Chapter 39
Acarriage was ambling to the stable just as Henry reached it on foot. The driver jumped off, a burly man with a serious expression. Henry ignored him, striding into the stable. Would that he could catch Jennings on foot, if only to keep moving.
Horses filled the stable, but he could not see a single groom. Henry spun in a circle. Blast it all, where were the stable hands? Was every blasted servant at Windvale a part of the smuggling or had they been raptured at the most inopportune time?
“I’m needing to find a particular guest,” a voice asked from behind.
Henry turned on the carriage driver from before, who’d followed him into the stable, annoyance flooding him. “You’ll have to ask at the house then.” He sought around for needed tack. He would saddle a blasted horse himself.
The man was unimpressed with Henry’s ire. “Are you a guest? Mayhap you can direct me. I seek one Henry Ainsley.”
Henry froze. “That is me,” he said, wary.
Success flashed in the man’s expression. “We were sent to find you, Sir Henry.”
Fate could not possibly have such a sense of humor. Nor such impeccable timing. Henry faced the man fully. “Carlton sent you?”
“Yes.”
Praise the Almighty. “You have a carriage? Come, we’ve a man to follow!” He was already jogging to the exit. The man followed him without a word.
Alice had followed Henry the moment he chased Jennings from the ballroom. But her progress was slow—constantly interrupted. And though she was abysmally rude in disentangling herself from each guest who wished to converse, it still took several long minutes to escape the suffocating room.
“Milton,” she said, slightly out of breath, “have you seen Sir Henry?”
The man nodded. “Yes, ma’am. He followed Lord Jennings to the stables. They were both moving rather quickly. I imagine they have gone off somewhere.”
Her breath caught in her chest. Somewhere? To town maybe? Where else? The beach? Some den of smugglers, pirates, and thieves? She knew just enough to conjecture, and not enough to allay any of her concerns.
She struggled to pull air through her nose, but the little trick—the one Henry had taught her at that first masquerade—did not help. Everything about Henry tonight indicated he still cared for her. That he wished for a future.
And he had just chased after a man he believed complicit in smuggling and piracy.
Tears pricked her eyes but she pushed them back, attempting pragmatism. Should she go after him?
Her hands fisted in her skirts. No, of course not. She would be no use against smugglers. Oh heavens, but someone had to help.
A knock at the door had the butler turning from her—she’d quite forgotten he was there. Was a guest this late?
Had Henry returned?
Milton spoke to whoever was there. “Gentlemen, might I have your invitations?”
“Ah, no, we do not actually have any.”
“I am sorry, then, Mrs. Seymour is hosting a party, and if you do not have an invitation, you will need to return at another time to request an audience.”
“We only wished to speak with a guest. With Sir Henry Ainsley. Would that be—”
Alice stepped up beside Milton. Before her were two men. Both of a height, one light and one dark. She did not recognize either. “I am Mrs. Seymour. What need do you have with my guest?”
The men shared a look, then the broader of the two bowed.
“I am Lord Berkeley. Sir Henry is our friend, and we are concerned he may be in trouble.”