As she rounded a bend in the lower hall, she nearly collidedwith Mrs. Keynes, who appeared unusually flustered, her time-weathered cheeksflushed with the exertion of her frantic pace. Maggie stopped herself short ofthe petite woman, startled and a bit flummoxed herself.
“Mrs. Keynes, good morning,” she greeted, although shedidn’t feel even a drop of cheer.
“I’m afraid it’s anything but, my lady,” Mrs. Keynesreturned, sounding uncharacteristically worried. “Haven’t you heard the news,then?”
News? Dear God. Maggie’s heart plummeted to her toes. Shecouldn’t bear any more terrible news. “I have not,” she said slowly, almostafraid to hear it. “What has happened?”
“It’s his lordship.” Mrs. Keynes pressed her lips together,taking a moment to compose herself, it seemed. “He’s gone.”
Ice crept into her heart. “What do you mean that he’s gone?”
“I’m so sorry to tell you this, my lady, but he’sdisappeared. The head groom tells me he took a horse last night and neverreturned.” She wrung her hands together, the picture of distress. “We’ve sentmen out to search for him, thinking perhaps his horse went lame or…”
Maggie knew the ominous portent of the unspoken portion ofMrs. Keynes’ words. Perhaps he’d been thrown from his horse. Perhaps he hadchosen to hurt himself as Lady Billingsley had done. Perhaps she would neversee her husband again.
“I’m sure he will return in no time, Mrs. Keynes,” sheforced herself to say through numb lips.
She tried to tell herself it was yet too soon to worry.After all, he could have only been gone for hours, not days. But fear stillunfurled in her, a snake waiting to strike.
“Of course, my lady. He’s likely to return before we knowit, and we’ll all call ourselves silly for even concerning ourselves.” Mrs.Keynes gave her a kindly, almost pitying look. “Word of Lady Billingsley’sincident has been sent to her husband at Elton Hall. I expect Lord Billingsleywill arrive in the next day or two.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Keynes,” she said, grateful that thetragedy had at least been dealt with by their capable servants. It was one lesscause for apprehension. “Your efficiency in this is most appreciated.”
“It is my honor, my lady. Pray forgive a woman in her oldage for having a moment of sentimentality.” She curtseyed, her countenanceremaining pinched as ever.
Maggie suspected they both knew that the housekeeper’sattempts to conduct business as ordinary only glossed over the fact that, atleast for the foreseeable future, life at Denver Hall would be anything butordinary. If indeed it ever had been to begin with.
Chapter Nine
“Maggie, read your latest poem to Mr. Tobin, do. I fancyhe’ll love it every bit as much as I did.” Nell’s eyes danced with mischief asshe made her request.
Maggie frowned at her once-again hostess, who had become atrue friend to her. She wasn’t prepared to share her work yet, and Nell knewit. Especially not to a brilliant poet like Jonathan Tobin. “I’m sure thecompany would far prefer to hear Mr. Tobin’s poetry than mine,” she deflected,occupying herself with the drape of her evening gown.
Although she would have once been thrilled to keep companywith the likes of the eccentric man who had penned some of the finestcontemporary verse, now she simply felt hollow. Unable to appreciate the worldaround her. She had sought out Nell in a moment of weakness, too tired ofspending her days and nights alone, fraught with fear. The dear woman hadthrown an impromptu house party in her honor, inviting every great artist,novelist and poet of their age. It was a glittering, entertaining group of fineminds, but it was mostly lost upon Maggie.
A fortnight had passed without word from Simon. And thenanother. She had no way of knowing if he would ever return. She had nowhere tosend her letters, no hope of knowing what had become of him. Perhaps she wouldnever know. She’d written every known associate of his. No one knew hiswhereabouts. None had heard from him.
He was lost to her.
Lady Billingsley’s suicide had been her final act ofmanipulation. And it had worked, for the tentative bridge she and Simon hadbeen building between them had crumbled into ash. She was once again alone.
“My lady?”
She glanced up from her lap, her hard thoughts disrupted byMr. Tobin’s deep, gentle voice. He was indeed a handsome man, she thought,wishing it wasn’t lost on her. If only Simon’s defection hadn’t hurt as much,she would have been stronger. She would have been better off had he nevertrounced her train that fateful evening, for then she never would have realizedher husband was a man she could love.
She shook herself from her troubles, forcing a smile to herlips. “My apologies, Mr. Tobin. I fear I was woolgathering.”
“About a dark and storm-tossed sea, it would seem,” he quipped,leaning closer to her on the settee they shared. “Do share. It simply isn’tfair to keep all your troubles to yourself.”
She relaxed a bit at his easy teasing. She rather liked him.He was enigmatic but humble, willing to appreciate a female poet in her ownright. She found his way shockingly and wonderfully modern. “I’m certain youdon’t wish to hear me wax on about the miseries in my life.”
“But my dear Lady Sandhurst,” he drawled, “miseries make forthe best poems. Surely you must know that.”
“It’s true,” Nell added, grinning in that unfettered way shepossessed. “Miseries and lost loves were expressly created for the sake ofbeautiful poetry. Just as men were created for pleasing women.”
Mr. Tobin raised a brow at their hostess. “Indeed, Nell?Others would swear it’s the other way around.”
It was Maggie’s glum experience that neither women nor menpleased one another. “How can anyone truly please another?” she asked beforeshe could stop herself.
