Jacob kept his voice hushed as well, careful not to be overheard. “Leisterdale is at his club, and tends to drink and gamble there past midnight, yes. But even if Graham keeps the footmen from sneaking out and sending word of trouble at home, the neighbors will have seen our grand entrance. We have to work fast.”
Her foot-long pointed black-leather beak sliced through the air as she nodded her understanding. “Do you have Tommy’s map of the rooms?”
He tapped his pocket. “Right here. Do you need it now?”
She shook her head. “I memorized it. You take this floor, and I’ll take the other?”
“Meet you back here in thirty minutes. If you need the bats to follow you—”
“I remember the commands.” But she hesitated rather than turn toward the stairs.
Jacob wished he could see her face. Hell, he wished he could kiss her. But he’d save that for an hour from now, when they were all celebrating back at the Wynchester home with cakes and champagne.
He touched the tip of his beak to hers. “Let’s go find Quentin.”
She sucked in an audible breath and raced up the stairs.
Jacob allowed himself a small smile. Whether she liked it or not, Vivian indeed made a formidable Wynchester. Convincing in costume, memorizing maps and animal commands with ease… If only she could see how muchgoodthey could do if they worked together!
But there would be time to convince her his family was worth joining after they’d rescued her cousin.
Jacob hurried down the corridor, entering every room he passed. As he went, maids shrieked and stampeded out of the house to flee the low-flying bats. He peeked into pantries and tested walls for secret passages. Jacob doubted the marquess would have had the foresight to install hidden chambers in his Mayfair town home, but the Royal Exterminator ruse was only going to work once.
This was their chance to find Vivian’s cousin.
As he searched, Jacob murmured commands to his bats, sending the furry tempest a few yards farther ahead, so as to clear each space of servants before Jacob slipped in to search it. Screams and fleeing footsteps preceded him every time.
Unfortunately, it only took twenty of his allotted thirty minutes to determine there were no faux Wynchesters tied to a chair on the ground floor. Jacob hoped Vivian was having better luck upstairs, where the sleeping quarters were located.
He and a dozen swooping bats hurried to the stairs to join her—only for Vivian to come trudging down before he’d even made it halfway up.
Her voice was bleak. “No sign of Quentin ever having been here.”
“Did you check behind the—”
“Yes.” Her voice wobbled. “My cousin isn’t here. He never was. The Marquess of Leisterdale—”
“—is a very rich and powerful man,” Jacob finished, his voice hushed. Despite the chaos, they shouldn’t discuss their suspicions here. “Follow my lead, and we’ll reconvene in the carriage.”
He flipped open the lid to the basket and rushed down the stairs, giving the bats the signal to gather inside the wicker receptacle. By the time Jacob reached the front door, all dozen furry little mammals were perched inside the hamper.
As he strode through the entryway, Jacob tilted the bat-basket toward the butler, who stifled a shriek and cowered against the far wall to let Jacob and Vivian pass.
“Jolly good, then,” Graham said briskly. “Give us a call if you experience another outbreak.”
“Another… outbreak?” gasped the butler.
In seconds, Graham, Jacob, and Vivian were back inside the carriage. They ripped off their hot, heavy masks as the horses whisked them back toward Islington.
“He’d been moved?” asked Graham.
“Never there.” Vivian stared at Jacob darkly, as though it were his fault the villain had been wise enough not to store his hostage in his primary residence.
“Leisterdale has more than one house in the country,” Jacob reminded her. “Quentin could be at one of those.”
“The marquess also has more than one plantation,” she said, her voice unsteady. “Quentin could be at one ofthose.”
One glance at the glossiness in Vivian’s brown eyes was all it took for Jacob to realize this was a visceral fear. Vivian’s own escape had been pure luck. Although slavery was finally illegal here on English soil, a sugar-plantation-owning lord depraved enough to kidnap an eighteen-year-old lad in order to sway the vote in Parliament was unlikely to have moral scruples about how best to dispose of a young Black hostage.
