"You've opened your store already?"

"As of yesterday!" Coraleigh grinned madly to the wild applause of the other members and then began handing out a colorful broadside. "We specialize in creamy chocolates, marzipan and Turkish delight!"

"Ooooo! Yum mm m! " And other such in ewlings of imagined delight leaped around the room.

"I can't believe that your husband actually let you open a shop."

Coraleigh frowned, a blend of trepidation and triumph. "I haven't told him yet, Miss Elizabeth. He thinks I've been doing charity work at the hospital."

"He's bound to find out, Cor a -"

"Let him, I say. After all, what can he do about it: put me in jail? Lock me in an asylum?"

"We won't let him do that, Cora."

"Besides, by my calculations, I'll soon be making far more money than he brings in as the Undersecretary for Streets and Sewers."

Elizabeth gave Cora a huge hug. "Congratulations, Coraleigh. I'm sure we'll all do our sweets shopping at your shop. But speaking of Turkish deligh 't -"

"Oh, dear, have the Russians declared war on that poor little country? It's in all the papers! I hope we send in our ships right away!"

"I don't know the current state of war, Mrs. Colfax." Elizabeth smiled fondly at the woman, a longtime friend of both her aunts. "I just want to remind those of you brave souls who have pledged to wear Turkish trousers to the charity ball to please check with our seamstress for your final fittings."

Vita Sayles popped up. "The London season ha 's never been so exciting, Miss Elizabeth! Turkish trousers and protest marches and sitting in on Parliament itself!" She grabbed Elizabeth by the shoulders and planted a kiss on her forehead. "How can we possibly thank you?"

Raise up your daughters to take charge of their own lives and destinies.

Don't force them to marry men like Lord Wallace.

Don't let them become poor Lydia.

"All I ask is that we make it through the rest of the season without another brush with Scotland Yard."

Because the last thing she needed was the persistent Earl of Blakestone nosing around the Abigail Adams.

No matter that he had a most handsome nose.

"Gad, Ross," Drew said as he dropped into a chair at the Factory's large archive table, "the Lord Mayor promised to send you the files on the missing women, and d.a.m.ned if he hasn't."

"Help yourself, Drew." Ross looked up across the table at his friend who had already snagged one of the Times articles from the Hayden-Co l e file.

He'd known the man for twenty-five years. Through the worst of times and the very best. Knew that dark, arching eyebrow, and the derisive snort that always ended in half a laugh. That scowl of concentration, fingers laced through and tugging at his hair.

"d.a.m.nation, Ross! I've never read anything so utterly bizarre in my life." He shook the article at Ross. "According to this dithering tour guide at the British Museum, Lady Hayden-Co l e disappeared in the midst of a crowded mummy exhibit. "

"You'll find that the porter at Victoria Station tells the same story about Lady Cladsbury. In both cases leaving a hat, a man's leather glove, and a handkerchief doused with chloroform."

Drew picked up a police report. "I take it there's been no ransom demand in the Wallace case, either?"

"It's been three days. No one's contacted the police, or Wallace, or even poor old Biffy Tuckerton."

Drew sat back in his chair, tenting his fingers in thought. "Any chance that Lord Wallace is involved in his wife's disappearance? "

"All I can say of my interview with him is that the man has a nasty temper." A dead end. "But then so do Lord Hayden-Cole and Cladsbury, according to those files. But I doubt any of the men are involved in any way. Because if these three abductions are connected to each othe r -"

"As they must be, Ross."

"Then that would mean we have three husbands meeting in secret, conspiring together to have their wives kidnapped and murdered by a third party. Why would they do that?"

"h.e.l.l, I don't know. I doubt they even know each other." Drew blew an exasperated sigh and leaned back against the chair.

Ross started leafing through the pages from the Cladsbury file, disappointed in the scarcity of information.

A police report, notes from an interview with the porte r - w ho had reported the incident to the police at Victoria Statio n - 't hree witnesses whose stories conflicted completely, the familiar ramblings of the incensed husband.

"b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, Ross. The connection is here in this mess somewhere." Drew put his heels up on the table-top. "Though right off the stick, not even their ages are simila r -"

"d.a.m.nation!" Hi 's mind a tangle of possibilities, Ross grabbed a sheet of paper and started a list. "The most obvious element the victims have in common is that they are all women."

"That is brilliant, Ross."

Ignoring the man, Ross gave the three files a quick sort, laying out items of interest. "Each from a wealthy family." He stopped and added that to the list. "Each married."

"Each family t.i.tled," Drew added. "Two viscounts and a baronet."

"Each of the women taken in broad daylight, and in highly crowded, very public situations."

"Which is d.a.m.ned strange, for a criminal-minded fiend."

A thought flitted past Ross's eyes, escaping him before he could grab it. "As though the abductor knew the victim wouldn't struggle."

"Wouldn't cry out for help." Drew was watching him, following his intent.

"Or couldn't." Ross stared at the list, unseeing, feeling that thought tickling at him again until he was left with a jolt of irritation. "b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, what does it mean?"

Drew poked at the files. "There's no mention in the reports of fleeing carriages or a noisy scuffle. We only a.s.sumed there was a vehicle waiting to carry off Lady Wallace from the rear of the hat shop."

Ross was scrabbling through the pages again, certain that he'd seen something important. "No children. At least none who aren't full-grown and gone from the house." He checked again and started to write that down when he heard something in the dimness beyond the open door, felt something.

Drew froze. "Did you hear that?"Ross nodded slightly and listened with him out of a shared instinct for survival, a shiver lodged in his shoulders, the hair at his nape standing on end.

It was late, the Factory closed for the night. They should be alone.

"It's probably nothing," Drew finally whispered.

But they both remained still for another long minute, until Ross relaxed his stance and Drew did the same.

"Same thing happened when I was down here a week ago," Ross said, still quietly, yet suddenly remembering the familiar sensation as he stepped into the corridor, "the night I got back from Constantinople."

"A stray cat, do you think? G.o.d knows, it's happened before. Or someone working late."

"Possibly, though I looked last time and found n.o.body."

"Perhaps the fiend has taken up residence here at night while he does his evil deeds in broad daylight."

Ross snorted. "We should be so lucky."

A thought came to him from nowhere. From out of the dimness? A scent? A sound? Something on his sleeve. "The Abigail Adams," Ross said slowly and under his breath, conjuring a pair of wide, thickly lashed green eyes.

"What's that?" Drew had dropped back into his chair and was scanning the list.

"I was just thinking..." About Miss Dunaway. "It's a long shot, but Lady Wallace belonged to that new ladies' club. The Abigail Adams. Perhaps they all attended the same ball this season. Or the opera. Ascot?"

"Good thinking!" Drew started rifling through the Wallace file.

"Perhaps the fien d - a 's you called hi in - h as chosen his victims from the ranks of women who attend social events, and then stalks them until he catches them."

"The women couldn't have been together at Ascot; Hayden-Cole and Cladsbury had both been taken by then."

"Then I'll have one of the archive clerks comb the social pages for the various soirees and parties and b.a.l.l.s from early in the season. We'll then request guest lists from each of the hostesses. We can see where the intersections are and start from... well, I'll be d.a.m.ned."

"What? Have you got something?"

"By the b.l.o.o.d.y tail, if I'm not mistaken."

Ross was looking down at the statement the police had taken from Lady Cladsbury's husband at the time of the abduction.

"Listen to this, Drew," he said. "It's Cladsbury's husband describing her daily routine to the police. Reading to her aunt, fittings, visits to the zoo. All of which the man approved of. And then come the complaints. Apparently Lady Cladsbury had begun to spend entirely too much time at the Abigail Adams."

"The ladies' club."

Certain he was right, Ross grabbed the bulk of the Hayden-Co l e file and started flipping through the pages, until his heart ground to a stop.

"Here! Lady Hayden-Cole's footman, a Mr. Rowley, says, 'I was supposed to pick her up outside the museum at two-thirty and drive her to afternoon tea at her ladies' club.' "

Drew shook his head at Ross, obviously not catching on to the biggest clue of all, where it was plain as day to him. "I don't understand."

"d.a.m.nation, Drew, the only ladies' club in London is the Abigail Adams."

"An d...?"

"Blast it all, that's the connection! It has to be! If I'm not mistaken, all three of these women belonged to the Abigail Adams. She lied to me!"

"Who?"

"Miss Elizabeth Dunaway." Fresh-faced and intensely intelligent. "The owner of the Abigail Adams! The most stubborn, irritating being on the face of the earth."

Drew was looking at him in bewildered astonishment. "That stubborn, is she?"

"Cunning as a d.a.m.ned fox. She knew I was looking for evidence about the other two abductions."

"How?"

"I met her at Scotland Yard."

"What was she doing at Scotland Yard?"

"It's a very long story. Suffice it to say that she heard about the earlier kidnappings from the Lord Mayor at the same time I did."

"Ah. That is suspicious." Drew raised his eyebrow, obviously amused by the whole thing. "But why would Miss Dunaway keep the information from you? Unless... she's the fiend we're looking for?"

"Don't be ridiculous." Though he wouldn't be surprised if the woman had withheld the information just to thwart him. "She's jus 't... stubborn, as I said."

"And b.l.o.o.d.y beautiful, by the sound of your bl.u.s.tering."

"She promised to cooperate with me." Ross's ears began to burn as he started gathering the papers back into the three scattered files.

"Is Miss Dunaway a young woman?" Drew was sitting on the edge of the table, following Ross's every move.

"Old enough to understand the seriousness of this investigation. I'll not have her playing me the fool."

"So I take it that Miss Dunaway is beautiful?"

"She's dangerous. To every woman in London."

"Please, Ross. Caro will have my hide if you don't give me a few facts about the woman." The man cast him a pitiful look he didn't understand.

"What are you talking about?"

"When I tell Caro about how upset you were about the cunning Miss Dunaway, whom you met at Scotland Yard, she's going to plague me with questions about her."

"Why would you tell Caro?"

"She's my wife. I tell her everything."

"Why?"

"It's safer that way. You'll understand when you're married. Now what will I say to Caro about Miss Dunaway when she asks?"

"I just told you she was stubborn and irritating and-"

"And a beauty. Right?"

Try as he might, Ross couldn't help the smile that filled his chest and overtook his mouth. He started to answer but Drew held up his palm.

"Say no more. I understand perfectly." Drew was grinning broadly at him, as though he'd just confessed his heart in song. "Just remember, my friend, the stubborn ones are the most dangerous of all. Have yourself a good night."