Chapter Fifteen
Harbury watched aghast as Cassandra disappeared behind the door to her apartments. Placing his thumb and forefinger on either side of his nose, he closed his eyes and squeezed.
Hard.
Rise and fall, advance and retreat. Whenever he, or Cassandra, steadied, the other wavered. Like the opposite sides of an unbalanced scale.
The constant vacillation had been bad enough, but what if the fulcrum had just snapped?
He couldn’t be left without recourse. She’d just promised to be here when he returned. He’d time to save his marriage. He had to trust his wife, had to believe she would keep her vow. If not, he would not be able to turn his mind toward the problem Anderson—and Viv—presented.
Delaying action was no longer an option.
He took one last look up the staircase and then forced himself to turn back toward the entry. Deep in thought, he made his way back across the courtyard.
Today was the first time he’d seen Lady Pennington since the end of last Season, when he and Cassandra had almost collided with her and her husband during a visit to the Royal Academy.
This time, he had not experienced the same sharp pain of unrequited love that he had felt at both the Academy and at Almack’s. Instead, he’d felt shocked—a natural response to seeing anyone in a place they were not expected.
And already, his shock had dissipated.
He fixed his gaze on Lady Pennington’s carriage, where she had chosen to rest while he’d been trying to reason with Cassie. Even though she was well known to all his staff, none of them had made any effort to make her feel welcome.
Apparently, their loyalty was to the duchess.
As was his.
He came to a stop, leaving ample room between them. He studied her face, a face that had once haunted him as much during his waking hours as during his sleep.
Present as ever were the echoes of a thousand conversations, as well as an equal number of silent exchanges. However, the ache of longing he’d grown accustomed to expecting was, indeed, simply gone.
If he felt anything for her at all, it was only the distant pang of sadness.
Perhaps sadness was what he’d been distracting himself from all along.
When he’d told Cassandra he would always love Vivianne, he’d honestly believed he would be forever trapped, unable to court or to marry any lady, because he would never be at liberty to give another his heart.
Now, after experiencing the joy of true connection with Cassandra, he was certain his misery, his loss, had been caused, not by unrequited love, but by the absence of love itself.
He only hoped his realization had not come too late.
He folded his hands behind his back. “Lady Pennington.”
She humphed. “Do you intend to pretend we are merely acquaintances?”
“We are merely acquaintances.”
She lifted one shoulder, as if his manner toward her was of no consequence. “Pratt lets in riff-raff.” She waved her arm in the kitchen entrance’s direction. “While I, on the other hand, am forced to wait in the hot sun.”
He glanced over his shoulder. He hadn’t even noticed the two ladies arriving on foot. But before he could identify them, Mrs. Pratt ushered them into the house.
He turned back to Vivianne. “You look comfortable enough.”
She rolled her eyes.
Had she always been so peevish?
“Out of mutual respect and concern for your father,” he said with lowered tone, “we will agree to treat one another with civility.”
“Do not speak to me as if I was your vassal.”
He frowned. “When have I ever treated you poorly?”
“Nearly every day I worked at the Hall.” She glanced heavenward. “Getting in my way. Stealing my cart. Accosting me in out of the way places.”
“I seem to remember your enthusiastic participation.”
“Perhaps.”
“And,” he drew the word out, “I was deeply infatuated.”
“Oh! I know. And how you exploited your advantages…”
“I wanted to marry you. I would have married you.”
She didn’t argue. She couldn’t.
“You married your baron instead,” he finished.
“My baron.” She shivered slightly but covered the reaction with another lift of her shoulder. “How galled your father was by having to treat me with civility. Every time I met him in town, he stumbled over naming me Lady.”
A discordant note rung in Harbury’s mind.
His father had led him to believe he’d arranged Vivianne’s first marriage. If so, why would he have resented her elevation?
Had the old duke resented the lengths he had to go to extract her from his son’s life?
Or had he left out—or altered—pertinent details about the events surrounding the interruption of their elopement?
He tucked the question away. His main concern, at present, must be Anderson.
“Tell me about your father. When, exactly, was the last time he was seen? And do you have any idea where he might have gone?”
“He and I parted just after dinner. He took his port at the usual time in the usual fashion. When Mrs. Grant came in to collect the glass and remind him to go up to bed, the only odd thing she noticed was the book he held in his lap. She said she’d never seen the book before.”
Harbury felt a rushing sensation. “What was the book’s name?”
“The title was not in English.”
The Romance of Melusine, he’d wager.
“What’s more,” Vivianne continued, “He said something odd. He said, ‘The imposter found the chamber and must be stopped.’ I assume he meant you.”
“Imposter? Me? What the devil, Viv?!”
“I told you he’s been ill.”
“Are you suggesting your father is not in his right mind?”
Vivianne’s gaze raked him first up, then down. She pursed her lips and then shook her head. “Did you not read the letters I sent?”
“But those letters merely suggested he couldn’t be trusted, not that his faculties had declined.”
She stared at him for a long, hard moment. Then she looked away. “Apparently, he’s been acting oddly for some time, but Mrs. Grant only informed me just after Lady Day.”
“March?!” he exclaimed. “Why it’s nearly harvest.”
“At that point, he had only just started complaining to her about ‘the other Mrs. Grant.’ Needless to say, there isn’t any other Mrs. Grant.
And when she pressed him on what, specifically, this other Mrs. Grant had done to offend him, he referred to something she remembered having done for him earlier. ”
Harbury thrust his hand into his hair.
“I attributed his odd lapse to strain, as did she,” Lady Pennington continued.
“Mrs. Grant doesn’t hold you in very high esteem.
Prices were down, tenants were unhappy. The young duke, she wrote me, seemed as disinclined as ever to attend his duties.
” Her eyes flashed. “You could have been more involved, you know.”
There, he couldn’t argue.
“But your father never wrote to me of any tenant displeasure.”
“And now we know why. He wouldn’t have, would he? Not if he believed you an imposter.”
“And you were aware of all this since March?”
“No, not the latter. Until last night, nothing he said revealed any delusion pertaining to you. In fact, the problem’s scale did not become apparent until recently.
In April, he’d started using the wrong words.
By June, he sometimes appeared not to know where he was.
By late July, Mrs. Grant became alarmed enough to ask me to visit. ”
He paced the length of the carriage and back. He’d seen signs Anderson’s acuity was slipping, hadn’t he? Anderson hadn’t seemed himself since Harbury had returned from London.
In this, Lady Pennington was right.
He should have paid more attention. He should have dug deeper. Inquired more widely. If disease had struck, Anderson was not to blame for his behavior.
“I couldn’t leave London at that time.” She swept a speck from her glove. “By letter, however, I implored him to relinquish his post and come stay with me. But he refused to, as he called it, ‘shirk’ his duties.”
“So, you wrote to me. Anonymously.”
“No. That was after I’d seen him myself. I thought he just needed cheering, so I brought him a puppy from my dog’s litter. Unfortunately, when we were taking a ride the other day, he cast the poor thing out the carriage window.”
Briefly, he closed his eyes. The devil. Cassandra’s heart would break again if she had to hand Mercy over to Vivianne. “The puppy is fine.”
“Is he?” She brightened. “Well, that, at least, is a great relief. We searched high and low. When we couldn’t find him, I delivered the first letter. The Hall was nearly empty but for that nice little stable boy who agreed to help me.”
“The Hall was near empty because I was getting married.”
“I’m sorry my father’s health did not wait on your convenience, Your Grace.
Would you have preferred me to show up on your doorstep?
Just after you’d wed another? Believe it or not, I don’t wish either of you ill.
” She adjusted her position. “Not truly. How do you think my sudden appearance would have made your new bride feel?”
Her words stung.
Vivianne should not have had more consideration for Cassie’s feeling than he had. “If you care so much about my wife’s feelings, then why did you antagonize her just now?”
She gave another annoyingly careless shrug. “I was piqued when Pratt refused me entry.” She lifted a pointed gaze. “And seeing you both wrapped up in one another’s arms wasn’t exactly easy for me. Neither was nearly stumbling upon the two of you fondly caressing one another in our place.”
“Not our place.” Not any longer.
And how could she claim to be hurt when she had been the one to abandon him?
She turned her face away. Her lower lip quivered.
“Don’t cry.” He softened his voice. “We’ll find him. I just wish you had told me directly and honestly of your concerns. What did you expect me to do in response to those letters?”
Her dropped chin and suddenly impassive features suggested the answer should have been obvious. She sniffed. “I expected you to dispatch my father in the same abrupt and thoughtless manner you dispatched me.” She paused significantly. “Your bribe?”
“I don’t understand.” He frowned. “You mean my father’s bribe?”