His mind couldn’t fathom what the butler was saying. His heart dared not accept what the man meant, yet the drawing room felt so dull, so deserted. So lacking in the homely quality that he’d come to enjoy these past few weeks.
Mark raced upstairs. He tore open the door to the blue bedroom, finding it filled with her things. The wardrobe held its usual assortment of frocks, cloaks, and lingerie. Every second-hand hat was in its place. Every heeled slipper, every high-buttoned boot.
He reached atop the furniture to search for the wallet he knew she kept hidden, but he discovered that it was missing. Only the sapphire ring with the golden band rested on the pillow in plain sight.
Mark heard a cry of agony—the grief-stricken sob of a gutted man—and realized that it was him. He was that pitiful fellow, that broken-hearted fool. Eliza had not only left, she hadleft him!
A soft knock sounded on the doorframe. “Beg pardon, Sir Mark…”
He turned to find a housemaid lurking on the landing. “Yes, Jenny, what is it?”
She looked as though she’d been weeping. “Miss Eliza has run away, sir. You see, a duchess paid her a call, and afterward, she took her money and ran.”
Mark refused to believe it. There had to be some reasonable explanation. “Eliza would not leave me. She loves me.”
“I reckon she leftbecauseshe loves you, sir. That duchess was a right nasty piece o’ work, if you ask me—treated Miss Eliza cruelly, she did. I heard it all from behind the baize.”
Surely, the Duchess of Bodlington would not dare to complicate matters, yet His Grace’s prophecy echoed in Mark’s memory:‘Our wives shall be our downfall.’
He was halfway out the door before thinking to ask, “Did Miss Summersby say where she was going?”
Jenny shook her head. “Only that she must get away.”
Thankfully, Pearson had held the coachman at the kerb. The landau and greys waited in readiness. Mark shouted orders as he crossed the pavements, for they must hurry if they hoped to catch Eliza up. He knew she was quick on her feet. She could be anywhere in London by now.
He called at Ann’s townhouse first. Piccadilly traffic was a blur to him, yet he soon found himself in his sister’s sitting room with his hat in his hands.
Ann balanced Geoff on her hip, preparing to put the lad down for his nap. “Mark! I thought you were Sid! He ought to be home at any moment. Can I give you tea whilst you wait?”
“No time to wait, I’m afraid,” Mark replied. “Is Eliza here? Have you spoken to her?”
His sister was stunned. “Not since she told me of your engagement. Has something happened?”
“The Duchess of Bodlington called at Green Street. I wager she confessed everything about Eliza’s parentage before driving her away. The duke has also been meddling. His Grace tried to pay me off! When that didn’t work, your friend the duchess must’ve taken matters into her own hands.”
“Oh, Mark, I am so sorry! We never should’ve stirred up the past, though I fear the truth was inevitable when Her Grace mistook Eliza for Lady Ermentrude.”
None of that made any difference now. He had to think—where was she from? Where had she lived? Where would she go in a crisis?
Eliza had no ties to Gloucester Place, the tidy terrace in Marylebone where she’d lived with her mother. She was a West End urchin, a pickpocket from Seven Dials. In a pinch, she would retreat to the shadows of those slums that she knew well.
“Mark, you must go and fetch her! There isn’t a moment to waste!”
With a fierce hug for his sister and his nephew, he promised them, “I love Eliza, and I shan’t rest until she’s back home where she belongs, with her family.”
He descended the stairs in a mad dash. Calling to his driver, Mark leaped into his landau and slammed the black lacquered door closed behind him. The horses sprung and the carriage lurched, and they forced their way among the carts and cabs that clogged the cobblestones.
He did not spare a glance toward Bodlington House, the London home of the Prendergasts, which fronted Piccadilly at Berkeley Street. Mark turned his gaze toward the task at hand, determined to win back the heart of the woman he loved.
Damn her parentage! Damn whatever threats the duchess might’ve made to frighten her! Eliza was a greater lady than Her Grace could ever hope to be. She had a warm heart, a clever mind, and a strong sense of survival.
Had the roles been reversed, and poor Lady Ermentrude had found herself in a dangerous situation, Mark knew that Eliza would never have judged her. Instead, she’d have extended the hand of friendship and given the girl a sound start in life.
How he admired her! How he adored her!
He loved Eliza more than he loved society. More than his career at the Bank or his connections in the City. Mark wanted nothing beyond keeping her safe and making her happy. He did not care what happened to them both, only that she would behis.
Piccadilly gave way to Shaftesbury Avenue. He watched through the glass panes of his carriage windows as his pair of matched greys sped past the Lyric Theatre. Mark remembered how breathtakingly beautiful Eliza had looked—a vision in sapphire velvet—that night on his arm atFloradora.She had delighted in the musical comedy and had reveled in the admiration of her fellow patrons. Even Miss Ada Reeve, the star of the production, had acknowledged her seated in a private box above the stage!
