Chapter Eleven

"How could she have escaped?" Viscount Trenchert roared.

The underling delivering the message took a step backward. "I have no idea, your lordship."

The viscount glared at the footman. If he were to cash in on his wager before the authorities caught wind of his early morning meeting at Chalk Farm—and the lifeless body of the unfortunate Lord Eggerton—he needed to find the chit, and fast! He stalked over to his desk to pen a reply and thought better of it. "Give the messenger my verbal reply: ‘FIND HER!'"

"Ye…yes, your lordship." The servant backed out of the viscount's study and closed the door. The sound of footsteps running down the hallway only irritated Trenchert further. It was time to replace the bumbling idiot.

Pouring a glass of brandy, he ruminated over the fact that Eggerton had surprised him. He had misjudged the man, and that had never happened before. Trenchert had never been caught unaware. Eggerton had had a plan all along. Proof of that was the fact that his daughter was not in London at all! Bloody inconvenient, to have to hie after the chit.

He sipped and savored the French contraband. "I believe I shall enjoy the taming of my betrothed." The image of her naked, spread-eagle on his bed—wrists and ankles bound to the bedposts—had him hard as stone. He could almost hear her pleading, begging him to release her. Anticipation surged through him, and he slowly smiled. "I haven't deflowered a virgin in quite some time."

After tossing back the remainder of his brandy, he set the glass on the sideboard and stalked from the room. He had to speak to his contact within the Bow Street Runners to ensure there would be no backlash with this latest lord who'd challenged him to a duel…and lost.