‘Control yourself, child.’Father’s lips thinned, his head bowing as he surveyed her.‘No need for hysterics.’
‘Apologies, Your Grace.’She dropped into a short curtsy.‘I received a letter from the headmaster, and I am finding it hard not to worry.’
Father redirected his frown to the man who stood off to one side, closer to the door.He fumbled with his necktie, bowed to Father and then to her, then again to her father for good measure.‘The young duke has not returned.It’s most unusual for him to be gone so long.’
‘Needs to be taught proper behaviour,’ Father grumbled at the headmaster.‘The son of the minister for foreign affairs is a senior boy here.If word gets back, it will harm his reputation.Politics has a long, long memor—’
‘He’s done this before?’She should not have cut across her father, and judging by how he bristled, he’d not let her forget it.But her heart was still hammering, her mouth dry, and even her palms itched with heat and fear.She could not possibly have held the question back.
‘A—a couple of times,’ the headmaster stammered.‘He likes to go into the woods.Sometimes reads for too long in the library, under a desk.I asked the boys he sometimes sits with at meals, and they said it was just a small altercation in the hallway, nothing unusual.But he did not return to class, and then remained absent the following morning.’
‘An altercation?What does that mean?’Lorelei pinned her gaze on the headmaster.
He shifted his weight from foot to foot, muttering something likeshould not have written to the motherbeneath his breath.Then he glanced at her father, which seemed to steel his resolve.‘The boys roughhouse.The bigger boys discipline the younger ones.It teaches them to be strong.It happens at every school.’
‘Theyhithim?’she asked.
‘Of course,’ her father snapped.‘And when he’s older, it will become his duty to teach the younger children.That’s what school is for.’
Lorelei raised a trembling hand to her lips.Her mouth formed words, but none found the courage to voice themselves.Her sweet boy, who had crawled onto her lap and laid his head against her chest, who had watched the leaves as she stroked his hair, so blonde it was white… Who had such plump, healthy cheeks and bright eyes…
What world had her father encouraged her to send him to?A world where they would not only hit him but teach him how to hurt?
Father’s glowering intensified.‘All of this is under control.Unlike you,’ he muttered.
Lorelei wove her gloved fingers together and tightened them to ease her nerves.This was how it had been ever since William had died.With three daughters but no son of his own—and his heir, her cousin, already perfectly raised for the task—Lorelei’s father had stepped in to direct Arley’s education.After all, who was better qualified to raise a duke than a duke?It should have been an improvement.Beyond criticising him for being too shy and quiet, William had shown so little interest in his son and heir.Shown so little interest in them both.
Father and the headmaster’s gruff words floated around her, drifting out of reach.She tried to grab them, but every time they came close, the men adjusted their tone, and she lost the thread of their conversation.
If he’s not at the estate… Where?… Still in the woods?… Perhaps he’s gone to Town… Not impossible, especially with the trains… If you can’t control him, I’ll send him… I have a friend who specialises in difficult cases…
‘You think he’s gone to Town?’
Another scowl from her father, but the lecture would come regardless of what she said.Resigned to its inevitability, Lorelei sought the attention of the headmaster.After all, shewasa duchess, andshesigned the notes that paid Arley’s tuition.Not her father.The man could at the very least answer her questions.
‘Sometimes the boys…’ The headmaster stuck his hands into his pockets.‘Especially the ones who have already inherited their titles and feel themselves already grown… They occasionally head to London.To investigate the taverns, the theatre, and to have other…experiences.’
And the two of them stepped further away, still muttering back and forth between themselves.
‘How could he have reached London already?It’s been less than a day since I received your letter.’That wild worry tangled tighter in her stomach.‘How long has he been missing?’
The headmaster spoke over his shoulder.‘Three days, Your Grace.’
And he pivoted back to her father.
‘Three days?’The foyer clouded, then blurred.Lorelei extended one hand to steady herself against the wall but misjudged the distance and staggered back until she landed hard against it.‘He’s been missing for three days, and you only wrote me today?What if he’s hurt?What if he’s fallen in with ruffians?He could have been kidnapped.He could—’
‘Go home, Duchess,’ her father hissed.‘I’ll write you when he’s returned to school.’
They dismissed her for good, then.Turned two broad backs on her, the headmaster so focused on her father that he’d forgotten the proper etiquette of a farewell to a woman of her rank.Lorelei opened the door and took a breath of night, then descended the stairs.Tillman had unhitched one of the horses and taken it to the water trough, so she paced back and forth alongside the lowest step, waiting.Three days.Three days.Grotesque thoughts, worries, visions of her son in trouble rose and fell in a macabre, brutal montage in her mind.He could be alone or hurt or both.Somewhere in the gutter.In taverns.In bawdy houses, where he might contract some disease that would ruin his life.The city was not safe.It was full of miasma that brought on cholera and typhoid and so many other horrors.
The second horse, a steady mare named Melody, whickered.Lorelei paused mid-turn, then ran her hand along the horse’s neck.She stroked the mare’s nose and scratched her chin.
‘Where would he go, Melody?Where could he be?’
Chapter two
Tillmanloosenedhisholdon the bridle as the white mare, Buttercup, lowered her head to the trough.A drop of water flicked into the air as she blew, and it landed on a small brass plaque fixed to the decorative arch.He should have known what name he’d find engraved there, but he read it anyway.
