If peace was a thing to be earned, she would earn it, even if it meant burying the part of her heart that still whispered his name.
Jasper’s subsequent journey to London was a blur of restless hours and sleepless thoughts. Jasper barely remembered the changing countryside, the endless rhythm of the wheels, or the cold bite of the morning air each time the carriage stopped to change horses. He had driven himself to exhaustion, as if speed alone might undo what pride and silence had cost him.
By the time he reached Mayfair, the sky was low and grey and the streets wet from a recent rain. His horse was spent, his coat creased, but he scarcely noticed. He went straight to the townhouse that bore the crest of the late Viscount Forth, dismounted before the footman had even reached the steps, and strode up to the door.
The butler, who was startled at the sight of a duke in such disheveled haste, ushered him quickly into the drawing room.
Moments later, the new Viscount of Forth appeared. He was a pleasant, soft-spoken gentleman of perhaps five and thirty, whose good nature was apparent even in his solemn expression.
“Your Grace,” he greeted, bowing slightly. “This is an unexpected honor. I hope all is well?”
“Do forgive the intrusion, my lord,” Jasper said tightly. “I am here to see Lady Matilda Sterlington. Is she at home?”
The viscount’s expression changed, and faint surprise now gave way to something like regret. “I fear you’ve only just missed her, Your Grace. She left the city several days ago.”
Jasper stilled. “Left? For where?”
He knew the answer, but he needed something more precise.
“That I cannot say.” The viscount spread his hands helplessly. “She told my wife only that she was going away for an indefinite stay, to seek quiet and reflection. We received a note afterward, thanking us for our hospitality. She did not mention a destination.”
“Not at all?” Jasper pressed desperately. “No mention of a town, a direction, a name?”
The viscount shook his head. “None. Her maid said she was traveling south, though where exactly, I cannot say. Some ugh… religious place, I believe. A convent, perhaps.”
Jasper’s heart gave a sharp, painful twist. “A convent,” he repeated slowly.
“Yes. My wife was quite distressed to hear it,” the viscount said kindly. “She spoke of Lady Matilda with great affection. Such a gentle spirit, so dignified. It seemed a cruel fate for one still so young to bury herself away from the world.”
Jasper turned toward the window. The rain traced pale lines down the glass, blurring the street beyond. “Did she say why?” he asked quietly.
The viscount hesitated. “Only that she wished for peace. That she had been hurt, I think. And that she meant to live without disappointment.”
Jasper’s hand curled at his side. “Peace,” he muttered. “She deserves far more than that.”
“Indeed,” the viscount agreed softly. “But some find peace safer than hope.”
The words struck deep. Jasper looked at him then, with the weight of guilt heavy behind his eyes. “If she writes,” he said, “if you hear from her,anythingat all, please send word to Harrow House.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
Jasper inclined his head stiffly and turned toward the door. But the viscount’s voice followed him.
“My wife said something else,” he added. “She thought Lady Matilda looked relieved, as though she had finally decided on a course long feared but inevitable.”
Jasper paused, his back to him. “And you?” he asked quietly. “What do you think?”
The viscount hesitated. “I think a woman does not flee from comfort unless she has been made to feel unsafe within it.”
The words landed like a blow. Jasper closed his eyes briefly, then nodded once in grim acknowledgment.
When he stepped back out into the grey street, the rain had begun again. It was fine and cold, misting against his face. He stood for a moment on the steps, his gloved hand tightening around the railing.
She was gone. She had vanished into silence, somewhere in the south. He didn’t even know where to begin.
But he would not give up. He could not.
Jasper drew a slow breath, lifting his gaze toward the washed-out sky. He had spent a lifetime running from ghosts. First, he was running from his father’s shadow, ad then, from his own unworthiness.
