Poor human nature,so richly endowed with nerves ofanguish, so splendidly made for pain andsorrow, is but slenderly equipped for joy.

George Du Maurier.

Chapter 29.

A distant pounding broke the silence in Stephen's room. Alec ignored it. It sounded again. He glancedup, not really seeing anything.

"Belmore! Open the door!" came a muffled shout, followed by more pounding.He stood up and wrenched the door open, saying nothing. Downe stood there, his hair windblown andhis clothing damp.

"Your wife's run out in the storm. I tried to follow, but I lost her. What the hell happened?"

Alec shook his head and looked back at the bed where Stephen lay quietly. He was struck by a surge ofguilt so strong it sapped his mind of thought."Goddammit, Belmore! Do you want to lose them both?"Alec couldn't move.Downe grabbed ahold of his coat and jerked him around. "Belmore!"Alec heard him, felt him, but nothing registered.Downe shook him.Nothing."Ah, hell..." Downe's fist hit Alec's jaw.The pain was instant. It shot through his teeth, down his neck. He staggered back, hand to his jaw, then shook his head and looked up at the earl, stunned but cognizant."You stupid bloody fool! Your wife is gone!""Gone?""Yes, gone."

"Damn." He took two steps and jerked the bellpull. A few seconds later Henson entered. "Send someone to saddle three horses. Then stay with my brother." Henson left.

"You can be a hard-headed ass sometimes." Downe gave him a look that told Alec he knew what he'd done. "You tried to drive her away."

He didn't respond, but knew in his grief and guilt that that was exactly what he had done. Henson returned a second later and saved him from having to answer. Then they were running down the stairs, through the hail across the scattered pieces of a broken vase, and out the front doors, where Seymour joined them. The rain poured down in blinding sheets. Alec stood on the steps, disoriented, until he saw the horses. A second later he mounted his stallion, pausing for a moment to glance up at the dark skies.

Whenever Scottish cried, it rained. He took one deep breath and pressed his heels into the horse's sides, gravel spitting in his wake. The wind howled. The three men rode, following Downe's lead. He slowed his horse and turned back, shouting, "I lost sight of her over that rise." He pointed at the hill ahead of them. They split up and rode through the rain in different directions, each one searching an area.

Alec cupped his hands around his mouth and called, "Scottish!" He waited for an answer. All he got was the cry of the wind. He swiped the water from his eyes and brow and searched, threading his horse among the trees along the side of the road, calling her name again and again.

"Over here!" Seymour shouted. Alec kicked the horse into a lope and spotted the two men at the top of the next rise. He reined in and dismounted, sloshing through the mud to where Seymour was crouched down. He shoved past him.

No Scottish. There was nothing there. He spun around. Seymour held out his hand. A rabbit's foot, an ivory tooth, and a feather charm lay wilted and muddy in his palm.

"You called me over because of those bloody charms?" Alec reached for Seymour.

Downe gripped his shoulders and stopped him. "He gave them to Joy before she left."

Alec stared at the charms for a long minute before he looked up. "Then she has to be here somewhere."

He cupped his mouth and shouted again. "Scottish!"

There was nothing but the wind.

"Scottish!"

Nothing but the rain.

"Scottish!"

Nothing.

The clock chimed four in the morning, and Alec broke his vigil. Stephen hadn't cried or awakened for the past three hours, and he needed a few moments away. He tugged on the bellpull, and Henson came in. "I'll be in my chamber, then in the study. Come and get me if there's any change. When Downe returns, I'm going back out."

He went to his chamber, closing the door behind him with a click that sounded as loud as a gunshot in the silence of the empty room. He looked around. Everything was the same, but somehow distant, as if he were on the outside looking in and not seeing what he sought. He crossed to the window and stared out. The hills were dotted with flecks of light, the lanterns of the search parties looking for Scottish. His stomach tightened. He'd spent hours looking for her, then had come back to see about Stephen, splitting his time between them, at Downe and Seymour's insistence.

With a heavy feeling of despair, he watched the lights move over the hills and through the valleys. The search was fruitless. He knew somehow that Joy wasn't there. He took a deep breath and gave in to the question he'd avoided asking for the last few hours: where was his wife?

She could have tried to zap herself somewhere using her magic, but God only knew where. He remembered London's dark alleys, drifts of deadly snow, icy rivers. God, she could be anywhere, anywhere at all, and he couldn't tell anyone the truth about his concern. He rubbed his forehead. A foolish gesture since it wouldn't ease the worry. The regret. He closed his eyes. What the hell had he done?

"Scottish," he whispered, staring at nothing. He swallowed hard and felt the thickness in his throat "I'm sorry."

"Please, Aunt, just let me see them for a few minutes. Please."

The MacLean stood across the room, her arms crossed stubbornly, Gabriel sitting at her feet and watching her through bright blue eyes.

"Please," Joy whispered, stroking Beezle's head once more before setting him down.

"Just this once, Joyous." The MacLean raised her arms, and Gabriel hissed and arched his back. A flash of gold light burst from the window.

Joy watched the light glow and widen, forming the image of Stephen's chamber.

The physician stood by Stephen's bed, shaking his head. "I've never seen anything like this. I could have sworn his lungs were punctured." He leaned back over Stephen and said, "Just relax please."

"That always means it's gonna hurt," Stephen said, frowning and pulling back.

Joy smiled at that. She watched with pride and pleasure the gentle way Alec reassured him.

The physician stepped back a minute or so later and said, "Except for those cuts and bruises, he appears to be fine."

"I told you so," Stephen grumbled. Then he looked around the room. "Why are all these people here?"

"They were worried about you," Alec told him.

"Where's Joy?"

The words gripped her, and her breath stopped. She looked past the faces of Richard, Neil, and Henson to Alec.

He didn't stiffen. He didn't scowl. He didn't evade the question. He just said truthfully, "I don't know."

"I like Joy. She thinks I'm smart." He paused thoughtfully, then asked quietly, "Wasn't she worried about me too?"

Her body tightened with a wave of threatening sickness and she had to grip the back of an old chair.

"She was very worried," Alec told him. "She didn't want to leave your side but I was angry. I said some cruel things to her."

"That was dumb."

He looked Stephen straight in the eye. "It was. But I'll find her. I promise I'll find her."

He'll never find me. The ache was so great that Joy fell to her knees, covered her face with her hands, and sobbed. When she pulled her hands away the image had faded. A plea on her face and anguish in her voice she turned to her aunt. "I love him. Please. He needs me."

The MacLean watched her, then glanced at the blank window. A moment later she shook her head, turned, and left the room.

And so it was that the days dragged by, empty, silent, and devoid of magic. Stephen recovered and spent most of his time in the garden, caring for the flowers and plants that Joy had taught him about. He would say with simple unshakable confidence that she would come back soon. Alec had promised.

But Alec's confidence had waned.

He had ridden over every acre of Belmore Park. He'd sat slumped in a chair in his chamber for hours on end. In a kind of deliberate self-punishment, he surrounded himself with reminders of her. The only food he would eat was roasted chicken legs, turnips, and gingerbread. On every table and every mantel in the rooms he frequented stood vase after vase of pink roses.

One day a wagon had come from London filled with heavy crates. It had taken three footmen to carry the stacks of Gothic romances into the duchess' room. They were stacked along a wall seeming to await her return.

He memorized the names of his servants, then confused the wits out of them when he ordered all the clocks set for different times. He went through the gardens looking for small birds and first blooms. He walked on the roof at night, looking at the stars, and wondered if he'd ever look down and see them in her eyes again. He prayed for snow. He picked a sprig of rosemary and remembered. And every so often, when he was alone at night, he cried.

Alec stared off in the distance, remembering. Like the ribbons on a Maypole she had twisted and twined her way into his life. He laughed to himself. What life? He'd had no life before Scottish. He'd had his pride and his name, neither of which mattered to him anymore.

That cold shell of a life seemed to have existed long, long ago. Now he had a brother he loved, but still the house was empty, lonely, cold. Without Joy he could find no peace. He felt wounded, and he knew with surety that he would never heal without her.

He craved her magic. But it wasn't her witchcraft-weak and feeble and often disastrous-that he needed as surely as he needed breath. It was Scottish. The strongest magic she had was herself.

The clouds above the garden broke a bit. Rain sprinkled the flagstone walks. Alec wondered if she was crying. He closed his eyes briefly, then let go of the elm tree.

Alec watched the door of his study close in the wake of the royal messenger. He turned back to stare down at the royal invitation to the fete in honor of His Grace, the duke of Wellington. He tossed it across the desk. "I don't give a bloody damn who the prince is honoring, I'm not going to London. I won't leave until I find her."

"I take it there's been no word." Downe sat across the room, twirling a cane.

Alec shook his head. "Nothing. Not a thing for two months. I received the report from Surrey last week. She's not there. The Lockleys knew nothing. I've got every man I could hire turning all of England upside down. All reports are the same. She's disappeared. The only reports I've yet to receive are from James and Fitzwater. They're combing the isle of Mull."

Seymour fumbled with the growing collection of charms that weighted the chain on his waistcoat, then looked up. "Thought I spotted her myself a week ago in London. I scared the wits out of Billingham's wife. He almost called me out. From the back she looked exactly like Joy."

"You'd think there would be some clue. Something," Downe said, frowning.

Alec sagged back in his chair and shook his head in defeat. "She's gone. I don't think I'm ever going to find her." He looked at his friends. "Where else can I look? There's got to be some clue, something I've missed."

"Did those two servants ever come back?" Downe asked. "What were their names again?"

"Hungan John and Forbes."

He nodded, then looked uncomfortably at Alec. "Do you suppose they had anything to do with her disappearance?"

Alec shook his head. He suspected that Joy had had something to do with their disappearance, but he couldn't explain that to Downe, so he lied and said they had been checked out. There was nothing else he could do but wait and hope. He clasped his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling. Where the hell would a witch go?

As he mentally cataloged the possibilities for the thousandth time, the room became silent, too silent. It drew his gaze from the ceiling to his two friends.

Downe seemed caught off his guard, and Seymour's mouth gaped open. The viscount closed his mouth and drew himself up straighter. "Seems a tad out of line to call Joy a witch, Belmore." Seymour's tone was defensive.

He had spoken aloud. He was going out of his mind. Insane.

Seymour harped on, "Joy's no witch. Everyone knows witches look like that old hag that told us about her in the first place."Alec blinked once, then slowly looked up. The clock ticked away the seconds. Alec slammed his hands on the desk with a bang and shot to his feet. "Bloody hell! That's it! The old woman. I'd forgotten abouther. But that's it!" He crossed the room, his long legs eating up the distance in three strides.His hand on the doorknob, he turned back to his friends, who were scrambling to follow. "I'm going to search every street corner in town until I find her." He ripped open the doors and shouted, "Henson!

Pack my things. We're leaving for London."His deep voice echoed down the marble halls, and three maids looked up in fright at the duke runningtoward them, shouting. He stopped in front of one of them and pointed at her. "Mary White."

The maid nodded, clutching her feather duster to her white apron.

He looked at the next maid and said, "Mary Jones."

She nodded and remembered to curtsy.

He turned to the third maid, whose head was already bent almost to her knees. "Mary Brown."

She slowly looked up and nodded.

The duke of Belmore smiled. "Well, Marys, don't stand there. Run and tell Stephen, we're going to

London."

Chapter 30.

One month later, the London season was at its peak. Balls and soirees ate up the idle time of the quality, and provided gossip and scandal-daily sustenance of a starving ton. Just last week news had arrived from the Continent that a certain countess was seen in Paris on the arm of the brother of her husband's current mistress. This latest on-dit set aside the rampant speculation about the strange behavior of the duke of Belmore. It was whispered between deals at snug little card parties and teas that he'd gone batty with grief at the disappearance of his duchess. Rumor had it that he'd been accosting the flower sellers on the street corners. The duke of Belmore!

But this week the gossips had new fodder: the prince's fete-the largest single event of this flamboyant season- was to take place tonight. From early in the morning, ladies had begun to flutter and flit, donning jewels and silks, feathers and fans, preparing to flaunt their wealth and taste before those who mattered. Before their mirrors, gentlemen practiced the brooding stares that would gain them the mystique of a dark poet. They perfected that smooth pinch of snuff and the turning of a fine masculine leg.

The royal musicians tuned up their violins, cellos, and flutes and the finest florists in London delivered the hundreds of imported potted lemon trees, which had become the Rage. As was done before, the trees would line the ballroom at Carlton House, a sight that was rumored to have cost in the thousands of pounds. The Regent, however, refused to be bothered by ha'pennies, for tonight the ton would welcome home England's newest peer and hero, the duke of Wellington.

The Belmore carriage was one of the hundreds that lined the route to Carlton House. Packed three deep from Pall Mall to the top of St. James's Street, the conveyences stood waiting to deposit their occupants at the corner where Horse Guards framed the entrance line to the gates. So here was the whole of the ton, sitting in their carriages in the light of the new gas lamps, dressed up in all their finery, and waiting to pay tribute to their hero and their prince.

"Blast it all! What a crush!" Seymour opened the carriage window and stuck his coppery head outside.