Page 25 of The Duke's List
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? You’re as pale as I am these days in the morning, and I know you’re not suffering frommycondition.”
Her words barely sank into his fuzzy thoughts. “What?”
“No matter.” She stepped back and gave his disheveled condition a long look. He knew she suspected something. And, of course, he couldn’t keep the truth from her, not ever.
“Has Jane decided to leave you?”
He swept a glance around the stable yard before putting his hand to Harriet’s back and guiding her in the direction of Bocollyn House. “We have to talk.”
Back in his study, he nearly broke down at the sight of his desk where he’d made love to Jane just days before.
Without a word, Harriet went to a shelf in the corner and poured each of them a tot of brandy. She sat in his most cushioned chair, put her feet up on a stool, and commanded, “Tell me everything.”
Once the sad, convoluted story of his marriage began to pour out of him, he couldn’t stop. When he got to the part about Christina, Harriet’s eyes widened and she stood and began pacing.
He watched her from his place behind the desk and a wrinkle formed in the middle of his forehead. “There now. You shouldn’t worry yourself over the broth of a scandal Jane and I find ourselves in.”
He stood and joined her pacing, giving her a clumsy pat on the shoulder.
Finally, she collapsed back into the chair and a small, knowing smile formed on her lips. “Sidmouth-you’ve forgotten the most important thing here.”
At his quizzical look, she elaborated. “You’re a duke. You don’t need the advice of a solicitor.”
She leaned forward, warming to the topic. “If you consider all the people who may have seen the booklet, who among them would dare accuse your duchess of posing for lewd illustrations?”
“All you have to do is claim you and Her Grace refuse to acknowledge such nefarious claims.”
“And as for Miss Sparrow, the artist, she has a great deal to lose as well. I don’t know why she hasn’t considered the threat to her thriving business if someone quietly informs the gossip sheets their favorite illustrator is in fact a woman.”
Sidmouth slumped in his chair behind his desk. He’d been reeling from the artist’s threats, his love for Jane, and overweening fear for their future together. He’d neglected to think clearly. Thank God for Harriet.
After thankinghis cousin profusely and kissing her forehead, he raced from his study toward the place he knew Jane would have taken refuge. When she was not in the stables, he sought out one of the grooms in a panic.
“Her Grace had her curricle brought around and left a few minutes ago.”
“And you let her go without coming to get me?”
When the young man gave him a frightened look and took a few steps back, Sidmouth realized he must pose a crazed sight. He was still in the clothing he’d slept in the night before, and his wild babbling probably made no sense to his groom. Her Grace came and went as she pleased, and all of his staff knew he was not a crazed despot who refused to allow his duchess to leave the estate.
“I’m sorry, James. Of course you wouldn’t question Her Grace’s plans.”
He spun on his heel and headed for the stable master’s cottage. If Christina were gone as well, he’d know the truth. His marriage was over. Jane had chosen. And she hadn’t chosen him.
No one was at the cottage except the footman and Mrs. Smythe, who was clearing the breakfast service onto a cart for transport back to Bocollyn House.
The look of pity in Mrs. Smythe’s warm brown eyes told him everything he needed to know. Both women were gone. He needed to go back to the main house and find Carrington. He’d haveThe Falconreadied to sail to London. He couldn’t afford to lose her because of bad West Country roads in November.
He’d be damned if he’d give up his one chance at love, although love had been the last thing on his mind when he’d sat at the deathbed of Arthur Lemon months before and agreed to marry and protect his daughter, and her vast tin fortune.
Chapter Eighteen
Sidmouth crossthe stable yard again and shouted at one of the grooms to have Lucy saddled and ready. He’d head for Falmouth andThe Falcon.
When he headed for the steps into Bocollyn House from the kitchen garden, a figure in a familiar flowing robe walked steadily toward him through the herbs.
“Nana-what are you doing out here in your night-rail? And then a tumbler clicked into place inside his head. “Where did you go after I left your room last night?”