Tristan bit his tongue as he marched past her. He stalked down the hall to the ground floor, but he had no idea where she would have gone. Servants who might have been going about their chores were either ignoring their duties or clearing out of his way before he saw them. He turned and marched back to the butler’s pantry. Empty. He stalked through the kitchen. There was a boy turning the spit.
“Did you see a woman come through here? Tall, brown hair?”
“No, Mr. Chase.”
Tristan sighed. He walked further into the bowels of the house,coming to the door where two men stacked crates of wine.
“Did a woman come this way?”
“Aye,” Mr. Cole said. “Brown hair, crying a little. She headed down the mews to the end of the row and turned right about fifteen minutes ago.”
Tristan sighed with relief. “Thank you, Cole.” Tristan hurried out the door and down the alley to the street. The morning was bright, and she should be relatively safe in Whitehall on the main street, but there were still pickpockets. Did she have money? Did she have anything but the clothes on her back?
He jogged down the street, weaving around pedestrians and praying he’d spot her quickly. A cat ran in front of him, and he dodged it, bumping into a man holding a large goose. The bird squawked in outrage and beat its wings against the man’s face.
“Sorry!” Tristan called out but he was running now.
“Mr. Chase?”
Tristan spun, seeing Mrs. Fields standing by her cart, selling her bounty of fruits and vegetables. He passed her every morning on his way to the Den.
“Mrs. Fields, have you seen a young woman with brown hair? She might be wearing a brown cloak or...” He stopped talking as she fisted her hands on her hips.
“Why do you want to know?”
Tristan ran a hand through his hair. “I’m in love with her.”
Her eyes widened and she pointed down the next street. “If you hurry, you can catch her.”
“Thank you,” he said as he hurried down the street.
“I expect an invitation to the wedding!” she yelled back at him.
Tristan wasn’t going to tempt fate with a response. He couldn’t marry a woman he couldn’t find. And he wouldn’t find her if she didn’t want to be found. He knew why she was running. She was scared and humiliated after what her father and that blackguardRevere had said in front of so many people. Long before they finished speaking, Tristan had wanted to shut them up with the muzzle of his gun, but he didn’t have it. However, the cage had an assortment of weapons, only when he tried to take one afterward, Jack wouldn’t let him have it. Not a gun, not a knife, not the antique mace from the reign of Henry VIII. And by the time he’d cooled enough to see reason, she was gone.
Bloody hell, he couldn’t let her slip away.
His lungs burned as he broke into a sprint, dodging carts, people, dogs, street urchins. A bobbing brown cloak caught his eye, but then disappeared.
His heart lurched as he darted between two carriages.
There she was, kneeling next to an old man, handing him... an apple? She stood.
“Flick!” he yelled.
Her head snapped toward him. Her eyes widened. They were red-rimmed and dewy, but her loveliness was not marred by her pain and anguish. Nothing could ever dim her beauty, not when it stemmed from the well of good within her.
Her lips trembled. He was running and yet it felt the distance was not getting shorter. She looked away. Was she going to run from him?
She dropped her head. But she did not run.
Tristan couldn’t breathe when he reached her. His voice was locked inside his stinging throat. He pulled her into his arms. She was stiff, but she didn’t fight him as he held her tightly and took a deep breath, her scent filling his head and relief weakening his knees.
“Flick, you can’t leave me,” he said. “You can’t run away without me.”
She sniffed, her hands fisting the bottom of his jacket.
“I’m so ashamed,” she whispered.
