Chapter 26

26

I shan’t be gone long. A day. Two at most .

Phoebe tried her hardest to force the marquess’s reassurances to remain in mind; if she didn’t, she may well go mad. However , a third afternoon had now arrived with no sign of him, and the fragile scraps of equanimity she’d summoned were rapidly beginning to disintegrate.

She paced along the drive that conveyed travelers to and from Beaumont Manor’s front facade, her hands twisting in her skirts. Up until this point, she’d made the wait tolerable by keeping herself occupied, pouring everything she had into distracting Emily from the week’s upsets, including her newly absent papa. After several days, though, of as many walks, teas, picnics, and lessons as Phoebe thought prudent, Emily had gone to her bed after today’s luncheon, whereupon she’d promptly fallen asleep, and Phoebe didn’t have the heart to disturb her. For , try as she might to pretend nothing was amiss for Emily’s sake, she suspected the girl knew as well as she the exhaustion caused by acting like all was well when it truly wasn’t.

Phoebe increased the speed of her footfalls, her slippers crunching against the same gravel she’d trod upon near a dozen times now on the endless trek between the front steps and the gate. Striding up and down, shooting frequent glances to the empty road beyond the iron bars, was an exercise in futility. Nonetheless , she couldn’t seem to stay still, every nerve ending remaining on high alert.

Perhaps that’s why her ears pricked at the faintest rumble. Why her eyes immediately fell upon the flash that materialized in the distance. For a moment, her heart soared, daring to drum up hope. But just as quickly, it vanished like a doused flame.

Yes , the rumble indeed came from hooves. However , as she squinted to bring the sight into focus, it became clear this was no rider on horseback but a pair of white horses pulling a gleaming black post chaise. Not one belonging to the marquess, either, for although the vehicle thundering closer to Beaumont Manor had some sort of emblem upon the door, the colorful blur lacked the vibrant red found in the Rockliffe crest.

Her body jerked in a clumsy motion, backing away from the gate as if the bars had grown spikes. It isn’t him . Disappointment formed a pit in her stomach, creating an ache with each step she took back toward the house. Returning indoors, with nothing to do and being no closer to the answers she desperately sought, would prove nothing short of agonizing, yet she couldn’t remain on the drive gawking at the unknown carriage.

She walked quickly with her gaze fixed on the gravel, a mild curiosity rising as to the identity of the person within. A peer, judging by the crest on the door, who’d come to call on the marquess, or perhaps a visitor for the dowager. Either way, the rapidly approaching conveyance had nothing to do with Phoebe , and she didn’t look back, even when hooves beat and wheels rattled behind her.

Except suddenly, the postilion was calling to the horses, and the post chaise rolled to an abrupt halt right beside the section of path she traversed.

The wheels had barely stopped turning before the door flew open and a woman’s tense, wide-eyed face peered out at her. “ Miss Phoebe Windham ?”

Phoebe blinked, a fresh spur of apprehension churning within her knotted stomach. “ Yes ?” Something about the woman, with her pale eyes and cropped red-gold hair, rang familiar, although no memories sprang to mind of a meeting between them.

Nonetheless , the woman seemed to know her, and in an instant, she’d leaped to the ground, not bothering to wait for the accompanying footman’s assistance. “ Oh , thank heavens, it is you.” She rushed to Phoebe’s side, her voice breathless, as if she’d been running rather than sitting in a carriage. “ Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Amelia Prescott . Well , Amelia Astley as of late. That is, I’m Nicholas’s sister.”

Yes , it all made sense now. Had Phoebe’s mind not reeled so violently, she likely would have recognized the woman at once from her girlhood portrait that hung in the gallery. “ Your Grace .” Phoebe had the presence of mind to curtsey—remembering Mrs . Connelly’s mention of the former Lady Amelia recently marrying a duke—although her limbs felt stiff and slow to function.

“ No , please, none of that. It’s simply Amelia .” The duchess spoke rapidly, breathlessly, and although her words were kind, the tension didn’t leave the corners of her mouth. “ I need to speak to you about Nicholas . Urgently .” She cast a hesitant glance toward the house, and despite the front steps remaining a good distance away, she shielded the edge of her lips with her hand and lowered her voice. “ Do you know if my mother is at home? And where is Emily ?”

Phoebe’s heart began rapidly thumping, and she had to swallow back tautness before she could manage speech. “ I couldn’t say about the dowager marchioness, for she’s recently moved to the dower house. As for Lady Emily , she’s in her bedchamber resting.”

“ Oh . Oh , good.” The duchess— Amelia —paused a moment, conjuring a tight smile, but it was impossible to miss the apprehension behind it. “ Would you like to go to the drawing room? To sit, or perhaps call for tea if you first require sustenance …”

Phoebe shook her head, uncertain her legs could even carry her that far. “ I’d far prefer you just told me now.”

“ Very well.” Amelia squared her slender shoulders, but not quickly enough that Phoebe missed the small shudder she gave. “ I won’t mince words. Nicholas has been challenged to a duel.”

The statement made Phoebe’s stomach do a strange flip, although the echo of it was hazy, as if she couldn’t quite be sure the words were real.

“ He asked my husband to stand as his second,” Amelia rushed to continue, “and while Jonathan made every attempt to negotiate a more peaceful resolution to the conflict, they could settle on nothing but pistols. In case you haven’t noticed, my brother is aggravatingly stubborn, and Sir Ambrose remains insistent on how grievously he’s been wronged.”

A sharp pang sliced through Phoebe’s abdomen and stole the breath from her lungs. The idea of a duel was horrifying, sickening, and the name that had just crossed Amelia’s lips made Phoebe’s throat fill with bile, even as her mind fought against it. Insisting she’d misheard, that there had to be some mistake. “ Did you say?—”

“ Sir Ambrose Windham . Yes .” Amelia’s brow crumpled, the blue of her irises like shards of ice. “ He claims that Nicholas has compromised his betrothed. Whom , I believe you’re aware, he says is you.”

“ He’s a liar!” Phoebe burst out, a surge of incensed heat rushing to her face. “ I was never his betrothed, never gave him even the slightest bit of encouragement?—”

“ I don’t doubt you, Miss Windham . The reason I’ve come isn’t to question your integrity.” Amelia took a step closer, her fingers curling into fists at her sides. “ It’s because I need you to prevent this duel from happening.”

Phoebe struggled to take a breath, her thoughts racing at too dizzying a pace to keep up with. Why did Ambrose make such an accusation? How could he have known of her intimacy with the marquess? Why did he think he had any claim to her when she’d refused him countless times?

Yet above the relentless questions, one thought stood out, blaring at her louder than any of the rest: this is all your fault .

“ Please .” Amelia’s chin quivered, and there was a crack in the word. “ My brother just returned home. I cannot lose him again. Nor can Emily . Especially not Emily .”

“ No . She cannot.” Phoebe’s voice came out as a rasp, for her throat was raw, her chest throbbing from the mere suggestion of something too terrible to contemplate.

Amelia pressed her lips together a moment, although it didn’t stop them from trembling. “ I went to Rockliffe House and tried to reason with him,” she said, barely above a whisper, “but my efforts proved ineffective. If you were to speak with him, though …”

Her voice faded to nothing, and in the silence, a jolt of understanding arose, making Phoebe’s heart lurch. The marquess’s sister believed that she —the friendless, scandalous governess—held influence with him. Her mind raced, taking her back to every touch, every heated word, every deep-rooted secret she and Nicholas had shared. She wanted it to be true. Wanted to be a helpmeet, someone he esteemed, someone he could trust. Yet did he really feel that way? Especially now, after the calamity she’d brought upon him.

“ Please ,” Amelia repeated, and although her speech remained quiet, a torrent of force appeared behind the word. “ Nicholas allows few people to get close to him, and it’s very seldom, if ever, that I’ve heard him voice what he’s feeling. However , in deciphering what isn’t being said, I’ve reason to believe he cares about you, so deeply?—”

“ I’ll speak to him and do everything in my power to stop this. Of course I will.” A fist closed around Phoebe’s heart, and she pressed at the corners of her eyes, refusing to let the burn behind them turn into tears. Later , she could spend all the hours she liked pondering Nicholas’s sentiments toward her. Now , she hadn’t a second to waste. If there was even the slightest chance he would listen, she had to see him right away. She had to because … because … “ I cannot bear losing him, either,” she choked out.

Amelia released an audible breath, the tension in her tall frame loosening. However , no sooner did her posture slacken than she drew herself up again, fixing Phoebe with a determined gaze. “ You’ll need to hurry. The duel is to take place at dawn tomorrow.”

Dawn . Tomorrow . The revelation hit like a blow, making the horrifying situation so much more real. That was mere hours away. How was she to get to London in time, to find him, to convince him …

“ You can take the Rockliffe coach, of course,” Amelia said as if reading the direction of Phoebe’s thoughts and anxieties. “ Let’s go inside so I can ask that it be made ready immediately. If you hurry, you’ll arrive in London by nightfall. I’ll stay here with Emily , so you needn’t worry in that regard. To the extent such a thing is possible, I’ll also attempt to handle my mother.”

Phoebe managed to nod, although her head continued reeling at an even faster pace than her thundering heart. There was so much that needed doing and so little time, and she couldn’t fail. Not when Nicholas’s life was at stake.

And so, without another thought beyond that, she followed Amelia’s clipped gesture and jumped after her into the ducal post chaise.

Less than an hour later, Phoebe sat in the Rockliffe traveling coach, on the road to London with every bit of speed the horses could muster. The journey would be relatively short—four hours or perhaps less, Amelia had assured her—yet each revolution of the wheels seemed to take an eternity, each second bringing her closer to tomorrow’s dawn.

She peered through the window without taking in anything of the passing scenery, her foot tapping briskly against the carpeted floor. If nothing else, she could use these moments to focus on what she should say when she and Nicholas reunited. What combination of words would convince him not to go through with the duel.

He had to understand: Sir Ambrose Windham was a drunkard and a miscreant, and if they could both see that as plain as day, other members of the ton must realize it, too. If Ambrose went about slandering the marquess or disparaging him for not accepting the asinine challenge, would anyone even pay him any heed? Surely , the off chance that a gentleman or two might gossip wasn’t reason enough for Nicholas to risk his life .

By the time the countryside faded away and they entered the crowded streets of London , just as the sun was sinking low in the sky, she had at least a semblance of a speech planned— although it may be difficult to deliver it without tumbling into the marquess’s arms and not letting go.

However , when at last the carriage stopped in front of an elegant Mayfair town house, allowing Phoebe to burst from its confines and pound upon the front door, the butler who admitted her delivered the worst news. “ Lord Rockliffe is not at home.”

She stood motionless at the edge of the entrance hall, her stomach sinking to her boots. “ Where is he? When did he leave? When will he return?”

The austere-looking butler— Flynt , he’d supplied during their brief introduction—furrowed his brows in a way that made him appear especially somber. “ I’m afraid I don’t know. He was in the study with his secretary for much of the afternoon but left about a half hour ago, saying only that he wanted no dinner prepared tonight.”

Phoebe pressed her lips together, stifling a curse. Those countless minutes in the carriage had indeed taken too long, and she and Nicholas had just missed each other. Blast . What was she to do now: go out and search the maze of unfamiliar London streets and hope she happened upon him? But what if, in the near impossible pursuit, he returned home and their paths failed to cross once again?

“ May I come in and wait?” She made the decision in a heartbeat, aggravatingly uncertain as to whether it would prove the right one.

Flynt’s brows flickered again, just a shade, although he wordlessly turned, leading her down a corridor and into a drawing room near the back of the house. Only one of the lamps was lit, but it was enough to show that, just as at Beaumont Manor , every piece of furniture, every decoration and accessory, was immaculate. However , once Phoebe’s gaze fell upon the gilded escritoire near the window, she could notice little else.

“ Is there anything I can bring you, miss?” Flynt remained hovering in the doorway, his mouth a tight line.

“ No , thank you.” She tapped her fingers against her skirts, already envisioning the words that would flow from her quill. “ However , if someone could deliver a note for me in a few minutes, I would be much obliged.”

She waited just long enough to detect his nod of acknowledgment, then flew to the escritoire, her hands shaking as she tore open her reticule and removed the papers she’d stuffed within. Fortunately , the one she needed—on which Amelia had written an address for her husband and Nicholas’s second, the Duke of Branscombe —appeared on top, and she penned a hasty note imploring his help in locating the marquess.

Once Flynt came to collect it, placing the note in a footman’s hands for immediate delivery, she dared to summon the faintest strand of optimism. Yet the more time that stretched on, leaving her alone to pace the silent drawing room, the harder it became to hold onto it.

Sometime later, after the hands of the mantelpiece clock had inched forward too many times to count, Flynt returned with a letter in hand, his sudden appearance nearly causing Phoebe to jump out of her skin. However , after tearing open the page, marked by the Duke of Branscombe’s seal, she ascertained nothing beyond that the duke was unaware of Lord Rockliffe’s whereabouts but would begin searching the gentlemen’s clubs right away.

Which was a start, Phoebe supposed, although so far away from the news she yearned to hear.

She resumed her turn about the room, her eyes returning to the ticking clock, to the windows that showcased the dusky back garden. The sun had dipped below the horizon and would reappear all too soon. She had to see Nicholas before then. And he would return home and speak with her. Wouldn’t he?

Sometime after the clock struck eleven, Flynt returned once more, although his hands were woefully devoid of any letters. “ Miss Windham ?” His weathered features remained stern, although beneath the rigidity, there was also something in the way he looked at her that suggested gentleness. Concern . “ If you’d like to continue waiting for Lord Rockliffe’s return, may I offer you a bedchamber for the night? Or perhaps a tea tray?”

“ No , thank you,” she said stiffly, wishing she could summon even the tiniest flicker of pleasantness upon her face but certain she looked despondent. As much as she appreciated the offer, the idea of sleep or food was unthinkable. “ I’ll remain here in the drawing room, if you don’t mind.”

Flynt pursed his lips, but ultimately, he left without another word, leaving her alone to watch the clock once more.

When midnight came, she returned to the escritoire, her heartbeat a rapid thud in her ears. Another note had traveled with her to London . A piece of paper she’d pulled from her reticule with the others and tossed onto the desktop, scarcely wanting to look at it for the way it made her stomach roil. Be that as it may, too many hours had passed, and simply waiting for Nicholas was no longer an option.

She forced her eyes to the page, to the familiar messy scrawl that filled her with loathing. Amelia had given her Ambrose’s letter—the one in which he’d issued the detestable challenge. The one containing the name and address of his second, in case she had need of communicating with Sir Ambrose . Which , it turned out, she did.

She retrieved her reticule once more, withdrawing the final item Amelia had given her for the journey: one hundred pounds in banknotes should she require funds.

Even combined with the fifty pounds she was to receive for her salary, it wasn’t a life-altering sum for a baronet who owned productive lands. But perhaps there was a chance that profits at Birchby had declined under Ambrose’s management—or mismanagement, more like—or that his dissolute lifestyle would leave him eager for more coin. Enough so that he would accept a bribe.

She took up a quill and a blank piece of paper, copying down the name of the second denoted in Ambrose’s letter and following it with a few hasty lines.

Before she abruptly threw down the quill and crumpled the paper in her fist, tossing it to the side.

Her plan wouldn’t work. Ambrose wasn’t after money. He wanted to feel like he’d won. And to do that, he needed her .

She clenched her teeth, fighting back the urge to retch. All these years, she’d turned him down, preferring displacement, poverty, ruination, anything above living as Sir Ambrose Windham’s wife. Yet what if, by accepting his proposal, she could put an end to all this? Nicholas wouldn’t have to fight the duel. Emily wouldn’t run the risk of losing her father. If she could give them nothing else, she owed them that much.

Only … what of Phoebe’s daughter, whom Ambrose had concealed from her for seven long years? At this very moment, someone was out searching for her, could be so close to succeeding. And then what? Would Ambrose allow Phoebe , as his wife, to have anything to do with the child?

No . She sank to the dainty seat beside the escritoire, her legs unable to hold her any longer. No , she’d be a fool to imagine for one moment that she’d ever hear tell of her daughter again.

The possibility, still so new, of a reunion with the girl would be wrenched away from her as quickly as it had arisen. How was she to bear that? How was she to carry on when everyone who meant anything to her was gone and her heart had been torn into slivers?

She glowered at the letter that had once passed through Ambrose’s hands, bitterness wrapping around her chest like a tightening band. Damn the man. Damn him for inheriting her father’s title, for making her a stranger in her childhood home, for trying to spite her father’s memory by marrying her. Damn him for making her feel worthless and immoral when he was the one who drank to excess, who kept secrets, who fabricated insults and defended his nonexistent honor by insisting on something illegal?—

Her hand froze in midair. She’d taken the abhorrent sheet of paper into her fist, ready to crush it, rip it to shreds, and stomp on the tattered remains as she cried out every modicum of her outrage and sorrow. Except suddenly, rather than do any of those things, she stared at it. Her eyes darted over each despicable word all the way to the signature at the bottom, her mind whirling, sharpening, as if through the dark haze, a spark had ignited tinder.

She jumped to her feet, rushing out of the drawing room and into the lowly lit corridor. “ Flynt ?” She was too frantic to call his name with any sort of delicacy.

Fortunately , the butler appeared from the shadows at once, upright and attentive.

“ I require the carriage immediately for a matter pertaining to Lord Rockliffe ,” she said, hardly able to utter the words fast enough. “ The Duchess of Branscombe said I could have it at my disposal.”

Flynt inclined his head, his dark gaze falling to the paper clasped between her shaking fingers. “ As you wish, Miss Windham . Although if you’re looking to send another letter, are you certain I cannot have a footman deliver it for you?”

“ No .” She shook her head, her feet already shuffling, desperate to travel into the entrance hall, out to the street, into the carriage. “ Thank you, but I need to do this myself.”

He hesitated, and she could fully anticipate the protests hovering on his lips. It was dark, late, not a suitable time for an unaccompanied young woman to be out on the streets of London . Were she to reveal her intended destination, his objections would only increase tenfold, and she knew he wasn’t wrong. Yet none of that mattered. Nothing signified beyond that she had somewhere to go and not a moment to lose.

Did her desperation and urgency show upon her face? Or did Flynt also suspect the danger posed to the marquess? Whatever the case, he relented with a barely perceptible sigh. “ A minute, then. I’ll ask for the carriage to be hitched and brought around at once.”

Thank the stars . She waited just until Flynt had disappeared down the corridor before slumping against the wall, fighting to catch her breath. This was it. The only strand of hope she had left, and she couldn’t fail.

She tugged open her reticule, carefully inserting the letter she’d planned to tear to pieces but now guarded like a priceless gem. With the page tucked away, she pushed herself up again, running to the entrance hall so she’d hear the horses the moment they approached the front steps.

The street beyond the window remained shadowed by complete blackness—for now. Yet dawn wouldn’t stay away forever.

She only prayed she wouldn’t be too late.