Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Kenneth set his pen down with force. He could hear a commotion from the ground floor that bore all the hallmarks of someone rearranging furniture without regard for either silence or his schedule.
He closed his eyes briefly, pressing his thumb and forefinger against the bridge of his nose where a headache had established itself.
Just on time, Mrs. Finch appeared in the doorway with the expression of a woman delivering news she would rather have delegated to a subordinate.
“Your Grace.” She curtsied. “I thought you should be informed that the Duchess has made some changes to the drawing room.”
He looked up, which she seemingly took as encouragement to continue.
“Some rearrangement of the furnishings. And she has requested fresh flowers daily from the cutting garden. The boys have been permitted to take their reading in the morning room rather than the nursery, and the curtains in the east corridor have been opened.”
Kenneth rose from his desk. “Which curtains?”
“The ones covering the tall windows. They have been drawn since…”
Kenneth let out a short breath. The curtains had been drawn since Theresa’s death, and no one in the household had ever seen fit to question the arrangement.
Until now, it would seem.
He moved past Mrs. Finch without another word.
He could hear the twins before he reached the drawing room: Freddie’s voice raised in some enthusiastic exposition, punctuated by the softer, measured responses that belonged to Charlie.
The sound of children in the drawing room alone was a change, for that room had been reserved for formal calls and silent contemplation for longer than either boy had been alive.
He paused at the threshold.
At the center of the transformed space stood his wife, her back to the door, adjusting the placement of a porcelain bowl on the side table.
“Duchess,” he breathed out. “What is going on?”
Alice turned to face him. “Good morning, Your Grace.” She set the bowl down. “I trust you slept well.”
“I see you’re making changes around here.”
“I have opened the curtains,” she said simply. “And moved the furniture approximately four feet toward the fireplace. The room receives considerably more light now, and the arrangement is more conducive to conversation. The boys agree.”
Kenneth’s gaze shifted to the window seat, where Freddie and Charlie sat with books open on their laps.
Alice was close enough now that he could breathe in the flowery scent that clung to her.
“Papa!” Freddie’s voice shattered the silence.
“Can we ride today? The Duchess says the weather is perfect for it, and Mr. Briggs has the horses ready, and Charlie wants to try the bay pony again because last time he almost stayed on for a full minute before falling off, which is practically a record, and…”
Kenneth turned. “Riding lessons are scheduled for Tuesday, as they have been for the past six months. Mr. Briggs has other duties today.”
“Actually,” Alice interjected, and the single word carried a weight that he felt settle across his shoulders like a physical thing, “I spoke with Mr. Briggs this morning. He was amenable to adjusting the schedule, given the weather. The boys have been looking forward to it all week, and I saw no reason to delay their enjoyment when the opportunity presented itself.”
The room went very quiet. Charlie had closed his book. Freddie had gone still, his enthusiasm suspended in the sudden, charged silence.
“You spoke with my stable master,” Kenneth said in confusion. “Without consulting me.”
“I did.” Alice held his gaze without flinching. “The stables fall under the management of the household. As the Duchess, I have some latitude in matters of scheduling. I judged this to be within that latitude.”
The twins were watching them with expressions that had shifted from fascination to something closer to apprehension.
He moved closer to her, close enough that the flowery scent intensified, close enough that he could see the faint freckles across the bridge of her nose, close enough that the warmth of her body reached him through the layers of wool and silk between them.
The space between them had contracted to inches. Kenneth could feel the heat of her, could count the individual lashes that framed those impossible eyes, could see the rapid pulse at the base of her throat where his wedding ring would rest if he were to reach out and—
He stepped back. The movement was abrupt, involuntary, driven by something he refused to name.
“The boys may ride,” he said. His voice sounded strange to his own ears. “Tell Briggs I approved it.”
He turned and left the drawing room without another word. He did not look back to see the expression on his wife’s face as the distance between them widened with each step.
Kenneth rode hard through the afternoon, letting the stallion have its head on the open stretch of road that led away from Bearmoor. Each gallop carried him further from the transformed drawing room, from the open curtains, rearranged furniture, and the woman who had stood at the center of it all.
He chased the horse with fervor, as though he could escape her memory if he hurried enough.
Soon, the village appeared ahead. He slowed the stallion to a walk, nodding to a farmer who raised a hand in recognition, and made for the tavern at the far end of the high street.
The Fox and Hound occupied the same building it had occupied since his grandfather’s time: low-ceilinged, timbered, smelling of wood smoke and spilled ale and the yeasty warmth of bread rising in the kitchen behind.
Kenneth ducked beneath the lintel, removed his hat, and scanned the room with narrowed eyes.
The Bow Street runner sat at the corner table, exactly as arranged. He was a compact man with a weathered face and the settled patience of someone who made his living by waiting. He rose when Kenneth approached, offering a nod that conveyed respect without subservience.
“Your Grace.” He gestured to the chair opposite. “Prompt as always.”
Kenneth sat. “I appreciate your time, Albert.”
A serving girl appeared with two tankards before either man had spoken again. The runner waited until she had withdrawn before leaning forward, his elbows on the scarred wood.
“What can I help you with, Your Grace?”
“I am looking for someone,” Kenneth started, then hesitated.
The man looked eager. “Someone who did you wrong?”
Kenneth sighed. “You could say that. It’s… a woman.”
“A woman, Your Grace? A thief?”
“No. She… We were meant to marry. She disappeared.”
The man’s eyes widened, and Kenneth shifted. It was, he had to admit to himself, still humiliating to admit this.
“Her name is Rachel Haraway. Two-and-twenty years of age. She was last seen at Peltbury House on the morning of…” He hesitated. “The fifteenth of April. Our wedding day. She disappeared without a trace. She is blonde and slender. An attractive lady.”
The man made notes, nodding to himself. “And do you believe that someone took her, Your Grace?”
Kenneth shook his head. “That was not the impression I had.”
“She jilted you, Your Grace?” The man’s eyes were wide.
“That is correct.” Kenneth sipped his ale. The bitterness cut through the dust of the road.
“You’ve no notion where she might have gone? No letters? No friends or relations she might have confided in?”
“No.” The word emerged more sharply than Kenneth had intended. He moderated his tone. “Her father has been searching. Or at least, he claimed that he planned to. Nothing has surfaced.”
The runner’s pencil moved with efficient strokes across the page. “These situations are rarely simple, Your Grace. Young women of good family don’t vanish without cause, and they don’t stay vanished without help. Someone knows where she is.”
“Find that someone.” Kenneth reached into his coat and produced a purse. He set it on the table between them with a clink that spoke of its contents. “This should cover your initial inquiries. I want regular reports. Direct to me. No one else.”
The runner pocketed the purse without examining it. The gesture conveyed both discretion and professional assurance. “Any specific areas you’d like me to concentrate on? London? The coast? Certain families or connections?”
Kenneth considered the question with the careful attention he brought to all estate matters. “Perhaps you could try her mother’s family. With her father also looking for her, I assume he is covering his side of the family.”
Another note. Then the pencil paused. “I’ll start tomorrow. You’ll hear from me within the week.”
The man stood without another word, disappearing into the shadows.
Kenneth returned his gaze to his ale. He was not quite ready to return to the castle yet.
He had almost finished his drink when the tavern door swung open with considerably more flourish than the runner had managed and Jonathan sauntered inside.
“Bearmoor.” Jonathan removed his hat and surveyed the room easily.
His gaze settled on Kenneth with undisguised satisfaction.
“Fancy meeting you here. I was on my way to visit, and they told me you’d ridden out.
Something about urgent business in the village.
” His eyes narrowed. “You don’t have urgent business in the village. ”
Kenneth signaled for another round. “You do not know all there is to know about me, despite your apparent belief that you do.”
Jonathan dropped into the chair recently vacated by the runner and accepted the fresh tankard with a nod of thanks. “Estate matters, I assume. The eternal struggle of ducal responsibility. The weight of the title. The crushing burden of being one of the richest men in England.” He raised his drink.
Kenneth did not lift his tankard. “Why are you here, Jonathan?”
“Social call. The purest form of human interaction. I missed your charming company.” Jonathan sipped his ale. “And I’m curious about the new Duchess. The one who actually made it to the altar, unlike her regrettably absent sister. How is married life treating you?”