Page 40 of Duke of Myste (Braving the Elements #3)
“ W here the devil has she gone?” Richard muttered under his breath, pacing the length of his study like a caged wolf.
The morning papers lay scattered across his desk, forgotten in favor of more pressing concerns. Jane had been gone for nearly three hours, and the house felt strangely desolate without her presence.
He had expected to find her in the breakfast room or perhaps the morning room with her embroidery, but instead, he found only Harriet picking at the remnants of the morning meal.
“Harriet!” he called, marching out of his study with a purpose that bordered on desperation. “Harriet, where are you?”
His sister’s voice drifted out of the blue drawing room. “In here, dear brother! Though I must warn you, your tone suggests you’re about to be insufferably autocratic about something.”
Richard found her curled up in her favorite chair, Pippin sprawled across her lap like a furry cushion, both looking remarkably content for a morning that had left him feeling as though the ground had shifted beneath his feet.
“Where is Jane?” he asked without preamble, noting how her expression shifted from amusement to something more serious.
“She went to visit Lydia,” she replied carefully, studying his face with the keen attention she reserved for particularly volatile situations. “She might have gone seeking sisterly advice, though she did seem rather… agitated when she left.”
“Agitated?” Richard felt his stomach tighten with concern. “About what? The papers?”
“I think so, yes.” Harriet set Pippin gently aside and rose to face her brother properly.
“Richard, she saw the gossip column in the Morning Post and immediately assumed you would be furious about the attention. She seemed convinced that our evening at Vauxhall Gardens would damage your reputation beyond repair.”
Richard ran a hand through his hair, disturbing its perfect arrangement. The thought of Jane working herself into a state of anxiety over something so trivial made his chest ache with an emotion he was only beginning to recognize as protective tenderness.
“How did she travel to Lydia’s?” he asked, already moving toward the door. “I’ll take the carriage and bring her home immediately.”
“Richard, wait.” Harriet’s voice carried a note of warning that stopped him mid-stride. “She… she took Pandora.”
The words hit Richard like a bucket of icy water.
Pandora was Jane’s favorite mount from his personal stables and despite his most fervent arguments against it, she had insisted on riding Pandora while her own mare, Artemis, was recovering from illness.
Pandora was a spirited mare with a tendency toward independence that matched her rider’s temperament.
Under normal circumstances, Richard would have admired Jane’s courage, but the thought of her riding while emotionally distressed sent cold fear through his veins.
“She took the horse?” he repeated, his voice deadly quiet. “Alone? While upset?”
“I tried to suggest taking the carriage,” Harriet said quickly, recognizing the dangerous shift in his demeanor. “But she was already calling for Pandora to be saddled before I could protest. Richard, she’s an excellent rider?—”
“She’s an excellent rider when her mind is clear and focused,” Richard interrupted, already striding toward the door with renewed urgency. “Not when she has convinced herself that her husband is furious with her over gossip columns.”
The thought of Jane—his Jane, his brilliant, stubborn, wonderful wife—injured or thrown because she was too distressed to pay proper attention to her mare made him feel physically ill.
He had spent the entire morning marveling at how little he cared about Society’s opinion of their appearance at Vauxhall while Jane had been torturing herself with imagined consequences.
“Richard, surely you’re overreacting,” Harriet called after him, but he was already halfway to the entrance hall.
“Mrs. Winters!” Richard’s voice boomed through Myste House with an authority that brought the housekeeper running. “What time did Her Grace depart this morning?”
“Just past nine o’clock, Your Grace,” Mrs. Winters replied, her expression showing concern at his agitation. “She seemed rather… determined, if I may say so.”
Richard consulted his pocket watch with growing alarm. It was half past twelve! Jane had been gone far longer than a simple visit to her sister should require, even accounting for emotional conversations and afternoon tea.
“Has there been any word?” he asked, though he already knew the answer from Mrs. Winter’s apologetic expression.
“Nothing, Your Grace. Though I am certain Her Grace simply lost track of time. The Duchess of Fyre’s company has always been a great source of comfort to her.”
Richard nodded curtly, but the reassurance did little to ease the growing knot of anxiety in his chest. Something was wrong; he could feel it in his bones. Jane was many things—impulsive, independent, occasionally reckless—but she was also considerate of others’ concerns.
“Harriet,” he said, turning to his sister, who had followed him into the hall, “if Jane is not back within the hour, I’m going to Lydia’s myself.”
“Richard, really,” Harriet protested, though a hint of concern flitted over her face. “You are working yourself into a frenzy over nothing. Jane is perfectly capable of taking care of herself.”
“Jane is perfectly capable of many things,” Richard agreed grimly. “She should never have been allowed to leave in such a state.”
The next hour passed with excruciating slowness.
Richard found himself unable to concentrate on correspondence, unable to sit still, unable to do anything but pace between his study and the front windows that offered the best view of the street below.
Every passing rider made his heart leap with hope, only to sink again when it continued past Myste House without stopping.
By two o’clock, his patience had reached its breaking point.
“Order the carriage,” he commanded, his voice tight with barely controlled anxiety. “I am going to find my wife.”
Harriet, who had been pretending to read in the morning room while watching her brother’s increasingly agitated pacing, rose immediately. “Richard, I am coming with you.”
“You most certainly are not,” Richard declared, already reaching for his coat. “If something has indeed happened to Jane, I may need to act quickly. I will not put you in danger as well.”
“If something has happened to Jane,” Harriet countered with the stubborn logic that had infuriated and impressed him since childhood, “you will need someone to help you think clearly rather than charging about like a madman.”
Before Richard could devise a cutting retort, the carriage was brought around. He settled for a glare that promised future retribution and strode out of the house, with Harriet hot on his heels.
The journey to Fyre Manor, which normally took twenty minutes in moderate traffic, seemed to stretch endlessly.
Richard found himself leaning forward in his seat, as though his posture could somehow urge the horses to greater speed. Beside him, Harriet maintained an unusually thoughtful silence, her worry evident in the way her fingers twisted in her lap.
They were perhaps halfway to their destination when Richard’s world tilted violently off its axis.
“Stop the carriage!” he shouted, his voice sharp with sudden panic.
“Your Grace?” the coachman called back, confusion evident in his tone.
“Stop immediately, damn you!”
The carriage lurched to a halt, throwing both occupants off their seats. Richard was out the door before the wheels had fully stopped moving, his eyes fixed on a sight that made his blood turn to ice in his veins.
Pandora stood riderless beside the road, her reins trailing in the dirt, her usually pristine coat streaked with sweat and foam. The mare’s eyes were wild with residual panic, her sides heaving as though she had been running hard for some considerable distance.
“Jane,” Richard breathed, the name emerging like a prayer torn from his very soul.
He approached Pandora carefully, his hands steady despite the fear coursing through him like liquid fire. The mare allowed him to catch her reins, though she shied nervously at his touch—behavior that spoke of recent trauma.
“Richard?” Harriet’s voice sounded distant, though she stood just behind him. “Where is Jane?”
That was the question that was tearing through Richard’s mind like a malicious, destructive tumor. Where was his wife? If Pandora was here, riderless and panicked, where was the woman who had ridden out atop her that morning with anxiety clouding her judgment and love filling her heart?
“Spread out,” he commanded, his voice steady despite the chaos in his mind. “Search the area. She can’t be far.”
“Richard—” Harriet began, but he was already moving, leading Pandora toward a copse of trees that bordered the road.
The mare’s distressed state told a story Richard didn’t want to read.
Her coat was damp with sweat, her eyes still wide with residual panic, and there were scratches along her flanks that suggested a hasty passage through the undergrowth.
Whatever had spooked her had done so violently enough to unseat Jane.
“Steady, girl,” he murmured, running his hands along the mare’s neck as he searched for clues about what might have happened.
The mare’s breathing was gradually returning to normal, but she shied away from certain sounds—the rustle of leaves, the distant call of a bird—in a way that spoke of trauma.
Richard bent down, examining the ground where the mare stood, noting the churned earth that suggested a struggle. Hoofprints told part of the story—a normal walking pace that suddenly became a frantic scramble, deep gouges in the soft earth where Pandora had reared or spun in terror.
“Your Grace!” called the coachman from further down the road. “There’s something here!”
Richard’s heart lurched as he jogged toward the man’s voice, leaving the horse with Harriet.