Page 43 of Not his Marchioness (Daughters of the Ton #2)

Rhys returned home and dashed up the front steps.

“Charlotte! Charlotte, are you here?” he called.

There was no answer.

He rushed into the drawing room but found no sign of her. Neither was she anywhere else downstairs. Even the conservatory was empty.

“Charlotte!” he called again, rushing up the stairs.

The butler, who had attempted to stop him at the door, finally caught up to him, panting.

“My Lord,” he said, “Lady Ravenscar has gone.”

“Gone? Where has she gone?”

“I am uncertain, My Lord,” he replied. “She came here and was rather upset. She and Lady Woodhaven—”

“Lady Woodhaven?” Rhys cut in. “What does Lady Woodhaven have to do with all of this?”

“Lady Woodhaven and Her Ladyship arrived at the same time. I believe Lady Woodhaven came to deliver a belated Christmas gift. In any case, the two of them conversed for some time, and then Lady Woodhaven left. Shortly after, Lady Ravenscar left as well.”

Rhys ran his hands through his hair, tugging at the roots. “No, no, no…” He turned back to the butler. “Tell me, where was she? You said she returned. Returned from where?”

“I am uncertain,” the butler said, though he looked uncomfortable.

Rhys placed his hands on the man’s shoulders. “Tell me the truth.”

“I do not know, My Lord, but the coachman mentioned that they had a rather peculiar night.”

Rhys nodded, and then, without another word, dashed outside to find the coachman.

The man was sitting on an overturned box, smoking. When he saw his master, he got up and muttered under his breath, “Not again…”

Rhys paused for a moment, wondering what that meant, but then pushed the thought aside. “I am aware that you took my wife somewhere this evening. You must tell me where you took her.”

“She swore me to secrecy,” the coachman hedged, stomping one foot on the ground.

“I appreciate your loyalty to my wife,” Rhys said curtly. “However, I would like to remind you that it is I who pays your salary. Now, where did you take her? Did you take her to St. Giles?”

The coachman bit his lower lip and nodded.

“Where exactly did you take her?”

He shuffled one foot in the mud. “She asked me to follow your carriage. We took the cart.”

Rhys froze. He had noticed a cart trailing them from a distance, but he had assumed it was a coincidence. After all, how was he supposed to suspect that his wife was traveling in a cart meant for servants?

“And you followed me to my destination?” he demanded.

The coachman nodded. “Yes. We stopped for a few minutes, and then she wanted me to drive her back here. She was rather upset.”

“Upset how?” Rhys asked, unsure what answer he wanted to hear.

“Well, she cried.”

The words hit him harder than he had expected.

He did not want Charlotte to cry. He did not want her to be upset. At the same time, it told him that she cared. Though that was foolish, for he had already known she cared.

But now she was gone. She had seen him speaking to Lizzie. She had seen him going to the one place he had promised her he had not gone.

“Emery has done this,” he muttered. “Do you know where she went this evening?”

The coachman shook his head. “I took her to Hyde Park Corner. She wished to hire a coach, No doubt so I would not know where she was going. Of course, Her Ladyship did not know how to hire a coach, so I assisted her and asked the driver for the destination, just in case.”

“Which is?”

“Brighton, My Lord.”

Brighton? What is she going to do in Brighton? She does not know anyone there, does she?

Rhys nodded. “How long ago?”

“I dare say an hour, My Lord.”

“An hour…”

He might still catch her.

Rhys paused. Should he follow her to the place where the stagecoach would have picked her up? No, she would already be gone by now. He knew from his own frequent travels that the coach for Brighton left at nine o’clock. It was already almost ten.

Where had the evening gone?

“Very well, we are leaving right now,” he declared.

“Of course, My Lord. But pray, where are we going?”

“Brighton. We are going to follow her.”

“Very well, my lord,” the coachman said and called for the groom to harness the horses, and then Rhys jumped into the carriage.

“Faster—faster!” he cried, and the coachman spurred the horses on.

The wheels ground across the sandy road as the carriage sped up.

Rhys pressed his chin into his hand. He had to find his wife. He could not lose her. A sudden wave of dread washed over him, the same feeling he had when he had lost his parents.

The old grief bubbled up once more. He was losing his wife the same way he had lost his mother and father.

This was why he had not wanted to love again—because of the pain when that love was torn away. That wretched feeling when the person you adored more than anything else was ripped from you, and you might never see them again.

He had experienced that loss in varying degrees—three times in short succession with his family, and then once more with his mentor.

He had lost everyone he cared about—until Charlotte. And now she, too, might be driven away.

Should he have simply told her about the letter he had received? Should he have told her he had received a letter that implied Lizzie had birthed a child that may or may not be his? A gravely ill child?

But what would she have said? Their relationship was so fragile. He could have lost her then, too. And yet would it not have been better? Perhaps if he had told her the truth, she would have understood.

Should I turn back? If I turn back now—if I simply accept fate, if I accept that I cannot be with her, that I have lost her—then perhaps, in due course, my heart will heal.

Explaining myself to her and having her reject me…

the pain would be far deeper. If I turn back, it would be my decision. It would be me choosing to walk away.

But if she rejected him? If she became one more person in the long line of people who had walked away? That he could not bear.

He wetted his lips and rose, ready to bang on the carriage roof and order the driver to stop. But he did not. He thought of his mother and how much she had wished for him to grow into a man she could be proud of.

Had he not become that man of late? Had he not forsaken his debauchery and rakish ways? He had made progress. He had trusted his heart.

He could not throw it all away now. If he had learned anything these past weeks, it was that love was worth fighting for.

Charlotte had setbacks with her school, yet she had not given up. Nathaniel had told him of the twists and turns in his love affair with Evelyn, and he had not given up. And Rhys himself had transformed from an outcast to a respected gentleman in a few short weeks.

He was not going to give up now. He would only lose if he did not try.

He dropped his hand and sat back down, looking outside. He had been lost in thought for so long that he had not even realized London was behind him. He was not certain where exactly they were, but some time had passed.

“What will I say to her when I find her?” he muttered to himself.

He would tell her the truth, yes. But would he be able to convince her that he loved her, that all of this had been a horrible mistake?

Suddenly, the carriage slowed. Rhys looked out and, in the distance, saw a posting inn. And there, outside of it, was a stagecoach.

The carriage had barely stopped when he leapt out, for he saw her standing beside the compartment, all alone in the middle of the night.