Immediately.
Which meant he needed to find her.
Also immediately.
In haste, he dressed himself, once more not bothering to ring for his valet’s assistance. There was no time to waste, for he had come to know Isabella quite well over the last few weeks, and he suspected she would not simply accede to his wishes, regardless of how responsive she had been in his arms last night.
His pocket watch told him it was nearing noon, and the alarm coursing through him as he fled his chamber in search of her could not be quelled. He went to his study first, hoping to hell he would find her there, already engaged in the act of typewriting his reports. The room was mockingly empty. Irritatingly silent.
His sense of foreboding increasing, he stalked through Westmorland House, attempting to locate her. There was no sign of Isabella anywhere. At last, he encountered his long-suffering butler.
“Young,” he greeted, attempting to keep his rising concern from his voice. Why the devil had he overslept? “May I trouble you to find Miss Hilgrove? In all the clamor of yesterday’s events, I overslept, and I am in need of seeing a number of reports settled.”
That was a lie. The only thing he needed settled was his relationship with Isabella. Namely, her word that she would become his wife.
Young frowned. “Miss Hilgrove is not in residence, Your Grace.”
No. Surely his butler was misinformed. Surely Isabella would not leave him. Not like this.
Not after last night?
But the sick sensation twisting his gut told him she would. She was independent, fierce. She was the woman who had been abducted by Fenians, bound, gagged, blindfolded, and then abandoned in an alley in the midst of January, only to calmly walk home. Her bravery was undeniable. So, too, her stubborn streak.
“I beg your pardon, Young.” He cleared his throat, doing his utmost to maintain a mask of indifference on his face. “What do you mean she is not in residence?”
“Precisely that, Your Grace,” intoned his butler. “She left this morning, quite early, with Miss Vinton.”
She left.
She was gone.
And she had taken her damned maid with her, which meant she had no intention of returning.
He felt as if he had just received a blow to the midsection. “Where has she gone, Young?”
His butler’s expression remained carefully imperturbable. “I cannot say, Your Grace. She did not leave her direction. The ladies hired a hack, and two of the footmen aided in loading their luggage.”
Damn it all to hell.
How had he failed to see this coming?
“Where is Lady Calliope, Young?” he asked next.
After all, Callie was friends with Isabella, was she not? It stood to reason that if Isabella had confided in anyone, it would be his sister.
“Lady Calliope is in the dining room, I believe,” his butler informed him, “concluding her breakfast. Your newspaper is awaiting you there as well, Your Grace.”
TheTimescould go to perdition today for all he cared. He had to find out where Isabella had gone. He had to make her see reason. To bring her back to him. To make her his duchess.
When had he become so desperate for a woman? He passed a hand over his jaw, contemplating that grim question. The answer came swiftly, like a kick in the arse.
Since you fell in love with the most vexing woman in the history of England, you daft prick.
“Your correspondence awaits you there as well,” Young added. “You received an urgent communication from the Home Office about a quarter of an hour ago.”
The Home Office.
Christ.
