Alexandra bit her lip as Ramsey's words rang ominously through her mind: Five days… the duchess had not eaten in five days. Alexandra had scarcely done so either, but she was young and healthy and strong. Alexandra's attitude softened yet more as it occurred to her that if the duchess had been unable to eat, she must be a great deal more distressed over her grandson's disappearance than she was letting on.

With a sigh of determination, Alexandra raked her hair back off her forehead and decided the tea tray had been intended as a peace offering. She did so because she could not endure the thought of a seventy-year-old woman wasting away.

Through the partially open door of the blue salon, Alexandra saw the duchess sitting in a high-backed chair, staring into the fire. Even in repose, the old woman presented a forbidding figure, yet there was something about her stiff, withdrawn features that reminded Alexandra poignantly of her own mother during the early days after her father's death, before the arrival of his other wife turned Mrs. Lawrence's grief to hatred.

She stepped softly into the room, throwing a shadow across the duchess' line of vision, and the old woman's head snapped up. Just as swiftly, she looked away—but not before Alexandra had glimpsed the suspicious sheen of tears in the duchess' pale eyes.

"Your grace?" Alexandra said softly as she stepped forward.

"I did not give you leave to interrupt me here," the woman snapped, but for once Alexandra was unfooled by that harsh voice.

In the same soothing tone she'd used with her mother, Alexandra said, "No, ma'am, you did not."

"Go away."

Deflated but determined, Alexandra said, "I shan't stay long, but I must apologize for the things I said to you a few minutes ago. They were unforgivable."

"I accept your apology. Now go away."

Ignoring the duchess' scathing glower, Alexandra walked forward. "I thought, since we both have to eat, it might be more tolerable if we shared a meal together. We—we could bear each other company."

Anger flared in the woman whose wishes were being ignored. "If. you want company, you should go home to your mother, as I suggested to you not fifteen minutes past!"

"I can't."

"Why not?" the old woman snapped.

"Because," Alexandra said in a suffocated whisper, "I need to be near someone else who loves him."

Naked, uncontrollable pain slashed across the old duchess' features before she brought herself under control, but in that instant, Alexandra saw the torment that lay beneath her facade of stiff dignity.

Aching with pity, yet careful not to show it, Alexandra hastily sat down in the chair across from the duchess and uncovered one of the trays. Her stomach churned at the sight of food, but she smiled brightly. "Would you like a slice of this nice chicken—or would you prefer the beef?"

The duchess hesitated, her eyes narrowed on Alexandra. "My grandson is still alive!" she stated, her expression daring Alexandra to deny it.

"Of course he is," Alexandra said fervently, aware she was being warned to get out if she doubted it. "I believe that with all my heart."

The duchess studied Alexandra's face, assessing her sincerity, then she gave a small, hesitant nod and said gruffly, "I suppose I could eat a bit of chicken."

They ate in complete silence broken only by the occasional crackle from the little fire burning in the grate. Not until Alexandra arose and bade her goodnight did the old woman speak, as for the first time she addressed Alexandra by her given name:

"Alexandra—" she whispered hoarsely.

Alexandra turned. "Yes, ma'am?"

"Do you…" The duchess drew a ragged, pain-edged breath. "Do you… pray?"

Tears swelled in Alexandra's throat and burned the backs of her eyes for, as she instantly realized, the proud old woman was not interested in her personal religious habits. She was asking Alexandra to pray.

Swallowing painfully, Alexandra nodded. "Very, very hard," she whispered.

For the next three days, Alexandra and the duchess kept a quiet vigil in the blue salon, their sentences desultory, their voices unnaturally hushed—two strangers with little in common except the unspeakable terror that bound them together.

On the afternoon of the third day, Alexandra asked the duchess if she had sent for Anthony, Lord Townsende.

"I sent word to him to join us here, but he was—" She broke off as Ramsey materialized in the doorway. "Yes, Ramsey?"

"Sir George Bradburn has arrived, your grace."

Alexandra leapt anxiously to her feet, scattering the embroidery the duchess had pressed on her, but when the distinguished, white-haired man walked into the room a moment later, she took one look at his carefully expressionless face, and her whole body began to vibrate with terror.

Beside her, the duchess evidently drew the same conclusion from his features, because her face became drained of color and she slowly arose, leaning heavily on the cane she'd been using since they came to Grosvenor Square. "You have news, George. What is it?"

"The investigators have ascertained that a man meeting Hawthorne's description was seen in a tavern on the wharf at approximately eleven on the night Hawthorne disappeared. With the assistance of a sizable bribe, the proprietor of the tavern also recalled that the man was unusually tall—well over six feet—and was dressed as a gentleman. The gentleman purchased several cigars and left. The tavern was located almost directly across the wharf from where the Fair Winds was docked and we are certain the man was Hawthorne."

Bradburn paused and said miserably, "Would you ladies not prefer to be seated while you hear this?"

His dire suggestion made Alexandra grasp the side of her chair for support, but she shook her head.

"Continue," the duchess ordered hoarsely.

"Two seamen aboard the Falcon, which was docked near the Fair Winds, witnessed a very tall, well-dressed man leaving the tavern, followed by two men who looked like ordinary rabble. The seamen aboard the Falcon were not paying particular attention, and they were already in their cups, but one of them thinks he saw the tall gentleman bludgeoned over the head by one of the rabble. The other seaman did not see that happen, but he did see the gentleman—whom he assumed had passed out from too much drink—being slung over one of the ruffians' shoulders and carried off down the wharf."

"And they didn't do anything to help him?" Alexandra cried.

"Neither seaman was in a condition to offer aid, nor were they of a mind to interfere in a scene that is, unfortunately, all too common on the docks."