Chapter 7
His wife, it seemed, could always take him by surprise. Raging hurt that she should still choose her thoroughly unpleasant family over him warred with overwhelming disappointment that she was so careless of the relationship he was trying to build between them.
And he missed her. God, he missed her.
At first, he drove his horses at reckless speeds along the country lanes that led to the main Brighton road, forcing his tiger to hold on grimly to his perch at the back.
He could imagine Gabriella sitting by his side, laughing with excitement.
Fortunately for all concerned, his thinking half began to reassert itself over the emotional, and he slowed his horses before he exhausted them or overturned the curricle.
He had set off to Brighton merely to prove he did not care.
But such defensiveness achieved nothing.
Corey was determined by nature, and as he analyzed what had actually happened this morning, he knew he should simply have gone with Gabriella.
Or followed her. Because that letter signified some kind of trouble for her, a trouble she had not yet been ready to tell him about.
That was not her fault. It was his for not yet winning her trust.
And it was nothing to do with Snowy, who remained at Normanton House, making sheep’s eyes at Barbara Winmore.
Since it was too late to go after her, he carried on his way to Brighton and fulfilled the business he had always intended—which was to buy her some pretty jewels and other trinkets of her own, pieces he thought she would like. He chose them with care and unusual thoughtfulness.
Then, with his horses rested, he pointed them back toward Normanton with sweet anticipation in his heart—not for her gratitude, for he could never buy her in this way—just to be with her.
He was only a mile or so from the house when he came upon a horseman who tugged at his hat and indicated he wanted to talk. Impatiently, Corey halted his team, and the man introduced himself as a constable of the parish.
“There’s been another holdup, sir, and I was wondering if you’d seen any signs of a suspicious horseman hereabouts, masked or otherwise.”
Corey shook his head. “No, I haven’t seen anyone except a couple of farm laborers on foot.”
“We think it’s the same miscreant who’s already caused so much trouble,” the constable said grimly, “but Sir Peter is especially furious about this one because it was one of his guests what was threatened.”
A weird tingle of foreboding passed through Corey. “Who? Who was held up?”
“A lady, sir. Lady Corey.”
The world tilted. “Is she hurt?” he croaked at the constable, who took off his hat and scratched his head with maddening slowness.
“Couldn’t rightly say, sir, but I reckon she were, because Sir Peter seemed terribly upset over her. On—”
Corey heard no more. Awash with the sort of terror he had never known before, he jerked his hands on the ribbons, urging his startled horses into motion.
He had no idea of his speed, only of his need to get to Gabriella.
Fear for her obliterated everything else from his mind. His one instinct was to reach her.
Her pain, her hurt, was unbearable to him, and if she died…
The blood sang in his ears, but he could not afford to lose concentration now. He had to find her, make her well…
Before the front door, he leapt down from the curricle, abandoning his horses without a word, and charged up the front steps into the house.
“Where is Lady Corey?” he barked at the startled footman as he strode in like a hurricane.
“One m-moment, my lord,” the footman stammered. “I’ll find out.”
“Corey.” It was Somerville himself, emerging from the back of the hall. “A word, if you please.”
“Later. My wife—”
“Lady Corey is well,” Somerville said.
Corey almost sank to his knees. As it was, he wobbled, and had to halt in his impetuous tracks. Somerville grasped his arm and urged him toward his study. “We need to talk.”