Chapter 22

Simon woke early, expectant about what the day would hold with Bella. He would finally tell her the truth—how he had loved her for years and would, if she allowed him, love her for eternity. He had hardly been able to interact with her after Grace's wedding. Lord Ramsgate was always at her side whenever Simon attempted to join her at the celebration, and Bella left early with her parents.

Grace assured him that she had delivered his message. He could only hope that Bella would be willing to join him in Hyde Park as he'd requested. He could only hope she would want to. When he reached the breakfast table, he was surprised to see a small letter already lying at his place.

"Where did this come from?" he asked the butler.

"A servant dropped it off late last night," the old man intoned, pouring Simon a cup of tea. "The footman said he didn't recognize the fellow, but then poor George is new to the London ton. If I had been at my post, I am sure I could give you more information."

"The letter should suffice," Simon shrugged, opening the missive. He read through the letter with a sinking heart.

My dearest Simon,

I know that you requested I meet you to discuss our future together, but I'm afraid I cannot. My heart has pulled me in a different direction.

Over the last weeks, I have grown quite close to Lord Ramsgate. I know, now, that I will not be happy unless I marry him. Unfortunately, I fear any private meeting between you and I will be inappropriate under the circumstances.

I leave tonight to marry the one my heart loves. When we meet again, I shall be Lady Ramsgate. I hope you are happy for me.

Sincerely,

Lady Isabella

At first, the content of the letter struck so sharply at Simon's heart that he missed the most important detail about the missive. His mind was a fog of despair. Bella, married? He set the letter down, calming himself. Then the other details began to seep into his conscious.

Lady Isabella. When had Bella ever called herself that except in the most formal of situations under the watchful eye of her parents? Even after returning from Ireland with her aunt's education in tow, Bella had always referred to herself in Simon's company with their familiar moniker.

Beyond that, there was the glaring fact that Simon and Bella had exchanged letters for years prior to his growing attachment. There was little in the world he knew as well as he knew her handwriting. Even her voice was not as familiar to him. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the author of the letter was not Bella. But who?

It could be Lord or Lady Collingwood—they had meddled before—but even this seemed a bit underhanded for paragons of society such as them. There was something else afoot that he did not understand.

He tucked the letter into his pocket and left the house immediately, saddling a horse and riding towards the Collingwood residence as fast as he could. He knew he would not be welcome inside and hesitated at the foot of the marble steps before walking around to the servants entrance on the side of the building and knocking hard on the oaken door.

It opened after a moment, and a robust little woman with a cook's cap frowned at him from within.

"Yes?" she asked curtly.

He thought to ask directly after Bella, but wondered how much the household staff knew of Lord and Lady Collingwood's disapproval of him. Instead, he took the route of subterfuge. "I met a maid a few evenings back from this abode. She said she is lady's maid to Lady Isabella. Might you cut a lad some slack and give her a message from me?" He twisted his hat in his hands, trying to look a little lovesick.

The cook raised an eyebrow at this delicious slice of gossip. "I can do you one better, if you've the patience to wait. Mary-Jane is just inside."

She disappeared from view and, a short time later, a rosy-cheeked girl appeared in her place. The girl's eyes opened wide when she saw him. "My lord—"

"May you step outside?" he asked in a low voice.

Mary-Jane nodded. She pulled the door shut behind her.

"I can see you know who I am," Simon said urgently. "I come seeking after Lady Isabella's welfare. I received a note from her this morning that seemed most suspicious…"

"Well, she is not here," Mary-Jane said, shrugging. "She went out late last night to see you and has not returned since."

Simon's blood ran cold. "To see me?"

Mary-Jane looked uncomfortable. "You needn't pretend otherwise, my lord. She showed me the note herself." She blushed deeply. "If you're worried about me telling anyone, I assure you I am the soul of discretion. I love my lady, and I would never do anything to endanger her reputation."

"She was not with me last night," Simon said quietly. "And I did not write her a letter. What did it say?"

"Only that you wanted to move your meeting up, and that you wished to see her by the pond in the park." Mary-Jane bit her lip. "I've covered for her all morning, thinking she was…she was…" The poor girl could clearly not bring herself to say the words aloud, and so Simon said them for her.

"You believed she was in a compromising situation involving myself." He shook his head. "She would never do such a thing. I suspect—I fear something worse has happened. What else do you remember about the letter? Who delivered it?"

"Only Mr. Grant from the corner pub, and he's always delivering letters for people." Mary-Jane's lower lip began to tremble. "What do you think might have happened?"

"Mr. Grant?"

"Oh, he'll not be awake at this hour." Mary-Jane raised an eyebrow. "He's a jack of all trades, that one, but he works mostly at night and sleeps above the pub during the day. He fixed our locks only last week—"

Simon did not wait to hear the rest. He turned and half-walked, half-ran back to his horse, leading the animal by the reins two blocks down to the corner pub. It was tucked back into one of the white-stone alleys, out of sight of the main road.

It was a gentrified establishment, with drapes and gold filigree trim so the finer folk of the ton could feel safe taking their pint within. Simon could see that the regular clientele were still hours from appearing. A man in an apron wiped the counter, and a girl swept the hearth. It was quiet.

"Good sir," Simon said to the man. "Do you know of a Mr. Grant who stays at this establishment?"

The man in the apron looked annoyed. "Mr. Grant is certainly the popular one as of late," he growled. "Almost too popular to tend to his duties, I'm afraid."

"Where are his rooms?" Simon asked.

"Who's asking?" the man asked.

But Simon needed nothing more from him. He'd directed his questions at the man, but the spy in him had watched the woman for a response. At Mr. Grant's name, she had glanced towards a flight of stairs behind the bar, then quickly back at her work. Simon pushed past the protesting pub owner and climbed the stairs two at a time, bursting through the first door he found in the hallway above. The room was empty. The second room was more fruitful.

A large lout of a man lay sprawled across the bed with a bottle dangling from his fingertips, fast asleep. Simon strode without hesitation to the pitcher of water at the side table and hurled the contents onto the man's face.

It was like waking a sleeping bear. The enormous hulk burst, sputtering and growling, to an upright sitting position, crying out in groggy confusion. Simon gripped him by the collar and shook him.

"Are you Grant?" he demanded.

The man was too disoriented to think of a good lie. "What do you want?" he said, trying to wrestle away from Simon's iron grip.

"I want the whereabouts of a certain Lady Isabella," Simon said, wasting no time.

"You've come to the wrong place, lad," Grant said, rising from the bed and shaking Simon off of him. "I don't give away my client's secrets."

Simon took a step back, evaluating his opponent. Grant had height and weight on him in a fistfight, but Simon was quicker, and he had come prepared. "And who is your client? Lady Isabella?"

"I don't give away my clients' identity, either."

"Very well," Simon said in a soft voice. "If you refuse to play along, then I'm afraid I have no choice but to take matter into my own hands."

"And such small, dainty hands those are," Grant said, a surly smile curling his lips.

The smile only lasted a moment, driven away by the click of Simon's revolver as he pulled back the hammer. The weapon was only a few inches from his face. Simon felt oddly relaxed, as familiar with this sort of violence from wartime as he was with lies and intrigue.

"You may have heard that these little instruments are unreliable," he said in a low voice, "but I assure you that is not the case when I wield them. And, in general, a bit of iron will do damage from six inches whether it aims correctly or not. Are you willing to take the risk?"

Grant's gaze darted around, clearly seeking a weapon of his own. Simon could not let him take the time to think of a way out of this.

"I'll give you until the count of ten to decide where your true loyalties lie," he said in a low, cold voice. "With your clients…. or with your life." He raised the revolver so that it was only a few inches from the other man's head. "One."

Grant lifted his hands in surrender. "There's no need for the theatrics," he growled. "She isn't worth losing my life over, I'll tell you that much."

"She?" Was his client Bella, after all?

"Lady O'Mara. The Frenchwoman." Grant spat to the side. "I've done a bit of business for her before, but nothing so exciting as this."

"What manner of business?" Simon spoke through gritted teeth. Amelia is behind this?

Grant hesitated. "I want to help to get that gun out of my face, but you have to promise not to bandy my name with the constabulary."

"You are not in a place to make demands," Simon said coolly. "And you're running out of time again."

"Fine." Grant sighed. "The Frenchwoman had me help secure your Lady Isabella for her. Tossed her in the back of the carriage. They're half-way to Gretna Green by now."

Simon felt a bitter taste in his mouth. If it hadn't been for the task at hand, he would have thrown the revolver to the side and strangled the man before him with his bare hands. He hated the idea of anyone, much less this brute, manhandling Bella into a carriage. "And what is Lady O'Mara's intention at Gretna Green?"

Grant cocked his head to one side. "What is anyone's intention at Gretna Green?"

"Do you know the gentleman Lady Isabella will be facing at the ceremony?"

Grant shook his head, then raised an eyebrow. "She did mention a fellow who would help her along the journey. He had an animal name…"

"Ramsgate?"

"That's the one."

Simon's heart thudded dully within him. Lord Ramsgate was taking a despicable route—forcing a woman into marriage against her will. Why he'd chosen this route, when his suit had previously seemed to go so well, was beyond Simon. He was even more confused about Amelia's involvement. All those questions, however, were for another time. He took a step towards the door.

"You are fortunate, Mr. Grant, that I am on rather a tight time schedule at present. Otherwise, I would take a moment to teach you why it was a poor decision to aid in this haphazard scheme." He let his revolver fall to his side, but kept it cocked. "As it is, I shall merely hope we meet again."

He turned and strode from the room, listening for the sound of footfalls behind him. He heard none. Apparently, Grant determined it was not worth tangling with Simon a second time.