He left his study and hurried down the stairs. “St. Clair!” he said, spying his butler in the foyer.
The man bowed deeply. “Your Grace, how may I be of service?”
“Have you heard anything from my wife?”
If St. Clair had, Lewis was certain that he would have known at once, but he had to ask. Just to be certain.
“No, Your Grace.”
“Well, then,” I say. “Prepare the coach. I wish to visit the Duke of Reeds.”
The butler bowed again. “Of course, Your Grace.”
St. Clair left to do as he had been asked, while Lewis remained in the foyer, pacing. He vaguely regretted having a coach prepared. Lewis could have run to the stables and had his own horse saddled more quickly than the coach could be prepared, but he did not know how far he might need to go to find Bridget.
St. Clair entered the house and bowed. “The carriage is being brought around, Your Grace.”
“Good. If my wife returns, have word sent to me.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Lewis left the house and walked to the sleek, black coach waiting for him. The footman snapped to attention and bowed. “Your Grace.”
“Make all haste,” Lewis said, climbing into the coach.
“Of course.”
The footman closed the door, and Lewis settled himself against the cushion. Lewis’s heart was in his throat. The empty seat across from him was like a condemnation of his own actions. Bridget should have been seated across from him.
He was a rational man, and he had no proof that any misfortune had befallen Bridget. Lewis was letting his fears get the best of him. But what if somethinghadhappened to her? Lewis would never forgive himself.
No, it would not do to let himself be overcome by thoughts like that. Hewouldfind Bridget, and she would be unharmed. The ride to Elias’s townhouse would be better spent deciding what he would say once he found his wife. The conversations with his grandmother and Morington whirled about inside his head. An apology seemed suddenly needed and woefully insufficient.
The coach came to a stop, and Lewis ripped open the door, startling the waiting footman. “Your Grace!”
Lewis did not answer, instead hurrying up the path to the familiar townhouse. He hammered his knuckles against the door, which opened to a tired-looking butler. The man recovered quickly, schooling his expression into a look of polite indifference. He bowed cordially. “Your Grace.”
“I have come to speak to Elias.”
“Regrettably, His Grace is not accepting visitors.”
“I know the hour is late,” Lewis added. “But it is a rather urgent matter.”
“You misunderstand me, Your Grace,” the butler said. “The Duke of Reeds is not accepting visitors because he is away.”
Lewis’s pulse jumped. “Where did he go?”
“I do not know. His Grace received a letter earlier today, and he left hastily. He informed the stablemaster that he would be away for a few days, but he did not say where he was going. His Grace seemed anxious.”
Lewis crossed his arms. Was Elias’s sudden departure related to Bridget’s own disappearance? Or was it entirely coincidental? He suddenly imagined Bridget, bereft and desperate, coming to her brother for his help and realizing that he was not there for her.
“H-have you seen Bridget?” he asked. “The Duchess of Wheelton. My wife.”
As if heneededto explain who Bridget was to this man. He doubtlessly knew who Elias’s sister was.
“I believe it was a letter from the duchess which caused His Grace to leave so quickly,” the butler said.
“Then, she is with Elias.”
