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refused to help.”
    Archer’s forehead creased in puzzlement as he followed him into the study. “Refused?”
    “Without hesitation.”
    “I’m so sorry, my lord. I was certain she would agree.”
    Crossing the room to the sideboard, Tristan poured himself a snifter of brandy and took a fortifying swallow of the fiery liquid before turning back to face his servant. “It occurs to me, Archer, that you never did explain why Lady Rotherby would be familiar with an area like Tothill Fields in the first place.”
    “I’m not one to spread tales, my lord, but I believe she has … business that takes her there with some frequency. Or so I’ve heard.”
    Tristan grimaced. He didn’t doubt that, and he felt a surge of resentment as he recalled the way she’d drawn him in with her big green eyes and air of quiet dignity, making him doubt everything he’d heard about her. But in the end, she’d shown her true colors. Obviously, the woman had far more pressing matters on her agenda than helping to find a lost child.
    He gritted his teeth against an overwhelming tide of frustration. Damn her! Her refusal to even consider his appeal in the face of his desperation had angered him beyond belief. That had been no excuse, however, for lashing out at her the way he had. His words had been cold and cruel in the extreme, and he felt a sharp stab of guilt in spite of himself as he recalled the brief flash of pain he’d seen in the depths of her eyes at his unexpected attack.
    He supposed his only defense was that he’d been caught off balance from the moment he’d first seen her, her regal beauty both surprising and disconcerting. Visions of her lying in the arms of the elderly viscount, letting him kiss her, touch her, make love to her, had flashed across his mind’s eye, inexplicably arousing his ire.
    With a vicious curse, Tristan tossed back the rest of his drink, then whirled to pour himself another. What was it to him whom the viscountess allowed into her bed? He doubted Lord Rotherby had been the first—or the last. If even half the rumors he’d heard about her were true, she was exactly the sort of woman he should avoid at all costs. After all, he had a straitlaced aunt to appease and an impressionable younger sister to raise.
    If he could find her.
    Shaking off thoughts of Lady Rotherby, he glanced at Archer once again. “Has there been any news of Emily?”
    The butler shook his head. “I’m afraid not, my lord. Several of the staff are still out looking, but no one has reported back in the last hour.”
    At his servant’s words, Tristan felt the fear and dread that he’d been fighting so hard to keep at bay start to creep up on him, choking him, but he swiftly pushed it back into the furthest reaches of his consciousness. Though the mere thought of his sister wandering unprotected through the streets of Tothill Fields—the very place that had robbed his family of so much—was enough to make his blood run cold, he had to keep his wits about him. Emily was counting on him and he couldn’t let her down. Not when he’d already let her down too many times as it was.
    “Then I need to rejoin the search,” he said, setting aside his brandy glass and reaching up to reknot his loosened cravat as he headed for the door.
    “But, my lord,” Archer protested, “you’ve been out most of the night. Surely you can spare an hour to rest? You look exhausted.”
    “I can’t afford to rest, Archer. Emily is out there somewhere, possibly in great danger. Since Bow Street doesn’t seem to be taking me seriously, I’m all she has.”
    Heaven help her. He certainly hadn’t been of much use to her up until now.
    As he stepped back out into the entry hall, memories suddenly assailed him. Memories of the day his father had ordered him from the house for good. After weeks of bitter battles and harsh accusations, Tristan had been only too happy to oblige. Every day spent in familiar surroundings had been a constant reminder