Jasper huffed as he left the room, presumably to eat his mysterious secret sandwich, but not without a parting remark. “She’sthe one in the wrong, if you ask me.”
Archie had never asked him, but his assistant had offered his opinion multiple times during the past three weeks, after Archie had returned from Lancashire in a tizzy, desperate to track down the mystery lady who’d left him. He’d written letters to everyone with even a passing affiliation with the BurnleyHornets,inquiring after a woman named Mary who had dropped a piece of jewelry he was looking to return. A lie on his part, as she had provided nosuch Cinderella-esque clue to her identity, but it was the best ruse he could come up with.
He turned towards the window, taking in the breathtaking view of the coal chute and rubbish bins of the cheese shop next door, almost identical to the vista from his flat on the floor above. Except from his bedroom, he could see edges of the patchwork of slanted medieval roofs stretching over the Shambles and the towering spires of York Minster beyond.
His logic screamed something was amiss, that he’d overlooked something crucial about their interactions that night. And if he could only identify it, he could find his way back to her. The magic of their evening had burrowed into his soul, unlocked a part of him that had laid dormant since he was old enough to understand his responsibility to his family, how his choices impacted more than himself. He’d felt joy, freedomagain with her. And he wasn’t about to let that go without a fight.
He lost track of his thoughts and jumped when a knock sounded at his door. Before he could respond, Jasper pushed into the room, looking uncharacteristically flustered. “Sir, um…” He glanced from his open notebook to Archie and back again. “There is a potential client here to see you. Lady Croydon, theMarchioness.”
He hissed the last word as though it were an ancient incantation, and, were Archie in a better mood, he might find Jasper’s agitation amusing. “A friend of Lord Valebrook?”
Jasper shrugged. “If so, she didn’t mention it. Shall I send her in?”
Archie rubbed his temples and sighed as he imagined what asinine complaint he was about to hear.
He swallowed his bitterness; the marchioness couldn’t help that Archie was plagued by memories of a woman who’d disappeared. “Would you mind asking the questions?” He pressed the heel of his hand into his eye socket. “I have a blasted headache again.”
Jasper looked at him askance. “After all that nonsense with the sandwich, you didn’t eat it, did you? Again?”
His stomach growled. “What time is it?”
Jasper glared. “Half past four.”
Oh, hell.
“My apologies, Jasper. I lost track of the hour.”
“Again. No remorse is necessary.” His tone said otherwise. Archie suspected he’d be eating anchovies on toast for the next week as a consequence. “Shall I bring in the marchioness?”
Archie mumbled an affirmative around a slice of ham, stumbled to his feet, buttoned his jacket, and pushed his spectacles up his nose. Shoving a second piece into his mouth, he chewed furiously as the door opened, and—
He choked.
The partially masticated bit of meat froze in his throat along with his breath, his entire world ceasing to orbit as he hacked, wheezed. His eyes blurred, and for a moment he thought Jasper’s blasted secret ham sandwich had sent him to the great beyond and he was experiencing a heavenly vision.
Because Mary,hisMary, was in his office, staring at him agape as he coughed and spat the offending morsel into his handkerchief.
Mary—the Marchioness of Croydon, for Christ’s sake—stared at him, her pale cheeks and parted lips the only indications of her unease. Jasper landed a wholly unnecessary slap on Archie’s back before pinching the soiled handkerchief between his finger and thumb and shoving the lot in his pocket with a grimace.
Archie stared at her, unable to make sense of what he saw. Flowers and a tuft of feathers clung to the wide-brimmed silk and tulle hat hiding her lovely brown hair. Her dress was the exact shade of the daffodils that covered the hill around York Castle in the spring, nipped in at the waist where Mary—Lady Croydon—knit her fingers together, the digits wrapped in kid leather gloves the same yellow as her dress. She looked like a ray of sunshine in his dingy office.
A ray of sunshine that had crushed him like a weed beneath her pristine boots.
Jasper cleared his throat.Oh lord, not the staring again.
“Lady Mary,” Archie croaked, and Mary’s eyes widened. “I mean, Lady Croydon, seat a have, I mean, chair.” He pointed at the piece of furniture in question, and Jasper groaned.
She shook her head. “This is a mistake. I should g-go.” She started for the door, but Jasper held out a stilling hand.
“My lady,” he intoned, sounding as though he’d been educated at Eton and not at a local parish school. “Please forgive Mr. Grant. He hasn’t been feeling well, but I’m sure he will recover shortly.” He leaned on the last phrase, and Archie fought the urge to wince.
“Whatever we can do to support the great Marquessate of Croydon,” Jasper continued, “would be our great honor.”
She nodded once, sucked in a deep breath, and spoke in a rush. “I need a d-d-d—” Another breath, a heavy swallow. “I want to d-divorce my husband.”
The air disappeared from the room. Archie wondered if he’d fainted, hit his head next to the sandwich spot on the window, and was, in reality, lying in a heap under his desk hallucinating this entire encounter. That was a far more plausible explanation than whatever this was.
Jasper recovered faster. “Perhaps you should have a seat.”
