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Chapter 22

22

N icholas moved mechanically—not thinking, simply doing—as he marched toward the last and, frankly, unlikeliest place he could have imagined going at a time like this: the dower house.

His urgent meeting with his secretary, Poole , had proved infuriatingly unproductive. What should have been a simple request to fulfill was met with stuttering apologies and vague non-explanations, until Nicholas had snarled his frustration and stormed from the room. Instead , he’d bellowed for the butler, Barrington , demanding the whereabouts of the woman who clearly had some explaining to do.

Only to be met with the news, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, that the Dowager Lady Rockliffe had relocated to the dower house that very morning.

He hadn’t taken the opportunity to ask questions regarding the dowager’s sudden compliance, as much as they pricked at the edge of his thoughts. All details were trivial until he found a means to set things right. Phoebe had received such a shock, had appeared so utterly broken, that every second he spent without fixing things for her was a damnable second too long.

At least the footman who responded to his pounding upon the door—newly covered in a coat of glossy black paint—didn’t make him wait out in the twilight mist that had begun sprinkling down, nor did he voice any objections when Nicholas insisted he be permitted an audience with the dowager at once. The man, in his flawless blue livery, simply led him down the corridor and into the drawing room, where the dowager reclined upon a plush settee, a tray of pastries at her side.

“ Rockliffe .” She straightened the moment he appeared in the doorway, hurriedly smoothing her skirt and waving the footman away. “ To what do I owe?—”

“ Why is Adolphus Clare no longer in our employ?” He rushed into the room, stalking across the freshly aired rug and coming to a halt beside the settee.

His mother blinked, a slight crease appearing between her silver brows. “ Do you have need of a man of business? Because I’ve hired someone new, a Mr . Loxley , although I have doubts about his competency?—”

“ Not a man of business.” He gritted his teeth, his exasperation ready to burst out loudly enough to rattle the delicate vases upon the mantelpiece. “ I specifically require Adolphus Clare .” The man who’d been with his family for over three decades. Who , for better or worse, understood all their inner workings and secrets, and would effectively fulfill any command, using any means necessary to do so. “ Where is he?”

The dowager released a quick huff of breath. “ He left, just as you surmised. Where he went, I do not know. I’m afraid there was some … unpleasantness while you were abroad, and we haven’t kept in contact.”

Nicholas felt his forehead tighten, the tension creating a stab of discomfort between his eyes. Unpleasantness . Given his mother was involved, God knew what that entailed. He couldn’t begin to contemplate it at present; it was significant only in that Clare’s absence took his plans and annihilated them.

He spun away from her, a muttered curse flying from his lips. He’d have to go to London without knowing Clare was waiting for him, ready to jump into action, then. Perhaps hire a private detective instead. Yet finding someone both proficient and trustworthy would take extra time, and Phoebe deserved answers now .

“ Wait , Rockliffe .” His mother’s voice stopped him just as he was about to burst back out the door and put the useless encounter to an end. He turned brusquely, peering at the small but domineering figure that sat upon the settee as regally as a queen. At the shrewd blue eyes that were unnervingly like his own. “ You could ask Theodora .”

He stared at her blankly, the stiffness in his forehead creeping down through his jaw. What in hell did she mean by bringing his brother Samuel’s widow into this? A woman who’d also distanced herself far from the Rockliffe name, although, like it or not, the title would come for her eldest son eventually.

Nicholas had been away from England a long time and too preoccupied upon his return to delve deeply into family happenings—and what misdeeds the dowager had committed—during his absence. But suddenly, a spark of understanding tugged at the back of his mind. A recollection that while he was gone, Theodora had remarried a man by the name of Jeremy Clare .

“ Jeremy Clare is Adolphus Clare’s son,” his mother explained in confirmation of his suspicions, reaching for her cane and placing her palm upon the curved silver handle. “ I have reason to believe that Theodora and her father-in-law are not on amicable terms, but nonetheless, she and the younger Mr . Clare may be able to inform you of the older Clare’s whereabouts.”

His fingers began drumming along his sleeve, a beat to accompany the pounding in his head. This whole situation was sounding more lurid by the second, and allowing himself to start pondering it would lead to nothing but aggravation. He would sort out the intricacies of what had transpired later. For now, he simply required a means to an end.

At his curt nod, his mother pushed herself off the settee, using her cane to shuffle to the escritoire in the corner. “ I would ask what this entails, but I’m certain you won’t tell me.” She bent over the gilt-edged desktop, taking up a quill and scribbling down a few lines. After blotting the ink, she folded the page in half, holding it out for his perusal. “ Whatever the case, that look on your face makes me believe it’s important, and while I cannot guarantee that Theodora will prove cooperative or that Clare will do your bidding if you do find him, I sincerely hope your efforts are successful.”

He came forward to accept the foolscap, stealing a quick glance at the London address contained within. His to take and run with. Yet despite his urgency, he couldn’t help but pause at the uncharacteristic—dare he say?— mildness of her speech. Had she really provided aid and wished him well without demanding an explanation or trying to interfere? Unfathomable . However , the deceptive, unsettling gleam was absent from her eye, leaving only an expression of slight curiosity.

He had too many reasons not to trust her. Should have learned his lesson many times over. But , blast him for a fool, when he looked at her, he could see something in her crinkled features that he’d almost call motherly concern.

A trick of the dimming light, surely. Yet as he stayed, scrutinizing, the look didn’t fade or harden. His force of a mother appeared … restrained . Not only that, but she’d left Beaumont Manor and returned to the dower house. No further excuses or delays. She’d simply done it.

What that meant, he didn’t currently have the wherewithal to say for certain. Mayhap some new scheme that she took extra pains to conceal. However , subtlety had never been the dowager’s strong suit, and while he was perhaps being idiotically charitable in his assessment, he could once again imagine something unusual. Something his mother would never voice aloud, but maybe—just maybe—would express in other ways. An apology.

“ Go , Rockliffe .” The dowager flicked her wrist toward the doorway, putting an end to the weighted silence. “ I know you didn’t intend this as a social call, and you appear to be in a hurry.”

He shoved the page into his coat pocket, giving himself a final moment to take in a quick, bracing inhale. She was right; he needed to make haste. There was just one matter left.

“ Thank you.” With a terse motion, he inclined his head, the word feeling strange on his tongue. For too many years to count, he and his mother had been far more inclined to shout at one another than to utter pleasantries. This once—when it mattered more than ever—he hoped the thanks were warranted.

She dipped her chin in response, standing as dignified as ever with the support of her cane. The idea that the accompanying twitch of her lips could be a smile was altogether too peculiar. Regardless , it was the final thought that struck him as he hurried from the room and back to Beaumont .

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