She shook her head, deciding not to argue the point. That didn’t matter now. None of it mattered except getting Isabella back.
The coach rolled up the driveway to the house, most of its lights extinguished. An unpromising sign, but evening had now advanced into night, the darkness absolute. Perhaps they had retired.
If they had retired to bed—
No, she wouldn’t think of it.
“I’ll ask if he’s at home,” Oliver said. “If he is, I’ll come and fetch you. No point us both getting wet, and I would rather the servants didn’t know you were with me unless absolutely necessary.”
Even now, knowing everything he did about her past and with Isabella’s shame hanging over her, he tried to preserve her reputation. Emily tried not to love him for it, and failed.
“Hurry,” she said.
Oliver opened the door, letting in a brief flurry of rain before he slammed it behind him. She looked up at the imposing house beyond, familiarity hitting her in a nostalgic wave. This was the first time she had been here in seven years. She let her gaze trail across the magnificent facade, cloaked in rain and darkness.What a spectacularly beautiful house, and what rottenness it held inside.
Once, she had come here with her heart in her mouth and anticipation in her chest, believing that she would one day be mistress.
So much for that.
Seventeen, it seemed, was the age for foolishness—hers and Isabella’s. But she had been young and ignorant. No one had warned her away from Marlbury. Isabella had the benefit of her experience, and she had still made the same choices.
Oliver turned away from the door after speaking to the butler.
No, worse choices. If Marlbury had asked her to run away with him, she would have refused. Isabella, apparently, had jumped at the chance.
Oliver strode back towards her, his face shadowed. Over the course of their time together, it was as though she had seen him grow from a boy into a man, the transition happening before her very eyes. And now it was complete; he had left boyishness behind him, at least for the present.
She found she missed it.
She found she adored the man he had become.
“He’s gone,” she said, shocked by the cracked desperation of her voice.
“Three days ago, according to the butler,” Oliver said, pounding the roof once to let the coachman know they were ready to set off. “And his father is due to arrive to the house tomorrow. He sent a letter ahead informing Marlbury of his imminent arrival, and the same day, Marlbury left.” At her blank look, he added, “You may believe his father will disapprove of his actions, and so he is attempting to evade the consequences.”
“But if he took Isabella with him—did he?” she asked, looking into his face.
“The butler confirmed he took a young lady with him, and I can only assume it was Isabella, yes.”
“Then why?”
“Either she volunteered to go with him, or he offered to take her.”
“But why,” Emily said, her lips numb. “Surely—why would he go to all the trouble of taking her if he meant nothing by the association?” She sent him a pleading glance, although she already knew the answer, deep down. “Do you think he could be intending a runaway marriage?”
Oliver hesitated. “I think it unlikely,” he said at last.
“Then why take her at all? I don’t understand. Surely he must know he would attract censure for such a thing.”
“In London?” Oliver sighed, and she felt the full impact of her naivety. In London, of course there would be no one who would really notice or care. Isabella was a nobody. Society only cared when one of their own was affected; otherwise, they were more than happy to turn a blind eye.
Marlbury was the son of an earl. There were plenty of things such a man could do and get away with.
The thought made her sick to the stomach.
“We don’t know anything for certain,” Oliver said. “Tomorrow morning, we’ll set off after him.”
“Not tonight?”
