by Sara Portman
“Well, go and find Miss Betancourt, then,” he barked at the maid. “I’m sure the duchess is with her.”
The girl stepped back from his blustered command. “I…I’m sorry, Your Grace,” she stammered. “Miss Betancourt is gone. She left this morning to return home.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Your Grace. I believe the carriage has already returned.”
Of course. Beadwell. Emma was upset and she had retreated to her blessed cottage and her mother’s garden. Pritchard or no, it seemed John was destined to make the journey to Beadwell this morning.
* * *
John arrived at the cottage a mere forty minutes later, having forgone the comfort of the coach for the speed of his mount. He rapped on the door and heard the flutter of hurried footsteps before it was answered by Mrs. Brown.
“I’ve come to see my wife.”
“Oh.” Mrs. Brown looked past the duke and around him in confusion. “I’m so sorry, Your Grace. She’s not here. Should she be? Is something amiss?”
John shook his head. “Do not fear, Mrs. Brown. I’m sure the duchess is quite well and I am guilty of misunderstanding. She must be at the parsonage house with Miss Betancourt today. I’m sure I will find her there.”
Only Emma was not at the parsonage house. Lucy was as alarmed as Mrs. Brown.
John was becoming so as well.
Where did the woman go? If she was not in Beadwell, why wasn’t she at home? John cursed himself for not inquiring more thoroughly at the stables before rushing away. He didn’t even know if her horse was gone. What if she had taken a morning ride to clear her head and met with some mishap? Would they have the sense at Brantmoor to search for her, even though he’d run impulsively off to Beadwell, certain of finding her here?
John felt a slow thickening in his gut that significantly impeded his ability to develop rational alternatives for where she may safely be. All sorts of torturous possibilities assaulted him. Most involved serious injury for which she was unable to gain help. One particularly disturbing possibility was Pritchard. The American had evaded his surveillance before. A drunk and desperate man was capable of anything. If he could not reach Charlotte, would he harm Emma?
John could not account for the depth of his fear other than to accept how greatly he had come to care for his wife. He needed her. He needed her back, safe and sound. Not because Charlotte’s debut was coming and he knew nothing of dress fittings or dance lessons. Not because he needed an heir to the dukedom. Not because he was supposed to marry. He wanted her back for himself. Even if they shut themselves up in Brantmoor and never entered polite society again, he wanted his Emma back—his sharp-tongued, brilliantly beautiful, perfectly sensual Emma. If he could have that, he would hold her to him and beg forgiveness for his stupidity, his lack of faith and any other transgression he may have committed.
If Emma were lying hurt somewhere, he was wasting precious moments here in Beadwell. He should be combing the forest around the estate. Still, he could not quite let go of the image of a drunken Pritchard somehow getting his hands on her. After talking with Lucy, he did not turn in the direction of home. He turned toward the inn.
* * *
It was midday, but the inn was mostly empty, as the stage had come and gone. John ducked his head through the low doorway into the shadowed public room that remained dark despite the bits of cloudless sunshine that were allowed to leak in through still-shuttered windows. John called for the innkeeper.
“Your Grace!” The man rushed in, red faced and perspiring, and wiping his hands on a dirty apron knotted around his waist. “Welcome, welcome. Would you like a meal, Your Grace? My wife has venison stew today. I’ll have to warm it, but it won’t take a moment.”
“I do not seek a meal. I am seeking information.”
“Anything you need, Your Grace. How can I help?”
“I need information on this man Pritchard who stayed here. The American.”
The innkeeper’s red face twisted at the mention of Pritchard’s name. “That man stayed here all right, but he’ll not be staying again until he’s settled with me for the lodging and the drink he’s already got.”
“I understand he bought a place on the London stage this morning.”
“Aye. He did. Snuck off before I had a chance to claim my due.”
John peered at the man. “So you did not actually see him depart on the stage?”
“I did, Your Grace, but not until it was too late to stop him. That stage doesn’t stop for anyone, once it goes. If you’re a few minutes late, or wanting to collect a fare. No mercy. They just keep right on going.” He sliced his hand through the air to illustrate the forward trajectory of the stage in question.
“Are you absolutely certain that Pritchard boarded the stage?”
“As certain as my own name, Your Grace, not that it does me any good. He’s hours down the road by now and I’ll never collect.”
“Could he have gotten off the stage outside of town?”
The innkeeper considered this a moment, then shook his head—slowly at first, but with increasing certainty. “I said before, the stage won’t stop for anybody. And even if the American did get off, he’s got no horse. Where would he go?”
The lump in the pit of John’s stomach dissipated just a bit. Where would the man go without a horse? He’d likely used the services of the livery when he came to Brantmoor before, but if he leapt off the coach on the London road, he’d not find an available livery for miles.
“How long until the next stop?”
“Won’t stop for half the day, Your Grace. Not until Peckingham.”
John released a breath he hadn’t even realized had been caught up. If Pritchard was trapped on the stage until Peckingham, he could not possibly have harmed Emma. He had nowhere else to look but to return home. Perhaps she had already returned. God, he hoped she had. If she had, he would kiss her silly then lay into her for worrying him so damned much.
“You’ve been most helpful,” John told the innkeeper, sliding a smooth coin into his hand.
The man palmed it for a moment, then changed his mind and held the coin back out to John. “Happy to be of help, Your Grace, but I couldn’t rightly take a payment from you. Consider it the paying of a debt. All of us here are grateful for what you done for Simon, Your Grace.”
John paused. “For Simon?”
“The duchess…well, she weren’t the duchess, then, but she was worried sick for Simon, I know. We all were, what with Crawford’s accusations. We all knew them to be lies, especially the duchess.” The innkeeper smiled and shook his head. “She’s got a real tender heart for Simon, that one.”
John stiffened. A tender heart? He searched the depths of his memory and seemed to have some faint recollection of a Simon. Then he landed on it. Her gardener. She had mentioned him once or twice.
“Yes, well, I don’t recall being of any assistance to Simon.”
“Mrs. Brown told us all about it—what we didn’t already know from Crawford’s caterwauling—how you agreed to vouch for young Simon on account of him being such a good friend of your betrothed, so Crawford couldn’t take his foul accusations to the magistrate. We all breathed a sigh of relief for that, Your Grace.”
“Did you? I am happy to have been of assistance. And thank you for the information. Please consider your debt repaid.”
John walked out of the inn. He was no longer certain he felt compelled to rush to his wife’s aid. A tender heart for Simon, her gardener. Such good friends. My, but she was full of secrets, wasn’t she? She’d been no less mercenary than he in pursuing their marriage. She’d done it to save her precious Simon. And to think, she’d demanded a promise of fidelity from him. From him.
John mounted his horse and turned toward Brantmoor. He’d come on a fool’s errand. He’d raced across the countryside to find her. When he’d not found her in the village, he’d immediately feared the worst and bargained with the devil himself for her safe return.
The devil had taken the bargain. His wife was no doubt safe and sound. When she wanted to be found, she would be. That was the way with women who held secrets, and unexplainable attachments to gardens, and tender hearts for strong, able-bodied gardeners.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Upon hearing word that her guests had arrived, Emma hurried to the parlor of Worley House. They were assembled. Her comrades. They were not great in number, but they were mighty in faith—an aging army in muslin and lace that would be her salvation. As any good general would, Emma greeted her troops with warm compliments, an affectionate squeeze of their hands, and an invitation to sit.
“Ladies, I have called you here to beg your help. You have been supportive of me and great friends to both my dear Aunt Agatha”—she smiled warmly at Lady Ridgely—“and my departed mother. I know I can count on your support and discretion now.” She did know it. It was why she’d come to London when she could no longer stay at Brantmoor.
Lady Blythe lay a gentle hand on Emma’s arm. “You’ve only to ask, dear, and we shall help however we can.”
“Always be assured of our friendship and support,” Lady Markwood added.
Emma looked among her comrades-in-arms—three faces of sincerity and fierce loyalty—and was near to tears. They could not know how much their heartfelt friendship meant at just this moment. She had been in London for less than a day when she sent out the missives and her friends had come. She swallowed a very large lump of emotion and forced a confident smile. “Very well then.”
And then she explained. She told them absolutely everything she knew about Charlotte. The truth of her upbringing, the death of her mother, her time as a kitchen maid, and the threats of Mr. Pritchard. All the ladies listened without disapproval or judgment—at least not for Charlotte.
Lady Blythe shook her head. “I never had much interaction with the old Worley, but I always thought he seemed surly and unpleasant.”
“Such a shame for Charlotte and her mother,” Aunt Agatha added, “to endure such difficult circumstances, struggling to make their way, when all the while, the duke had the means to provide for their ease.”
Lady Markwood nodded. “My thoughts precisely. Even if he chose to be unyielding and would not restore them to their places in the family, he should have seen to their welfare. It was a duty of both honor and matrimony.”
“Sadly,” Emma said, “we cannot undo it. Charlotte’s upbringing has been… quite unconventional.” She sighed, but it did not expel the heaviness from her heart. “Charlotte’s knowledge of England is not favorable. She spent her entire life knowing her English father would allow her to starve or worse because he would not accept her. Now that she has arrived in England, she has been told she must change herself entirely, or the rest of society may not accept her either.” Emma looked from one lady to the next. She had to make them understand. “Charlotte does not play the harp or the pianoforte. She does not know the steps to any dance but one. She is still very unsure of the orders of rank, and as you may understand, she does not much care. But she is a good girl. She deserves to have some happiness and acceptance restored to her.”
“She is already accepted.” Aunt Agatha took Emma’s hand in a firm grip. “There may still be many to win over, but she will not begin without family or friends.”
“Thank you—all of you,” Emma said softly. She hoped Charlotte would be grateful for this show of support. How could she not? It wrapped around Emma like a comforting blanket on a frigid night, and it would comfort Charlotte too, if she would receive it.
“Ladies,” Lady Markwood said, setting aside her teacup. “I am sorry to disrupt all of this positivity with a reminder of bad news, but rumors are already building about this mysterious sister of Worley’s. Lady Charlotte will require more than the smiling attendance of a few well-meaning friends if we want to assure her acceptance. She will require those friends to have a plan.”
Lady Markwood was not wrong. Too much about Charlotte was shrouded in mystery. Her connection to a duke who mysteriously withdrew from society would only fuel speculation. The sponsorship of a social failure, duchess or not, and her three aging friends hardly constituted a promising launch for a new debutante.
“You are right of course,” Emma said. “As I have not been in London since Charlotte arrived, I’ll need detailed accounts of the rumors currently circulating.” When none of the ladies responded, Emma smiled gently. “I’m well aware of the sort of rumors likely being discussed about my family. I will not be offended to have you repeat them to me. You are not the authors. This is absolutely necessary.”
Lady Markwood offered first. “I heard the family had hidden her away in an asylum because she was unwell in the head.”
Once the dam was broken, the news rushed forth.
“I heard she ran away as a child and was raised by gypsies,” Lady Blythe contributed.
Gypsies? “But that makes no sense,” Emma said. “Charlotte was only three when she disappeared. How could she have run away on her own?”
Lady Markwood’s shoulders lifted and fell. “Logic is rarely a prerequisite for rumor, I have found.”
Lady Blythe patted her friend’s hand. “Very true, my dear.”
Aunt Agatha cleared her throat. “Your uncle heard at the club that Lady Charlotte is not Worley’s sister at all, but a mistress he collected during his years away and he has declared her his long-lost sister in order to bring her into his household under the new duchess’s very nose.” Aunt Agatha’s cheeks flamed.
“Yes. Well. I have heard that one too,” Lady Markwood admitted. “Only I heard specifically that they met in Spain—that the girl is Spanish.”
Lady Blythe nodded. “Yes. Yes, I’ve heard that as well. There is also the rumor that Lady Charlotte is a complete impostor—that she heard of the duke’s reappearance and has popped up to claim a connection because the duke is not in his right mind.”
Well, they were getting into the spirit now, weren’t they, Emma thought. “And why, pray tell, is the duke not in his right mind?”
“He was injured in the war and has become an excessive opium eater.”
“Oh my.” Emma blinked. She tapped her finger to her lips. “I think we shall have to start writing these out.” She rose and crossed to the writing desk. Gypsies? Opium eaters? The stories were even more outlandish than she’d expected. She sat at the desk and found a sheath of paper and pen. Quill poised, she turned to the other women. “All right, you shall have to repeat everything. Then I will take down any others if there are more. Are there more?”
The three ladies exchanged glances.
Clearly, there was a great deal more.
* * *
“Are you not at all worried for the duchess?” Charlotte asked, as the ducal coach drew to a halt in front of John’s London residence.
Blast. He wanted the silence back. He was only partially guilt-stricken for the harshness of his conversation for the first part of their journey from Brantmoor, because it had gained him the silence. “I am not.” It was even mostly true. “She is a resourceful woman.” That bit was definitely true.
“I still do not understand,” Charlotte said plaintively. “Where would she have gone?”
“I do not know. For the moment it is not my primary concern. We shall proceed as planned. You will ready yourself for your debut and I will locate and handle Pritchard.”
Charlotte stared as though he were daft. “How am I to ready myself?”
“Do you not know the name of your dressmaker?”
“Madame Desmarais.”
“Perfect. We will be able to locate her shop without difficulty, I am certain.”
“You are taking me?”
John wanted out of this carriage. He needed a drink, but first he had a man to find. “You can’t be wandering the streets of London with only a maid for your chaperone while Pritchard is running loose planning God knows what.”
Charlotte quieted, but her mouth drew int
o a scowl. He paused and softened his tone. “We must be cautious for your safety, Charlotte.”
“What of everything else?” she asked. “The dances and the horse riding?”
“We won’t be riding any horses this week, Charlotte, and we shall sort everything else out. If the duchess does not return in time.”
The door to the seating compartment was opened and a hand offered to aid Charlotte down. John followed her, gratified to be out of the damned box. Dances and riding lessons didn’t matter if there was danger of harm befalling Charlotte. “There will be no preparations today, Charlotte,” he told her. “I will be otherwise occupied. I suggest you take the time to settle yourself into your room and become acquainted with the house.”
She nodded.
“Do not leave the house,” he commanded, as they entered the main hall, his boots echoing on the black-and-white marbled floor. “Do not allow visitors in.”
Charlotte began to nod, but halted as a chorus of ladies’ laughter filtered to them. She froze and looked to John.
John’s jaw set. With booted footsteps thudding, he tramped up the stairs to the main parlor and swung open the door. A cluster of matrons, giggling like schoolgirls, stood gathered around the writing desk.
He cleared his throat. When that went unnoticed, he cleared his throat again. Loudly.
The laughter ceased and the cluster broke apart, revealing the duchess seated in the small chair, pen in hand, as though happily writing a letter. Here he’d been tearing across the countryside looking for her, and she was managing her correspondence.
She lay the pen down and pivoted in her chair to face him, chin raised. “Your Grace,” she said.
“You’re here.”
“I am.”
“Good.”
He turned and shut the door on them all, manners be damned. Let them go back to cackling over whatever it was that so entertained them. He stomped back to the main hall where Charlotte stood waiting, still in her bonnet and shawl.