Chapter 36
Soft moonlight flitted through the windows of Lewis’s study.
He sat by the fire with a glass of brandy held in his hand.
Since leaving the club, he had done little except sit in his study, drink, and think about Bridget.
If she was only angry with him, she would have returned already, right?
Her anger could not be so great that it kept her away for an entire day.
What if something had happened to Bridget? What if she had been hurt, while he spent the better part of the day assuming that she was scheming against him? Lewis jolted to his feet. It was time to look for her.
He left his study and hurried down the stairs. “St. Clair!” he said, spying his butler in the foyer.
The man bowed deeply. “Your Grace, how may I be of service?”
“Have you heard anything from my wife?”
If St. Clair had, Lewis was certain that he would have known at once, but he had to ask. Just to be certain.
“No, Your Grace.”
“Well, then,” I say. “Prepare the coach. I wish to visit the Duke of Reeds.”
The butler bowed again. “Of course, Your Grace.”
St. Clair left to do as he had been asked, while Lewis remained in the foyer, pacing.
He vaguely regretted having a coach prepared.
Lewis could have run to the stables and had his own horse saddled more quickly than the coach could be prepared, but he did not know how far he might need to go to find Bridget.
St. Clair entered the house and bowed. “The carriage is being brought around, Your Grace.”
“Good. If my wife returns, have word sent to me.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Lewis left the house and walked to the sleek, black coach waiting for him. The footman snapped to attention and bowed. “Your Grace.”
“Make all haste,” Lewis said, climbing into the coach.
“Of course.”
The footman closed the door, and Lewis settled himself against the cushion. Lewis’s heart was in his throat. The empty seat across from him was like a condemnation of his own actions. Bridget should have been seated across from him.
He was a rational man, and he had no proof that any misfortune had befallen Bridget. Lewis was letting his fears get the best of him. But what if something had happened to her? Lewis would never forgive himself.
No, it would not do to let himself be overcome by thoughts like that.
He would find Bridget, and she would be unharmed.
The ride to Elias’s townhouse would be better spent deciding what he would say once he found his wife.
The conversations with his grandmother and Morington whirled about inside his head.
An apology seemed suddenly needed and woefully insufficient.
The coach came to a stop, and Lewis ripped open the door, startling the waiting footman. “Your Grace!”
Lewis did not answer, instead hurrying up the path to the familiar townhouse. He hammered his knuckles against the door, which opened to a tired-looking butler. The man recovered quickly, schooling his expression into a look of polite indifference. He bowed cordially. “Your Grace.”
“I have come to speak to Elias.”
“Regrettably, His Grace is not accepting visitors.”
“I know the hour is late,” Lewis added. “But it is a rather urgent matter.”
“You misunderstand me, Your Grace,” the butler said. “The Duke of Reeds is not accepting visitors because he is away.”
Lewis’s pulse jumped. “Where did he go?”
“I do not know. His Grace received a letter earlier today, and he left hastily. He informed the stablemaster that he would be away for a few days, but he did not say where he was going. His Grace seemed anxious.”
Lewis crossed his arms. Was Elias’s sudden departure related to Bridget’s own disappearance? Or was it entirely coincidental? He suddenly imagined Bridget, bereft and desperate, coming to her brother for his help and realizing that he was not there for her.
“H-have you seen Bridget?” he asked. “The Duchess of Wheelton. My wife.”
As if he needed to explain who Bridget was to this man. He doubtlessly knew who Elias’s sister was.
“I believe it was a letter from the duchess which caused His Grace to leave so quickly,” the butler said.
“Then, she is with Elias.”
Wherever that was. The precise place did not matter, though. Bridget being somewhere safe with her brother was good. It meant that she was still angry, but she would also be safe.
“I would assume she is with him,” the butler said.
Lewis nodded. “Good. I am glad. If…if she returns here, ask Bridget to send word to me.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
Lewis gave a strained smile, his face burning with mortification. What respectable man lost his wife and had to admit to not knowing where she was? He trudged back to the waiting coach.
“Where do you wish to go, Your Grace?” the footman asked.
Where, indeed?
A sense of urgency rose within him, and he briefly entertained the idea of tearing apart London to find her.
However, he had no idea if she was even in London, much less where she might be instead.
Elias was the Duke of Reeds and owned numerous properties throughout Britain.
He might have gone anywhere with Bridget.
“I will go home,” he said.
Lewis wasn’t eager to go back to his townhouse and sit in the dark, anticipating news from Bridget, yet it was already too late to see Morington. He didn’t even think about visiting his grandmother, knowing she’d be beside herself if she wasn’t certain of Bridget’s whereabouts.
Lewis climbed into the coach and pressed his forehead against the window. Once the footman closed the door, Lewis let himself slump against the seats.
“Where have you gone, Bridget?” he muttered.
London was dark, except for the few places lit by the lamps.
As the coach moved on, Lewis found himself watching those pools of light in the vain hope that Bridget might appear.
If she was with Elias, Bridget would not be wandering the streets at night.
They would be traveling by coach, just as he was.
Too soon, the coach came to an abrupt halt. Lewis hoped he did not look as pathetic as he felt, but his reflection in the window was not especially encouraging.
The door opened, and the footman bowed. “Your Grace, we have arrived.”
Lewis stepped from the carriage, grimacing as he beheld his townhouse. Even his home seemed less bright without Bridget’s presence. He trudged to the doorway, his nerves fraying. Lewis was as a man possessed, filled to the brim with a new and strange energy the made all his senses come alive.
St. Clair opened the door and bowed. “Welcome home, Your Grace.” The butler’s eyes darted over Lewis’s shoulder, as if he was searching for something, or someone.
“I trust that Her Grace has not returned in my absence,” Lewis said.
“She has not, Your Grace.”
Lewis sighed. “I see.”
He stormed across the foyer. St. Clair cleared his throat and brought Lewis to an abrupt halt. “Is there something you wish to say to me?” Lewis asked.
“It is not my place to ask, Your Grace,” he said.
“Then, maybe you should not say what you are thinking.”
A beat of silence followed. Lewis did not turn to look at the butler, but he hardly needed to. He could sense well enough that St. Clair’s eyes were fixed upon him. If Lewis turned around, he imagined he would receive a disappointed stare.
“Go ahead,” Lewis said. “What are you thinking?”
“Some of the staff have expressed concern over the duchess,” St. Clair said. “Is she well, Your Grace?”
Lewis sighed deeply. His shoulders slumped, and he curled his hand over the banister to keep himself steady.
He wondered vaguely if this was how his grandmother felt, like everything was overwhelming and the floor had been ripped away beneath her.
“I cannot begin to fathom what has happened to her. I do not know where Bridget has gone or if—when—she will return.”
“I see.”
Lewis could not even bring himself to be upset over his reputation as a poor husband, who was unable even to control his wife. He deserved every ounce of criticism that he might receive, spoken or otherwise.
“Would you like the staff to search for her?” St. Clair asked. “I am certain that everyone would be quite willing.”
Lewis shook his head. “I believe that she is with her brother. I do not know where he is, but I am certain that he is keeping my wife safe.”
“I am pleased to hear it, Your Grace. I shall tell the staff that all is well.”
Lewis frowned. He could not recall St. Clair ever speaking so frankly before, much less expressing concerns on behalf of the staff.
St. Clair was a man of perpetual frowns, and Lewis had assumed that even Bridget was incapable of defrosting his cold interior.
Like Lewis, he had scoffed when Bridget had her little orchestra in the foyer.
“The staff needs to spend less time gossiping,” Lewis said. “Don’t you think?”
“I apologize, Your Grace.”
Lewis took a few steps, intent on returning to his study, but he paused abruptly. “Have they been very worried about Bridget?” he asked softly.
“Yes,” St. Clair said. “Her Grace is well-beloved by the staff. She brings a light to everything she does, and we have heard how good she has been for the Dowager Duchess.”
Lewis squeezed his eyes shut and inhaled deeply.
If he had only spent the night in bed with Bridget, none of this would have happened.
She would be with him at that very moment.
A wave of cold swept over him, and he ached to hold her in his arms once more.
They could have spent the evening in bed together.
“She is good,” Lewis said. “For everyone.”
For the first time ever, Lewis considered the possibility that he was unworthy of her.
“Indeed, Your Grace. When Her Grace returns, I shall see that you are informed at once,” St. Clair said.
“I would expect nothing less.”
Then, Lewis bolted up the stairs. He encountered none of the staff, as he entered his study and closed the door behind him. For a heartbeat, he simply stood in the dark room. Lewis resisted the impulse to scream. His emotions were all tangled up and confusing.
He did not love Bridget. He would not let himself love Bridget. But everyone spoke about his wife as if she was the most magnificent woman who had ever lived, and Lewis found that he could not honestly contest everything that his grandmother, Morington, and St. Clair had said.
Bridget was a gem among women, and Lewis had been so focused on her flaws that he had missed everything that made her so wonderful.