He opened his eyes. “Catie?”
No answer.
He rose and padded across the room, through the dressing room, and into her room. No sign of her, except—
He lifted his tailcoat from the top of her bed, then looked at the window. It was open. The sun was just rising above London, and somehow Quint knew his wife was out there. He swore. He didn’t have time to search for her this morning. She was probably at the assembly rooms, supervising the cleanup, but he could not stop by to check. He had an appointment with Perceval at eight, and he did not want to be late. After last night, he intended formally to withdraw his application for the position and concede to Fairfax.
Quint fully expected a dressing-down from the prime minister for the events of the ball. He’d made the government look foolish, particularly the article that would surely make the day’s papers. Hell, he’d stolen Perceval’s coach. Quint deserved a stern lecture, and he was prepared to take his lumps.
He’d take them and ask for more. He didn’t care. He had Catherine, and that was all that mattered. One look from her, and everything became clear. He’d been such a fool. How had he not seen immediately that Catherine was the only thing that mattered? He dressed quickly, thoughts of Catherine never far from his mind. Why would she go to the assembly rooms so early? Would the servants have even arrived yet?
As he waited for his carriage to be brought around, he paced his foyer. What if she had not gone to the assembly rooms? He remembered the open window in her bedroom and swore again. Suddenly, he needed that carriage urgently. He had a very bad feeling that his Catie was trying to help.
“I REALLY THINK THIS is a bad idea,” Catie whispered from the prime minister’s darkened office.
“Why?” Ashley said. She was sitting in the chair behind his desk, feet propped up before her. “Isn’t it Mr. Perceval’s job to make decisions for our country? We’re helping him do that.”
“Maybe we should split up,” Catie said. “All four of us here might be too much. Perhaps Maddie and I could stay, and you and Josie could go to the office of the Times.”
“Not a chance,” Josie said, letting the curtain she was holding aside fall back into place. “Once we leave, you’ll convince Maddie this was a bad idea, and you’ll be gone.”
“This is a bad idea,” Maddie muttered. She was sitting on the edge of a chair beside the desk. Her hands were clamped in her lap. “I don’t need to be convinced of that.”
“Shh. I hear something!” Josie ran to the door and pressed her ear against it.
Catherine pushed a hand against her stomach. It bubbled and churned with panic. One, two, three . . .
“He’s coming,” Josie said, and all four girls quickly arranged themselves in the chairs before his desk. Then the door opened, and Spencer Perceval strode inside. He was followed by two aides and Mr. Hudson, the reporter from the Times. At least that would be one less stop on this ill-advised expedition.
Perceval halted in midstride halfway across his office. Catherine figured it took him that long to spot them because the room was dim.
“What the hell is this?” he demanded. He stopped abruptly, and one of the aides bumped into him.
“Ah—” Catherine tried to speak, but nothing more would come out.
Ashley jumped in. “We’re here on a diplomatic mission, Mr. Perceval.”
“A what?”
“Well, maybe that’s not exactly what it is,” Josie said, “but we need to talk to you.”
“Then make an appointment with my secretary.” He strode to the chair behind his desk and began straightening papers. “Now, get out.”
“Sir, if you could just give us one moment of your time. We’ve gone to a great deal of trouble to be here.” That was Maddie.
“I’ll say. How the hell did you get inside?”
“Sir, would you like me to fetch someone?” one of the aides asked.
“I—” Perceval was staring at Maddie. He narrowed his eyes. “Wait a moment. You’re Lord Castleigh’s daughter.” He looked at Ashley. “You’re Sir Gareth’s girl. And Miss Hale and”— he nodded at Catherine—“Lady Valentine. What are you ladies doing here? I thought you were a troop of gypsies.”
Catherine finally found her voice. “I know how we must look, but if you’ll just hear us out, we won’t ever bother you again. It’s a matter of great importance.”
“Let me guess. It has to do with your husband.”
QUINT RAN THROUGH THE halls, sliding around the corner and into the prime minister’s office. Immediately, he noticed there was no secretary to stop him, no aide working at his desk. The door to the prime minister’s office was open, and he could hear a woman’s voice.
Catherine’s voice.
