He did not, damn it all, put all his years of training and loyalty in jeopardy for the sake of one golden-haired American woman, even if his stubborn heart loved her, and even if she made him laugh and even if being in her presence reminded him of the life he wanted, the one that was just beyond his grasp. He couldn’t be selfish now, even if every part of him wanted to tell Carlisle to go to the devil so that he could stay right where he was, familiarizing himself with the lovely enigma he’d married.
No, it wasn’t meant to be.
Perhaps Daisy wasn’t meant to be, and he’d only been fooling himself to imagine this would end any differently. With grim intention, he handed off his reins to a groom. He would return to his chamber, write a note to Daisy, and leave before she even knew he’d gone. In the end, a clean break would be easier for them both. Far preferable, it seemed, than facing her and delivering a protracted lie. Carlisle could bloody well stuff his cholera nonsense up his meddling arse.
Love and duty didn’t bloody well mix, and he was hopelessly adrift.
aisy slept far longer than she ordinarily would have. When she woke, the day was bright and bold, shining through her window dressing in a pointed reminder that she ought not to have lazed about as long as she had. Part of her expected Sebastian to be lying next to her in bed, but that same part was destined for disappointment, for the side of the bed he ordinarily occupied was empty.
She rolled onto her side, swiping a leg and an arm over the place where he should have been. It was cold, which meant Sebastian had been gone for some time. Had she expected him to linger? Had she expected him to reciprocate after her embarrassing declaration yesterday?
The mere thought of what had occurred was enough to make her slap the back of her hand to her forehead. Sebastian had… good heavens, she couldn’t even form words in the privacy of her own thoughts for what he’d done to her. During the midst of dinner. On the table. With the servants likely aware of just what he’d been about.
And what had she done? Not only had she reveled in it, but she’d brought the entire, deliciously wicked interlude upon herself by not wearing drawers. She still hadn’t enough undergarments. It was silly, and she felt utterly ridiculous, but when she’d sent for her wardrobe from her father’s home, not all of her undergarments had arrived. As it was, she was frightfully short on drawers. She did need to acquire more, and last night had been ample proof of that.
Then again, if eschewing drawers meant that her husband would treat her to such decadent lovemaking, she might be tempted to leave them off every night. She could grow accustomed to such treatment.
The wanton thought made her cheeks go hot.
That was it. Time to rise and see to her day.
She wished she hadn’t embarrassed herself by telling Sebastian she loved him. In a weak moment, the words had escaped her, one big rush, before she’d been capable of tamping them down. There had been no calling them back.
Lord have mercy. They’d been married a fortnight. What had she been thinking? Daisy threw back the bedclothes and forced herself from bed, into the chill morning air. Of course, she knew what she’d been thinking. Here was a man who was capable of great kindness and gentleness, who kissed and touched her as if she were precious to him, who laughed with her, who took the time to know her.
He paid attention to the smallest detail where she was concerned. Before him, the only other man she’d ever been close to in the same sense had been Padraig, her betrothed, and that had not ended well. Padraig too had been kind and gentle. He’d made her dream of a world in which she didn’t live beneath her father’s thumb.
Then had come the day when her father had decided that her marriage to Padraig was no longer beneficial to him. Daisy crept across the carpet to the bell pull, yanking to summon her lady’s maid as she shivered into the morning air. Why was she thinking of it now, when her happiness with Sebastian filled her heart to near bursting?
It was silly, really, but for some odd reason she recalled the day her father had told her she would not be marrying Padraig McGuire. Her father had called both her and Padraig into his office, and he had given Padraig an ultimatum: marry my daughter or run my empire. Of course, Padraig had chosen the latter. Who wouldn’t have? Her father owned half of New York City and enough factories to start his own country. Any man would have chosen the empire.
Those old hurts had healed, as a bruise, with time. Now, she was fiercely glad to have discovered the sort of man Padraig was before binding herself to him. No, Padraig’s choice didn’t bother her any longer, even if her ribs recalled every moment of what had happened after that awkward interview when her heart had been broken. For her defiance, she had received her father’s wrath. Broken ribs, as it turned out, were a great deal more painful and infinitely more difficult to recover from.
But recover, she had. She didn’t regret her past, for all of it—the good, the bad, the painful, the sad—had fashioned her into the woman she’d become. Her past had made her strong, had shown her that in spite of everything, there was still good in the world. There was still a dashing rake who had rescued her, who laughed with her, who knew she didn’t like strawberries, who made love to her with such tenderness that the mere thought sent an ache straight through her.
Her door opened to reveal Abigail’s familiar form bustling into the chamber, and Daisy was once again glad that she had been able to retain her lady’s maid. Her father had dismissed her from her post without reference following Daisy’s elopement, and she’d found her way to the duke’s residence where Daisy had instantly hired her.
“Good morning to you, Your Grace,” Abigail greeted.
“It is a fine day, isn’t it?” Daisy returned her smile in spite of the turmoil of her emotions. There was no sense in dwelling on the past or worrying about the future. Both existed, an unavoidable axis of her life.
Abigail held up a folded sheet of paper that bore a seal. “His Grace directed this to be delivered to you.”
How odd, Daisy thought as she accepted the note. A brief, naïve hope flitted through her that it was a declaration of his love. She opened it to scan its contents. A love letter, it most assuredly was not.
Dearest Daisy,
A matter most private and urgent has necessitated my immediate departure from London. I shall return as soon as possible.
Yours, regretfully,
Sebastian
She read the note six times before her shocked mind finally began to absorb the words it contained. Her eyes kept returning to two in particular: immediate departure. Departure. Immediate. They played in her mind like a taunting song, sending a cold, hard knot of dread into her stomach.
She swayed, catching her balance on the footboard of her bed.
Sebastian was… gone?
“His Grace has left?” she asked her lady’s maid, feeling disoriented, as if she’d woken from a long sleep and couldn’t make sense of where she was.
“Earlier this morning, Your Grace,” Abigail confirmed with a cheerful smile, as though Daisy’s heart wasn’t breaking right then and there in her chest.
She had told him she loved him, and the next morning, he had left her with nothing more than a two-sentence note. He hadn’t even woken her before he’d gone, had disappeared from her bed in the predawn light and ridden out of her life with no explanation. A private and urgent matter. What did that even mean? Where had he gone, and when in heaven’s name would he return?
“Your Grace?”
Abigail’s voice reached her as though from the opposite end of a long hallway. Daisy blinked. The note fell from her fingers, sailing to the floor. Tears stung her eyes, and a queasy sensation stole over her.
“Your Grace? Is something amiss?” Abigail asked again. “You’ve gone pale.”
Sebastian had left her.
He was gone.
And she was going to be ill.
She raced across the chamber, just barely making it to the chamber pot before casting up her accounts.
&nbs
p; 24th March, 1881
Dearest Sebastian,
I hope that this letter finds you in good health. A week has passed and I’ve still yet to receive word from you. The note you left behind was rather terse and imprecise. Indeed, you neglected to mention just how long your absence would be and what your destination was. At your leisure, might you apprise me? I do hope you won’t be away for long.
Your loving wife,
Daisy
An entire week passed without word from Sebastian. Each day seemed more interminable than the last. Daisy felt like a sleepwalker, going through the motions of the passing hours without being aware of what she was doing. She met with Mrs. Robbins to plan menus and oversee the household as though nothing was wrong. She greeted Giles at breakfast. She continued organizing the library.
But the house was dreadfully quiet and cavernous without Sebastian. She missed him at dinner. She went into his chamber just to smell the lingering scent of him, walked into his study in the hopes she’d find him there. At night, she longed for him and hated herself for the weakness. She had no one to laugh with, no one to surprise her with kisses or meet her gaze in a wicked glance over the table.
It was unshakeable, this feeling she had as if a part of her had gone missing. She wanted that part of her back. Two weeks after a lifetime of waiting had not been enough. She wanted to rail against the unfairness of it, to rail against him, to find him—wherever he’d gone—and bring him back to her.
But she also wanted to deliver the most blistering, crushing dressing down in the history of dressings down. She wanted to demand that he face her, that he explain to her how he could have disappeared from her life as suddenly as he’d entered it. How could he have left her like this, leaving her to think she meant less than nothing to him? Had he gone to a mistress? Had he left because she’d confessed her feelings?
The questions plagued her, day after day. She woke up and wondered. Traveled through the day in meaningless attempts to distract herself, all while wondering. Laid down to bed at night, wishing he was with her, wondering still. Where was he? When would he return?
As the first week of his absence melded into the second, the sadness permeating Daisy began to harden into resolve. On Monday morning, she and Mrs. Robbins sat together for their customary planning of the week ahead.
“Would you care for some Root’s Cuca Cocoa, Your Grace?” the kindly housekeeper asked. Her hair was steel gray, and fine laughter lines bracketed her eyes and mouth. She was sincere and kind, and always smelled of fresh soap and powder.
Daisy had come to appreciate her steadfast presence, but she could hear quite plainly the sympathy steeping the elder woman’s voice. It was the same sympathy she’d seen in Giles’ expression when she’d asked if he knew where His Grace had gone or when he might return. I’m afraid not, Your Grace. Though I’m sure he shall return as soon as he’s able. Such matters do occasionally call His Grace away.
Such matters. Private and urgent matters. The mere thought made her curl her lip as she sat in the sunshine-stained salon with her husband’s housekeeper.
She straightened her spine. “Whatever for, Mrs. Robbins?”
“It’s just the thing for those who suffer from bouts of worry or sleeplessness,” Mrs. Robbins said gently. “There now, Your Grace. I know you’re fretting over His Grace, and it’s plain to see you aren’t getting as much rest or sustenance as you need. I’ll have Sally brew a cup for you, shall I?”
“No,” she bit out, watching as the housekeeper’s smile faded before adding, “thank you. Perhaps I will try some later.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Mrs. Robbins nodded. “Forgive me for my presumption. I wish to see to your comfort.”
Daisy forced herself to smile, for none of this was the housekeeper’s fault, and she was a dear heart. “There’s no need to ask for my forgiveness, Mrs. Robbins. I greatly appreciate your concern as well as all your guidance in household matters. I do realize that my presence here has been rather unorthodox and unexpected. You’ve been an invaluable asset. Truly.”
The housekeeper flushed with pleasure. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
The questions bubbling up within her crowded onto her tongue then. Just the night before, she’d gone into his chamber, determined to scour it from the highest shelf to the lowest point beneath his carved oak bed in hopes of finding any clue as to where he’d gone. Nothing had seemed out of place. Everything had been in immaculate order, not a piece of furniture out of place. Nothing, that was, except for the note she’d located, slipped between the pages of a book, folded three times and dated the day he’d left. Would you care to meet for a morning ride? The skies look too ominous to wait until afternoon.
That note, unsigned and written in a bold, masculine scrawl, was the key to his abrupt departure. Daisy was certain of it. If only she could discover its author and what it meant. He had said nothing of plans to meet anyone for a morning ride. She would have recalled.
“Mrs. Robbins,” she began delicately, seeking the proper words, “has His Grace ever abruptly departed London in the past?”
A rare frown firmed the housekeeper’s lips. “I’ve instructed the kitchens to keep all the plates hot. Do you find their temperature to your liking, Your Grace?”
Daisy blinked. “The plates are always appropriately warm. But His Grace… is this a habit of his? None of the household seems particularly surprised. As a relatively new bride who had no inkling he’d planned a trip, you can appreciate why I might wonder, can’t you, Mrs. Robbins?”
Mrs. Robbins swallowed. “The chestnuts yesterday. Were they to your liking? I told Monsieur Gascoigne that chestnuts ought to be boiled prior to the roasting, but he disagreed with me and proceeded with the roasting. Are you growing tired of haricots verts? It seems to me that Monsieur favors them far too frequently. At least he has the sense not to chop them the way some cooks do.”
The housekeeper was babbling, and it was most uncharacteristic of her. It was Daisy’s turn to frown. “Mrs. Robbins, the chestnuts were lovely, and I must say that I’m not partial to beans, but you haven’t answered my question.”
“Oh dear me.” Gray eyebrows rose over eyes the color of sherry. “Are you certain you wouldn’t like some Root’s?”
Good heavens. Why would Mrs. Robbins insist on evading her questions? The insidious suggestion rose inside her again, that he had a mistress hidden away in the countryside. Perhaps he’d gone to her.
“No Root’s, Mrs. Robbins,” she said grimly. “You’ve been a retainer here since the last duke, have you not?”
The servant’s lips tightened. “I have been so honored, yes, Your Grace.”
“Then you’ve known my husband the duke for his whole life.”
“I have, and a finer gentleman doesn’t exist, Your Grace,” Mrs. Robbins said firmly.
There was a note of truth in the housekeeper’s voice, but it didn’t satisfy Daisy. “Then surely you can say whether or not he has previously disappeared in so sudden and unexpected a manner. You must appreciate that I am… concerned for his welfare. He left no indication of where he might be going or for how long he would be gone.”
Mrs. Robbins sighed. “It isn’t my place to say, Your Grace.”
Daisy stared, frustration rising within her, mingling with anger and despair. “Does His Grace like asparagus?” she asked suddenly.
The housekeeper blinked, looking startled by the abrupt shift in discussion. “Why, no, I don’t believe he does, Your Grace.”
“Excellent,” she gritted through a smile she didn’t feel. “Please see that it is served every day this week.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Mrs. Robbins’ expression was one of blatant confusion.
“I like asparagus,” she explained. She would have gone through every vegetable she enjoyed until she’d reached one he didn’t like, and that was the truth of it.
5th April, 1881
Dear husband,
I’ve taken the liberty of sending co
pies of this letter to each of your estates should you find yourself at any of them. You are missed in London. While I understand the nature of your departure was both “private” and “urgent” as you stated, I believe that as your wife, I am at least entitled to know when you shall return. May it be sooner rather than later.
Yours,
Daisy
Liverpool was a city of dead-ends.
At least, that was the way it seemed.
Sebastian had been firmly ensconced there for over a bloody fortnight, and he’d precious few leads. In the small, nondescript rooms he kept over the Barrel and Anchor, the din of the seedy tavern reached him as a raucous assault on his ears: roaring laughter, music, and female squeals. His rooms smelled of stale ale and cheroots, and yesterday he’d interrupted an assignation between a dock worker and a whore in the hall.
He found himself in a grim sort of purgatory here, where he was Mr. George Thompson rather than the Duke of Trent and he came and went from his rooms without anyone giving a damn whether he lived or died. Hiding in plain sight was one of his gifts as a spy, but that didn’t bloody well mean he liked it, particularly when every speck of information he’d managed to glean from his days of scouring the city and questioning chemists had turned out to be worthless.
He’d yet to uncover evidence of the dynamite factory Carlisle suspected was being run from the city. No large purchases of glycerin, nitric acid, and sulfuric acid—the ingredients required for the creation of dynamite—had been recorded at any of the chemists he’d visited thus far. He was becoming convinced that either Vanreid was using his ships to somehow secret dynamite or the bastards had chosen another city as their base.
With a muttered curse, he stalked to the chipped pitcher and bowl atop an equally battered washstand and splashed water on his face. The man staring back at him in the cracked mirror was a forbidding stranger. Wincing, he peeled away the false mustache affixed to his upper lip.
Her Reformed Rake (Wicked Husbands Book 3) Page 21