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Jacobean doorways, arches, and leadlight windows, but all were wreathed in dust and cobwebs, suggesting that the house had been closed for years. Reaching the bottom of a massive staircase, Debenham turned and started up. He didn’t seem to even register the extra weight of her, riding like a rolled rug over his shoulder.
    He stepped onto a wide landing, turned left, and went up another flight. The balustrade was of dark, heavily carved wood; everything she saw—the table on the landing, the ornate flambeau flanking it—was of excellent quality, but outdated. Long out of fashion.
    Gaining the first floor, her captor turned into a gallery, then paused before a door, opened it, and walked through. He turned to close it, allowing her a quick survey of the room. If what she’d seen of his house thus far had made her wonder, the elegance and expensive comforts of this room banished any doubt that Debenham commanded wealth as well as station.
    Lit by two silver candelabra, the large room was a lady’s sitting room. A pretty chaise covered in gold-and-ivory silk sat facing a delicately decorated marble fireplace. The gold framed mirror above the mantel was huge, reflecting ivory silk wallpaper stamped with small gold fleur-de-lis. A mahogany writing desk sat before one window, a fine straight-backed chair before it. An enormous Oriental carpet in gold, browns, and cream covered the polished floor.
    A door in the wall alongside the fireplace stood open, giving her a view of the room beyond and the massive four-poster bed it contained. She recalled the valet’s words. These were the countess’ s rooms. Which presumably meant that there was, or had been, a countess, and the house was most likely still owned by an earl.
    Two large armchairs upholstered in gold velvet sat on either side of the hearth. Debenham walked to the chair further from the door, stooped, then lifted her from his shoulder and sat her in the chair.
    She shook the blanket back from her head and, ignoring the hair cascading over and around her face, glared at him.
    His lips thinned. “Yes, I know. I apologize unreservedly for my methods, but bear with me.”
    She let her expression convey her response: She didn’t have much choice.
    He hesitated, then slowly, carefully, lifted the hair that had fallen over her face and smoothed the silky strands out of her eyes, off her cheeks. His fingertips touched, faintly brushed, her forehead, her cheeks, and she battled to suppress a sudden shiver of awareness.
    Lips even more compressed, he reached around her, loosened the blanket, and began unwinding it. She shifted as required; between them, they unwrapped her. Finally drawing the blanket away, he tossed it behind the chair.
    Spine poker-straight, gaze fixed forward, her bound hands resting in her lap, she waited for him to undo the gag still firmly over her lips.
    Standing between her and the fireplace, he looked down at her. Finally, she glanced up at him, eyes narrowing in clear warning.
    Impassive as ever, he studied her face, then said, “This house is very large and sits in its own grounds. If you scream, other than me and my staff, no one will hear. But, I repeat, I have no intention of harming you, not in any way. I’ve brought you here because I need to talk with you. Privately, and at length. I need to explain to you what’s going on.” He held her gaze. “And why I need your help.”
    That last phrase altered everything. It shifted power from him to her, in six words transforming him from kidnapper to supplicant. She searched his eyes, confirming that he’d uttered the words deliberately, that he wasn’t the sort of man who didn’t understand the consequences of such a statement. Curiosity welled anew, along with impulses significantly more commanding. He was waiting for some sign; eyes locked with his, she inclined her head, signaling her willingness to listen.
    He reached for the knot in the