day and comb through the ruins. "My lord," she said urgently, "I would ask that one of your
carriages convey me to
St. James Street." Ashby nodded. "With all expediency." Sara left the room, while Joyce screamed
madly after her, "I won't
be locked away forever ... I'll come back! You'll never be safe!"
* * *
Sara's breath was knocked from her at the first sight of the club. Or rather, the place where the club had
been. Thieves and beggars were poking through the rubble in search of fire-damaged goods. Slowly Sara
descended from the Ashby carriage.
She stood at the side of the street, staring. "Dear God," she whispered, her eyes stinging with tears.
All Derek's dreams, the monument to his ambition ... razed to the ground. Nothing remained but the
marble columns and staircases, sticking up like the exposed skeleton of a once-proud beast. Pieces of
the stone faqade were scattered on the
ground like giant scales. The extent of the destruction was difficult to comprehend. For years the club had
been the center
of Derek's life. She couldn't imagine how he must be reacting to the loss.
The lavender light of daybreak fell gently over the scene. Sara made her way to the charred ruins at a
snail's pace, her
thoughts disconnected. Her manuscript had burned, she realized sadly. It had almost been finished. The
art collection was
gone too. Was Worthy all right? Had anyone perished in the fire? There were hot embers on the ground,
and small patches
of flame. Tufts of smoke rose from blackened timbers that had fallen at odd angles. What had once been
the huge chandelier
in the domed hall was a mass of melted crystal lumps.
Reaching what had once been the grand central staircase, now exposed to the open sky, Sara stopped
and dragged her sleeve over her face. She gave an aching sigh. "Oh, Derek," she murmured. "What am I
going to say to you?"
A breeze rustled past her, stirring ashes around her skirts, making her cough.
Suddenly an odd feeling came over her, a slight shock as if she'd been touched by invisible hands. She
rubbed her arms and
turned around, somehow knowing Derek would be there.
And he was. He stared at her from a face that was stark-white, paler than the scorched marble columns
rising from the
ground. His lips formed her name, but he didn't make a sound. The breeze swept over them both,
clearing away the wisps
of smoke from the ground. Sara was startled by his gauntness, the torment that pulled at his features until
he looked like a stranger. His eyes were searing, as if he were flooded with uncontainable rage ... but
suddenly the depths of green
overflowed, and she realized with astonishment that it was not rage ... It was soul-deep terror. He didn't
move, or even
blink, afraid she would disappear.
"Derek?" she said uncertainly.
His throat worked violently. "Don't leave me," he whispered.
Sara went to him, picking up her skirts, stumbling in her haste. "I'm all right. Oh, please don't look like
that!" Reaching him,
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