Chapter Thirty-five
Two hours after opening the brown paper package, Angus was still sitting by the lake, utterly engrossed in his wife’s book.
Had he ever been inclined to pick up a novel before, it would have been something about war or adventure, and would probably have discarded it after a few pages.
He read only to educate his mind and improve his understanding, not wile away the hours with fictitious nonsense.
Yet here he was, doing precisely that, with a romance novel, of all things.
He told himself it was purely for research purposes, to read between the lines, and better understand how his wife’s mind worked.
Yet, somewhere amongst the pages, he had become invested.
Amused by the characters and their antics, turning each page with an absurd hope that they might overcome the foolish obstacles they were unwittingly setting themselves, eager for them to…
Abruptly, his hand fell, the book resting open in his lap.
His breath caught. It was as though Sylvie herself rose from the pages — a living apparition conjured from ink and fear.
Guilt surged within him, the kind a voyeur might feel when caught intruding on an intimate exchange.
The tender-hearted heroine, wishing only to be loved and cherished, just as Sylvie was!
And her foolhardy companion, blind to his own good fortune…
A chilling panic surged through him. His worst fear was already upon him.
He thought he had come to Southerby Manor to escape the horrifying memories of his father — to transport himself back to a time when his life was less complicated. Yet now? Now, he realised it was Sylvie he had been trying to escape. It was she who was smothering his peace and unsettling his mind.
With a sharp inhale, he slammed the book shut and snatched up the brown paper. There was no time to lose. For her sake as well as his own, Sylvie must be gone from Westland House by sun-up tomorrow.
Standing abruptly, he turned, then took an unsteady step backwards in surprise. “Eddie? What the devil, you startled the life out of me.”
“Sorry, milord, I just… um… well… just…”
“What, man?” Angus barked impatiently, his irritation flaring. “What is it that has you stalking me like a stag and stammering like a girl?”
“I… um… I’ve had a note from Betsy… and, I, um…”
Angus frowned at his young valet for a moment.
The boy had never lacked confidence, always ready with a quick retort, and he feared nothing, least of all him.
It was one of the reasons he’d dragged him home by the scruff of his neck years ago, when the little tearaway tried to pick his pocket.
Never once had he regretted it. Eddie was loyal to a fault.
Yet now, he was spluttering and fidgeting and avoiding eye contact.
“Ah,” Angus finally sighed. “Betsy, your beau?”
“Well, she’s not rightly… not officially… but we’ve stepped out a few times… but…”
“Of all days,” Angus muttered, but seeing poor Eddie greying around the gills and looking about to expel his breakfast, he took pity. “If she is in the family way, my boy, we’ll…”
“What!” choked Eddie, his eyes instantly shooting to his master’s face, wide with indignation, “I ain’t laid a hand on her, milord! Mind it might be a sight easier if that were the… the problem…”
“Problem?” echoed Westland. A cold unease settled over him. “What problem?”
Eddie took a cautious step back, his hands raised in defence. “Now, don’t be shooting the messenger, ‘cause I fear you ain’t gonna like it… and I ain’t gonna like telling… and I ain’t supposed to be saying nothing unless…”
“Eddie,” growled Westland, the single word rumbling like distant thunder. “Spill your guts, boy.”
Eddie swallowed. “Betsy was worried, see, in case anything… well… went amiss and they didn’t return immediate like. Said not to tell unless… alright, alright!” Eddie spluttered, scampering backwards as Westland loomed forward. “Lady Westland, and Betsy… they’ve gone to Southend. Left this morning.”
Westland stopped. “Southend… Southend on Sea? Why the devil would she travel to Southend?” He shook his head. “Has she gone to visit friends?”
“Well, they be visitin’, milord, but I wouldn’t say it be a friend as such. It’s some hair-brained scheme to… to make you change your mind about sending them off to Wales.”
Westland’s eyes narrowed dangerously as he leaned closer. “And who,” he asked in a deadly calm voice, “are they visiting, Eddie?”
“The… oh, god help me,” he said, taking three more paces backwards, then blurted, “The Comte de Roche, at Hayford Abbey.” Bracing himself, he held his breath, readying for the explosion that was about to assail his ears.
But Westland didn’t utter a word nor move a muscle, and Eddie blinked several times. “Milord, milord? Are you… ”
Letting out a long, steadying breath, Westland gave a sharp nod. “My horse,” he rasped.
“Readied, milord. Mine too. I’m comin’ with you.”
“No,” Angus snapped, more sharply than he would have liked, then added more calmly, “but thank you. It was brave of you to tell me.”
“Aye, well, I never defied you before, mi lordship, but I’ll be doin’ it now. I’m coming with, and that’s that.”
Already striding away, Westland growled over his shoulder. “I said brave, not foolish, you idjit.”
A grin widened on Eddie’s fresh young face as he scurried after the giant of a man who had given him everything from a thick ear to a life he was proud of living. Angus Westland — The Morose Marquess — was his absolute hero. Though, of course, he would never admit such a thing out loud.
* * *
“You! You know something!” Westland’s voice cracked like a whip. The shock in his tone startled even Humber, but Southerby’s reaction was worse. The man, who was the epitome of calm detachment, looked guilty!
“You do bloody know something, don’t you!” Angus growled, advancing, his hands already curling into fists.
“Not precisely, no.” Southerby ventured quietly. “ Nevertheless, I have a suspicion… now steady on, old chap… just hear me out…”
“What the deuce is going on?” Humber cut in, glancing between them. “Angus, for god’s sake, why would Valentine…” Then he blinked. “Oh, oh, bloody hell, Valentine! You do know something.”
Faced with accusing stares from his dearest friends, Southerby lifted his hands in surrender, taking a cautious step backwards. “I think… it’s to do with the letter. The one I gave to you. From Louis…”
“What about it?” snarled Westland, while Humber barked, “What letter!”
“I… I may have mentioned it to Lord Mason, and…”
“And?” thundered Westland.
Southerby hesitated. “And…. it would seem your wife may have overheard our conversation. I understand she had called on her father that evening, and finding him occupied… well, my only deduction is that she did not leave immediately.”
Angus’s jaw tightened. “You discussed my business with Mason?”
“He was concerned about you… after the incident with the painting. As was I.”
“What painting… and what bloody letter?” Humber demanded impatiently, but his question went ignored.
“Angus,” Southerby said carefully, “if she has gone to Louis, it was of her own volition and not of his doing. He would never involve her. He will do her no harm, I swear it.”
“And you know this, how, Valentine?”
The way Angus hissed his name made even Humber flinch.
Out of all his friends, Angus was the most rational and pragmatic.
The most even-tempered. The only one who analysed problems with a cool head, examining every perspective before jumping to conclusions.
But now, his judgement was being ruled by emotions, and his anger fuelled by fear and loathing.
Knowing he was on dangerous ground, he continued cautiously.
“Because his motivation in this is not what you think. Trust me.”
Angus, already at the door, spun around, eyes blazing. “Trust you? I doubt I shall ever trust you again.”
“Well, I am coming with you, whether you trust me or not.”
“So am I,” interjected Humber.
“You’ll slow me down, Sebastian… your shoulder.” Angus snapped, before turning his fury back on Southerby. “And you,” pointing his finger with a murderous look, “would be well advised to stay as far away from me as possible.”
The door slammed hard enough to rattle the chandelier.
“Damn it!” barked Southerby.
Humber, still staring at the door, immediately turned at the unusual outburst from Southerby. “Damn indeed, and I think you’d better tell me what the deuce is going on!”
* * *
Angus rode hard, setting a punishing pace. Every minute that passed by was another minute Sylvie was in danger. She had at least a five-hour head start, and though he would cover the distance faster on horseback than she could in a carriage, it still felt intolerably long.
What if the carriage had overturned? What if they had been set upon?
Yet deep down, it wasn’t highwaymen that haunted him — it was the thought of Sylvie alone in Louis’s company.
What the hell had she been thinking, taking off like that?
His first, absurd thought had been that she was designing mischief, trying to make him jealous, like some reckless scheme straight out of that blasted novel she’d written.
But if Southerby’s suspicions were right, she was even more out of her depth than she knew. Louis was a master manipulator — Sylvie, trusting and guileless. And if Louis truly possessed the information he claimed, there would, without question, be a price.