Chapter 21
The sky remained low and leaden when Graeme entered the estate chapel Sunday morning, a mirror to his mood.
He took his place near the back, not out of irreverence, but because it would offer the best vantage to steal glances at the young woman who, until three days ago, had turned his world inside out.
The problem? Phoebe Whittington was not there.
Not in her pew.
Not in any pew.
Not even her maid in sight.
A prickle crawled up Graeme’s spine. She had not missed chapel once since her arrival.
The chaplain began the service, voice steady, but Graeme heard none of it. Every hymn sounded distant, every prayer muffled. He tried, absurdly, to convince himself she must be unwell, perhaps fatigued or overset, anything to ignore the growing dread pooling, cold and heavy, in his chest.
When the final blessing was offered, Graeme rose first, impatient and afraid. He did not wait for anyone, did not think, only moved.
Out of the chapel. Through the gallery. Up the main staircase. Into the east wing. Straight to Phoebe’s suite.
He knocked once.
No answer.
He tried the handle.
It yielded.
Her rooms were immaculate, curtains drawn back, nothing amiss except—and this struck him like a blow—the absence of anything resembling a guest in residence. No bonnets by the door, no shawls on the wall hooks, no feminine treasures on the table. A coldness gripped him.
“Miss Whittington?” he called, though he already knew she was not within. “Phoebe?”
No sound. No rustle. No trace of occupancy.
Then, his gaze snagged on something resting atop the dressing table: a folded sheet of cream paper.
It took long minutes for him to move towards it.
His limbs dragged, as though wading against a current, one that threatened to sweep him away.
When he lifted the note, the air whooshed from his lungs to see it not addressed to Graeme, rather the Earl of Collumby. His heartbeat pitched, hard and swift.
He opened the letter.
To the Earl of Collumby,
I relinquish all claim to the inheritance bequeathed to me in the codicil. I did not seek it. I do not desire it. I never have. I ask only that my name be removed from any record or rumor that might imply I profited from the late earl’s death.
Whatever he intended by naming me in the codicil, I pray my refusal makes plain that I did not come to Shropshire as a fortune-hunter. I have known too well the ruin that comes when a gentleman’s declarations are not what they seem. I will not repeat past mistakes.
I wish you and your household peace. My departure will spare all parties further scandal.
P.W.
His stomach dropped. She had signed with the initials she believed the late earl had used for her, those same initials she now thought he had used to purchase her, control her, and deceive her. She thought he had been Freddy all over again, that Graeme had been Freddy all over again.
He pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes, the truth detonating like a cannon blast. She had read the codicil, and she had seen everything from the perspective of the inheritance: his silence, his flirtation, his kiss, his confession.
And she had come to the worst, most understandable, most devastating conclusion imaginable: that he had seduced her for thirty thousand pounds and a cottage.
His knees nearly buckled.
For longer than he could say, he could do nothing but stand there, breath coming in shallow heaves, letter shaking in his grip.
He had feared she would choose money over love, feared she would retreat into her pride, even feared her independence might tempt her away from him, but he had never, not once, thought she might believe he had been the one scheming.
In her eyes, he was a villain, a liar, and a deceiver.
Phoebe, hurt and humiliated once before, would naturally believe the worst. How had he not foreseen that?
“Oh, Phoebe.” His voice cracked.
Leaning a hand against the wall, he forced himself to breathe, to think. When had she left? Friday? Saturday? How far could she have gone? He moved quickly, rifling through the wardrobe, through the dressing room, through the maid’s chamber. All empty.
He rang the bell.
Within moments, a footman appeared, eyes widening at Graeme’s expression.
“When was Miss Whittington last seen?” he demanded.
“Yesterday morning, sir. At first light. She and her maid were walking to Tansy Hollow.”
Graeme’s pulse spiked. “No carriage, then,” he mumbled to himself.
“No, sir.”
Of course not. Phoebe was too clever. She would not announce her departure, not when shame fueled her flight.
She could have walked to Tansy Hollow, and then from there taken a cart to Upton Magna to catch the mail coach to London or hire a post-chaise.
He knew the direction, regardless. The London road. She would be miles ahead by now.
“Yesterday, you say?”
“Yes, sir,” confirmed the footman.
Yesterday’s head start would be better than a Friday headstart. If she left yesterday morning, she would not be beyond reach.
Whatever coach she had chosen, assuming she did catch one, would have stopped overnight. It would not travel on a Sunday before the afternoon, at the earliest. He could overtake her. If he hurried.
He snapped upright. “Saddle a horse. Immediately.”
The footman bolted.
Graeme folded the letter and slipped it into his coat pocket.
He would go after her. He would find her.
With urgency and a hammering pulse, he strode down the corridor.
He would explain everything, the codicil, Penelope Woodridge, the truth of his silence on those points, the truth of his heart.
And he would not rest, not for one mile or one hour, until he had her safely before him again.
She was not lost to him, not yet. But if he did not act now, she soon would be.
Taking the steps two at a time, he rushed to his apartments to change into his riding habit as swiftly as he could, for there was not a minute to lose.
Only minutes later, but what felt like hours, he was outside and mounting in one fluid motion, even as the groom was still tightening the saddle straps.
“Which way, sir?” the groom called.
Gathering the reins, jaw set with fierce resolve. “London.”
And he thundered down the drive, the wind slicing past him, their entire future riding on whether he caught her in time.