Daisy forced herself to smile, for none of this was the housekeeper’s fault, and she was a dear heart. “There’s no need to ask for my forgiveness, Mrs. Robbins. I greatly appreciate your concern as well as all your guidance in household matters. I do realize that my presence here has been rather unorthodox and unexpected. You’ve been an invaluable asset. Truly.”
The housekeeper flushed with pleasure. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
The questions bubbling up within her crowded onto her tongue then. Just the night before, she’d gone into his chamber, determined to scour it from the highest shelf to the lowest point beneath his carved oak bed in hopes of finding any clue as to where he’d gone. Nothing had seemed out of place. Everything had been in immaculate order, not a piece of furniture out of place. Nothing, that was, except for the note she’d located, slipped between the pages of a book, folded three times and dated the day he’d left.Would you care to meet for a morning ride? The skies look too ominous to wait until afternoon.
That note, unsigned and written in a bold, masculine scrawl, was the key to his abrupt departure. Daisy was certain of it. If only she could discover its author and what it meant. He had said nothing of plans to meet anyone for a morning ride. She would have recalled.
“Mrs. Robbins,” she began delicately, seeking the proper words, “has His Grace ever abruptly departed London in the past?”
A rare frown firmed the housekeeper’s lips. “I’ve instructed the kitchens to keep all the plates hot. Do you find their temperature to your liking, Your Grace?”
Daisy blinked. “The plates are always appropriately warm. But His Grace… is this a habit of his? None of the household seems particularly surprised. As a relatively new bride who had no inkling he’d planned a trip, you can appreciate why I might wonder, can’t you, Mrs. Robbins?”
Mrs. Robbins swallowed. “The chestnuts yesterday. Were they to your liking? I told Monsieur Gascoigne that chestnuts ought to be boiled prior to the roasting, but he disagreed with me and proceeded with the roasting. Are you growing tired ofharicots verts? It seems to me that Monsieur favors them far too frequently. At least he has the sense not to chop them the way some cooks do.”
The housekeeper was babbling, and it was most uncharacteristic of her. It was Daisy’s turn to frown. “Mrs. Robbins, the chestnuts were lovely, and I must say that I’m not partial to beans, but you haven’t answered my question.”
“Oh dear me.” Gray eyebrows rose over eyes the color of sherry. “Are you certain you wouldn’t like some Root’s?”
Good heavens. Why would Mrs. Robbins insist on evading her questions? The insidious suggestion rose inside her again, that he had a mistress hidden away in the countryside. Perhaps he’d gone to her.
“No Root’s, Mrs. Robbins,” she said grimly. “You’ve been a retainer here since the last duke, have you not?”
The servant’s lips tightened. “I have been so honored, yes, Your Grace.”
“Then you’ve known my husband the duke for his whole life.”
“I have, and a finer gentleman doesn’t exist, Your Grace,” Mrs. Robbins said firmly.
There was a note of truth in the housekeeper’s voice, but it didn’t satisfy Daisy. “Then surely you can say whether or not he has previously disappeared in so sudden and unexpected a manner. You must appreciate that I am… concerned for his welfare. He left no indication of where he might be going or for how long he would be gone.”
Mrs. Robbins sighed. “It isn’t my place to say, Your Grace.”
Daisy stared, frustration rising within her, mingling with anger and despair. “Does His Grace like asparagus?” she asked suddenly.
The housekeeper blinked, looking startled by the abrupt shift in discussion. “Why, no, I don’t believe he does, Your Grace.”
“Excellent,” she gritted through a smile she didn’t feel. “Please see that it is served every day this week.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Mrs. Robbins’ expression was one of blatant confusion.
“I like asparagus,” she explained. She would have gone through every vegetable she enjoyed until she’d reached one he didn’t like, and that was the truth of it.
5thApril, 1881
Dear husband,
I’ve taken the liberty of sending copies of this letter to each of your estates should you find yourself at any of them. You are missed in London. While I understand the nature of your departure was both “private” and “urgent” as you stated, I believe that as your wife, I am at least entitled to know when you shall return. May it be sooner rather than later.
Yours,
Daisy
Liverpool was a city of dead-ends.
At least, that was the way it seemed.
Sebastian had been firmly ensconced there for over a bloody fortnight, and he’d precious few leads. In the small, nondescript rooms he kept over the Barrel and Anchor, the din of the seedy tavern reached him as a raucous assault on his ears: roaring laughter, music, and female squeals. His rooms smelled of stale ale and cheroots, and yesterday he’d interrupted an assignation between a dock worker and a whore in the hall.
