Chapter 12
Ben wasn’t in the habit of throwing things on the floor while behaving like a raging arsehole. Nonetheless, it would seem after his abomination of a day, that’s what he’d been reduced to.
He slumped onto the edge of his bed, shrugging the coat from his shoulders and starting to work on unfastening his cravat.
I’ve proven myself a madman, he reflected ruefully, wincing as he envisioned the disarray he’d caused in both the muniment room and the study.
He’d torn open drawers without method, casting aside everything that proved useless until he was surrounded by chaos and no closer to answers.
He couldn’t say exactly which unfruitful book or piece of parchment had snapped him back to some semblance of logic.
Only that a point had come where he’d surveyed the disorder in his study and recognized everything he made a habit of avoiding.
Sloppiness. Impulsiveness. Emotionality.
All the qualities that ran through his blood but he kept tightly under control, for he knew the consequences when one left them unbridled.
A tight band squeezed his chest, and he tossed his cravat to the side, forcing in a lungful of air and breathing out until the feeling passed.
The important thing was, he’d brought himself back to order.
Had recognized that he’d done what he could—speaking with the solicitor, writing to his uncle, sending a note to Mr. Hayward’s abode for when the man returned—and now just needed to wait.
Easier said than done, certainly, but the estate wouldn’t flounder overnight.
Especially not now that light rain tapped against the windows, which meant it filled the drying riverbed, too.
The lordling’s idiotic claim will be renounced soon enough, and all will return to the way it was.
Ben repeated the incantation within his head as he unfastened the buttons of his waistcoat, trying to put himself in a frame of mind for sleep.
No amount of rational thinking, though, would untangle the knot low in his abdomen.
Nor could any attempts to do otherwise prevent his gaze from continually flicking to the connecting door between his room and Violet’s.
He’d put his study back to rights with the help of some industrious chambermaids. However, his relationship with his wife remained an elaborate mess.
He sighed, his fingers stilling on the final button.
He hadn’t meant to ignore or dismiss her.
Hadn’t meant to command her, either. It was just so blasted unsettling to think of her barreling through the dark alone, only to wind up at Watley Hall once again.
To imagine one of the sonorous giggles from behind closed doors as belonging to her.
Not that she’d given any indication she secretly meant it as a social call.
On the contrary, she’d seemed earnest in her desire to help him and had blatantly spoken out against Lord Frederick Denham, despite the man being her sister’s intended.
Yet there were so many other guests at the house, including one who’d held—who still held? —her affections. So many unknowns …
He stood abruptly and, on second thought, replaced the buttons he’d unfastened on his waistcoat.
His mother always told his two youngest brothers—and had told him and Alexander, too, when they’d been squabbling youths—that they should never let the sun set on their provocation.
Well, there was no question of Violet’s anger.
No question, either, that his words to her had been terse and unyielding.
That wasn’t the right way to leave things between them.
He should speak to her. Explain his concerns. Apologize for his brashness.
He slunk toward the connecting door, putting his knuckles to the wood and giving a few gentle taps before he could talk himself out of it.
So often, he fell asleep to the sounds of her moving about her chamber, readying herself for bed.
The swish of fabric. The splash of wash water.
The quiet creak of a mattress dipping. Noises that always left a slight throb in his chest because they were so close, so intimate, but also so far away.
Tonight, though, the space beyond the door was silent.
He waited a moment for her voice, for footsteps. Even for an irritated huff signaling she had no interest in speaking to him. However, nothing came back to him but the echo of his own knock.
Strange. Before making his way upstairs, he’d told the footmen to extinguish all the main floor sconces, for the housekeeper informed him that Mrs. Prescott had retired for the evening.
Had Violet already fallen asleep? It wasn’t yet ten, earlier than when she normally began preparing for bed.
Then again, he well knew that ire could be exhausting.
“Violet?” He called her name softly, giving the door another few taps. He didn’t want to disturb her if she was sleeping soundly. But at the same time, how could he retreat while this uncertain void remained?
His call went unanswered, and he hesitated, his fingers hovering above the door handle.
Perhaps he could ease the door open an inch.
Not enough to wake her, just enough to ensure she wasn’t glowering in the direction of his bedchamber, punishing him with her silence.
Would that be overstepping? Improper of him?
For once, he didn’t take the time to ponder the matter too carefully; he simply unlocked the door and cracked it open, giving himself a partial view of the bedchamber he hadn’t entered since Violet moved in.
The bedside lamp was lit, casting a faint glow over the flowered counterpane. Enough brightness to reveal that the bed had been turned down for the night but otherwise remained untouched.
“Violet?” He pushed the door aside and stepped over the threshold, hastily scanning the space.
It smelled like her, soft and floral. Held physical signs of her, too, like the silver hairbrush atop the vanity.
The silk slippers beside her bed. However, no feminine form sat at the vanity bench or appeared from behind the dressing screen.
Quite plainly, Violet wasn’t here.
He spun back into his own bedchamber, his mind beginning to race. Perhaps she’d forgotten her book in the drawing room or had gone to the kitchen to fetch a drink before bed. There were plenty of explanations for her absence that didn’t warrant his pulse quickening the way it did.
Yet the ground floor of the house remained empty and dark, and his encounter with Mrs. Wheeler as he bounded down the servant’s stairs toward the kitchen revealed that no, Mrs. Prescott wasn’t there. She hadn’t been seen since she’d announced her intention to retire for the evening.
He dug his fingernails into his palms, forcing out the question he loathed to give voice but couldn’t avoid. “Is there any chance she requested a carriage or horse?”
“N-not that I know of, sir.” For all her outward attempts at maintaining decorum, the housekeeper couldn’t fully rein in her expression of shock. “Shall I summon the grooms to ask?”
He took a split-second to contemplate, then gave his head an abrupt shake. “No.” What was the point of wasting time waiting for answers from the stables? Regardless of what the grooms said, he already knew Violet had absconded. And he knew where.
He pivoted so he could race back up the stairs, calling out as an afterthought, “Have someone check the back garden and see that the terrace door remains unlocked.” Whatever entrance Violet had used to flee, he could at least ensure it stayed open so she wasn’t barred out in the rain when she chose to return.
Yet that wasn’t good enough. He couldn’t simply sit back and turn a blind eye to the deception, nor to the danger involved with her being out at night alone. What if the ground became slippery? What if she lost her way in the dark? The headstrong, defiant, infuriating woman.
He rushed through the corridor and into the entrance hall, where Achilles was pacing uncertainly, awaiting his reappearance. The dog’s tail perked up when Ben neared, giving several enthusiastic wags, but the ear scratches Achilles clearly sought would have to wait until later.
Ben couldn’t stop. Not until he’d burst out the front door and gone down the stone steps to the drive, putting himself in the midst of the night rain, did he pause.
The moon had been reduced to a blurred glow behind the clouds, and the lamp beside the door did little to provide illumination to the grounds beyond.
What now? How was he to proceed most logically when the world had turned into a black abyss?
Should he summon a horse? Having spent most of his life in the city, he’d had few opportunities to become a skilled rider, but that would be the quickest way to traverse the road to Watley.
But what if she hadn’t taken the road? What if she’d opted for the familiar trail along the river and gone on foot, regardless of the rain and darkness?
Damn. He muttered a string of oaths under his breath, raindrops soaking through his shirt as he stood helplessly, attempting to make a sound decision despite the lack of a clear path to follow.
He was just about to sprint toward the stables and try his luck on horseback when Achilles’s broad head pushed against the clenched fist at his side. However, instead of lingering to remind Ben how he’d neglected his ear-scratching duties, Achilles bounded forward with a rare burst of energy.
“Achilles, come,” Ben called sternly as the dog rushed down the drive, his paws churning up gravel in his haste.
The elderly animal belonged indoors where it was warm and dry, and this was an exceedingly poor time for antics.
But oblivious to Ben’s sense of urgency, Achilles continued racing away with the vigor of a pup, emitting a series of eager barks.
“Achilles!” Ben shouted the name again, following the sound of the dog’s barking as he raced blindly into the shadows to catch up to him.
Which was when he detected the other noises that made him sharply halt. Feet—not paws—hitting gravel. The rustle of skirts.
And then, beneath the weak light of the obscured moon, an outline appeared near the gate. A voluminous cloak. A face framed by a mass of unbound hair.
Achilles ran to the figure, doing an inquisitive circle around her back before coming to stand guard at her feet, his barks turning to uneasy whines.
“Shh, it’s all right.” Her voice, though breathless, was like a bell in the darkness, and she leaned forward, putting a soothing hand atop the dog’s head. “What are you doing wandering outdoors by yourself? I didn’t think you ever left your master’s side.”
For the briefest moment, Ben could do nothing but watch.
She clearly hadn’t seen him yet, not in her absorption with giving Achilles the scratches that had so far proved lacking.
Yet the word master caused the dog to glance back in his direction.
That, and Ben shifted, his boots crunching against the gravel.
And whether it was from Achilles or Ben’s own movement, Violet snapped upright, taking a few tentative steps forward and then sucking in an audible breath.
“Benedict?”