CHAPTER TWELVE
The morning after the dinner party, Oliver ate his breakfast in his chambers, told Byron to have his horse brought around, and dressed in riding clothes for his trip to see the archbishop.
He had gone over in his mind at least fifty times what he would say to him.
Although he believed it didn’t matter much what he said; it was the sum of his donation that would persuade the archbishop.
He left Weston Hall on Wind and traveled to Lambeth Palace, the residence of the Archbishop of Canterbury.
To his shock, he was received by the archbishop in the archbishop’s drawing room immediately upon arrival. “Good morning to you, Weston.”
Weston bowed. “My Lord Archbishop. Thank you for seeing me without an appointment.”
“Take a seat. On what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”
Oliver sat on the edge of the seat and looked directly at the archbishop. “I am here to request a special license to marry.”
The archbishop frowned. “I would’ve thought you’d given up on marriage.”
His damn neckcloth was suddenly too tight, and he fought the urge to tug on it. “It is my duty as a duke to marry and produce heirs. I also met someone, Miss Phoebe Windham, and I wish to marry her immediately. Actually, it is imperative that I marry her to keep her safe.”
“Safe from who?”
“Her aunt.”
“Who is her aunt? Are you accusing her of being a danger to her niece?”
Nothing was going as he had expected. “No. Never mind. Forget I said anything. Will you approve the license? I have a sizable donation to give you for the church.”
The archbishop rose and went over to a desk, sat down, took out paper, quill, and ink, and took meticulous care writing on the parchment. He folded it, poured hot wax, and pressed his seal to the license. “Come here. It is done.”
Oliver stood and approached the archbishop. Before he took the offered license, he handed over a banknote. “Thank you.” He bowed. With the license now in his possession, the heaviness in his chest eased. He hurried to his waiting horse, mounted and headed in the direction of Greenwich House.
Oliver had tossed and turned most of the night as he relived the time in the garden with Phoebe and then later in her room.
How sweet and sensual she was. How she responded to his kisses and his touch.
There were many reasons for an immediate wedding—keeping her safe, giving her a home of her own, providing her with a sense of belonging.
But there was one more thing: he didn’t think he could wait much longer before making love to her again.
Everything inside him told him this was right, and they were each other’s destiny.
Even at ten o’clock, the streets were bustling, and it took longer than usual to reach Greenwich House.
His relief at having the license safely tucked inside his jacket pocket vanished, replaced by tension that coiled through all his muscles.
Greenwich House felt like a poison. He felt tainted every time he visited.
Lady Greenwich radiated toxicity. He’d never met such a vile, fake, and selfish person.
And he couldn’t wait to never have to deal with her again.
He hated knowing Miss Windham lived inside their walls.
When he arrived, he was thrilled when a groom stood outside.
He dismounted and handed the reins off. “I will not be long.” He hurried up the stairs, knocked and waited for the butler to answer.
When he did, the butler welcomed him inside.
“Wait here. I’ll see if Lady Greenwich is receiving visitors this morning. ”
Several minutes later, the man returned. “This way, please, Your Grace.”
He followed the butler up the stairs and into the same drawing room he’d been in twice before. He hoped this would be his final time.
The butler announced, “The Duke of Weston.”
“Please come and sit across from me, Your Grace,” Lady Greenwich said with a fake smile. “I’ve requested a fresh tea tray. It should be here momentarily. Meanwhile, take a seat and tell me why you have graced us with your presence this morning.”
Even though his body didn’t want to move, Oliver went deeper into the room, and just before he sat down across from the countess, he bowed.
“Thank you for receiving me. I’ve come to call on Miss Windham.
” He decided to keep the special license information to himself for now.
When he said Miss Windham, the countess wrinkled her nose, and her eyes narrowed distastefully.
“I’m afraid Miss Windham ran away in the middle of the night.
” She pointed to a slightly crumpled piece of paper on the table between the settee and his chair.
“Read it for yourself. I can’t believe she just left without a word.
” Lady Greenwich dabbed at pretend tears with her lace-trimmed handkerchief. “The ungrateful girl.”
When he picked up the paper, his hands shook as he scanned the few words.
Forgive me for leaving, but I cannot fathom marrying the duke. I want to live, not die.
Phoebe Windham
Oliver had never seen Phoebe’s handwriting, so he could not say if it was hers or forged.
But he would bet everything he had in life that the person sitting across from him had written the note or had a maid write it.
There was no way Miss Windham—no, Phoebe—would leave him.
His stomach knotted, and he felt sick. He didn’t believe she feared the curse or him.
The only thing that gave him hope was the possibility that she might have gone to Mrs. Dove-Lyon for help.
“Did she say anything to Lady Emma?”
“No. She spoke of this to no one. We are all shocked and saddened by this. Lord Greenwich and I would never have forced her to marry you. So she ran away for naught.” She sobbed and dabbed at her eyes again. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but I wish to be alone. The footman at the door will see you out.”
Just as Oliver reached the doorway, she said, “Please call on us in a few days. The offer of one of my daughters still stands.”
“Of course it does,” he grumbled to himself. Without Phoebe, he would never step foot within these walls again. But he did worry about Lady Emma. Surely the countess wouldn’t hurt her own daughter? He left the house and was stunned to see Lady Emma standing near his horse.
“Your Grace,” she said, looking frantic, her eyes red and swollen. “Come with me.” She led him away from the prying eyes and ears of the groom, then came to a stop. “Phoebe would never run away. She was excited to marry you. My mother is lying,” she said softly.
“I figured as much. I hope she’s with Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s at the Lyon’s Den.”
“Can I come with you?”
“I don’t think that’s wise. Stay here and go along with your mother’s lies. Don’t let her think you suspect anything. I will send word when I know something.”
“I will as well.” She grabbed his hands firmly. “Please find her. Something bad has happened, I know it.” She let go of his hands, turned around, and went into the house.
Oliver watched her go as a heaviness settled on him, making breathing even harder and more painful.
If he didn’t find Miss Windham at Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s, he would go to Bow Street and hire a Runner, or a dozen Runners—whatever it took to find her.
In the short time he’d known her, she had wrapped around his heart and touched his soul.
Most people would think it crazy, but he knew deep down that she was the lady for him, that they recognized each other and belonged together as one.
Yesterday, he wouldn’t have found it easy to admit this, but today he didn’t hesitate. He loved her.
He took Wind’s reins from the groom, mounted, and rode off to the Lyon’s Den.
He knew the Den would be closed, but he hoped someone would be there to let him in to see Mrs. Dove-Lyon.
He stopped at the nearest mews to the Den, dismounted, and handed the reins and a coin to the groom.
Then he walked quickly to the front of the Lyon’s Den, where two guards stood at the main entrance and said, “May I help you?”
“Yes.” Oliver handed one of the men his calling card. “I’m hoping to have a word with Mrs. Dove-Lyon. It is of an urgent nature.”
“She is receiving callers this morning. Go inside and speak with Puck.”
Oliver entered through the main doors and recognized Puck from the other day. “May I please have a word with Mrs. Dove-Lyon?”
“Come with me.” He was led to the same room where he had met Mrs. Dove-Lyon several times before.
“The Duke of Weston.”
“Thank you, Puck,” said Mrs. Dove-Lyon. “Please take a seat, Your Grace. Forgive me for being blunt, but you seem on edge.”
Oliver took off his hat and seated himself in a chair facing Mrs. Dove-Lyon, who was dressed in her usual widow’s weeds, including her well-known black veil. “I am beside myself. I’ve just come from Greenwich House, where I was told that Miss Windham ran away last night.”
“What!?” The teacup in Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s hand trembled, sloshing tea over the rim.
“Lady Emma said she would never run away. She was excited about marrying me.” His hands shook as they held his hat on his lap. “I was hoping she had come to you.”
Mrs. Dove Lyon exhaled. “She did not. This isn’t right. Something’s wrong. I agree with Lady Emma that she would never run away.”
“Indeed. I am most concerned about her well-being. I’ll go to Bow Street and hire a Runner or two. I won’t stop searching until she is found.”
“I have a Runner I work with. His name is Mr. Stephen Burns. No need for you to go to Bow Street. I will send a note right away asking him to go to Weston Hall immediately.”
He rose and bowed. “Thank you for your help. I’ll be in touch when the whereabouts of Miss Windham are known.”
“See that you are. Puck will see you out.”
***
When the door closed behind the duke, Bessie went to her desk and wrote a note to Mr. Burns requesting his help. She planned to have Puck deliver it immediately.
It wasn’t the first time a supposed lady client of hers had disappeared, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. Bessie had a special fondness for Miss Windham, and the thought of her being in danger twisted her insides in knots.
She agreed with the duke and Lady Emma. She wouldn’t have run away, and if she needed help, she would have come to see Bessie as she had before.
It was time to talk to Lord Greenwich. He owed her a significant amount of money, and she had been waiting for the right moment to collect.
If Lady Greenwich was involved, tonight would be the perfect night to demand payment.
Men tended to loosen their tongues when faced with financial ruin and scandal.