She stared at him, incredulous, as if she had expected to walk back into his life as though she had never been away.
He tugged his arm free of her grip and yanked the bell pull. “Albert will see you safely home.”
“There’s no need. I’m not a child,” she snapped, buttoning the open pelisse he had barely registered. “I know these grounds well enough to walk home in the dark.”
“Even so, I must insist.”
She was at the door, her disappointment plain. “Mrs Boswell seemed to think I would be welcome.”
Another lie. Mrs Boswell was not merely his housekeeper but the closest thing he had to family, a true confidante. She knew his darkest thoughts, his faults, his failures. “Good night, Miss Bourne.”
With an irate huff she swept out, the oak door slamming in her wake. His anger boiled. He kicked the side table and damned every wicked woman who ever lived.
It was not the sight of Miss Bourne that riled him, but her accursed timing.
He braced his hands on the marble mantel, mastering the urge to lash out. “Welcome, indeed? The bare-faced cheek of it. Who the hell does she think she is?”
A light tap on the door brought Mrs Boswell.
Before she could speak, he swung around, irritation hardening into resolve. “Twenty thousand pounds. That’s what my father paid to be rid of those devils.” In part, the truth eased his bitterness toward the parent he believed had ruined his life. “I suspect she named her price, and my father couldn’t count the notes fast enough.”
Mrs Boswell’s pained expression surely mirrored his own. “Forgive me, my lord. I should have turned her away, but?—”
“You’ve watched me battle the past long enough to know I needed answers. And you were right.” Though of all the infernal nights to call. “Did you know she had returned to Wynbury? No, of course not. You would have told me.”
Mrs Boswell stepped forward. “I believe Miss Bourne arrived in Islington earlier today. They say her aunt won’t last the week.”
Merciful Lord. He hoped the woman rallied, but fate was determined to make Miss Bourne his neighbour.
“About Miss Woolf,” Mrs Boswell said, her name bringing a measure of calm, though wolves were meant to chill the blood, not steady it. “She?—”
“Will be staying for the foreseeable future. It’s a complicated matter, but I’ll explain properly in the morning. I trust you made her comfortable.”
God knew he had fought hard enough to get her here.
Mrs Boswell winced as if she had stubbed her toe. “As to that … she’s gone.”
The calm broke. “Gone?” A rush of alarm gripped him, fiercer than anything Miss Bourne had ever stirred. “Gone where?”
“Miss Woolf left. I tried to stop her but?—”
“You let her walk out of this house? Alone? At this hour? Have you lost your senses?”
“What was I supposed to do, my lord? Chain her to the chair?”
“You were supposed to persuade her to wait.” He strode to the antechamber door. “Which way did she go?”
“Through the front door.” Mrs Boswell hurried after him, words tumbling as she tried to keep his pace. “I didn’t want to disturb you, and Miss Woolf insisted there was no need for her to stay. She was adamant.”
It wasn’t his housekeeper’s fault. “The lady is headstrong, and you were unaware of our plans. I’ll look for her. If I’ve not returned in fifteen minutes, send the servants to search the grounds.”
Independence might be a virtue, but if he could not command one woman beneath his roof, how was he to protect her from the vultures beyond it?
He burst through the door and flew down the steps, the drive stretching before him. Gravel crunched beneath hisboots as he broke into a sprint. Hopefully, she’d not reached the road.
He scoured the darkness as he ran, then caught sight of a figure to his right. “Wait!” he called. The woman turned. It was Miss Bourne.
Cursed saints. It had to be her.
