Wedding rings.
The memory struck like a bell—one of the women’s voices: This ring, it means you’re married, don’t it?
Dash’s hand shot to his finger, thumb tracing over the well-worn band he had carried for more than two years. Most of that time, he’d worn it on his right hand. Until that night he’d hurled it across the room, only to claw it back again in regret, and slide it onto his left where it had remained.
In the hothouse. Ambrosia had been wearing her ring.
On her left hand. The finger nearest her pinky.
Did it mean something? It had to. Surely if she intended to run off with bloody Grimm, she would have taken it off. Wouldn’t she?
“He lied,” Dash muttered, the words scraping out of him. His princesse would not give herself to one man while in love with another.
She would not leave him without saying goodbye.
“I need to go.” Dash lurched to his feet. The world tilted, his stomach heaved—and only Hawk’s quick hand with a bowl spared him complete disgrace.
“Putain d’enfer.” Dash spat into the vessel before collapsing back onto the sofa. “Hell.”
He scrubbed a hand across his mouth. “What day is it?” He glanced around, scowling. “And where the devil is a handkerchief when a man needs one?”
“I’d imagine she’s well on her way by now,” Hawk said dryly, pressing a square of linen into his hand. “It’s past noon. And you, my friend, can’t go anywhere like this.”
But he would. Dash pushed himself to stand again, slower this time, and wiped his mouth with the handkerchief.
Surely she hadn’t actually left with Grimm. God help him if she did.
“Our friend was lying,” he said, though he doubted whether Hawk even cared anymore at this point. “He must have been. I should have realized. Merde, he had to bribe Lancelot to make his point.”
“Who the hell is Lancelot?” The confusion in his friend’s voice was almost enough to give Dash cause to laugh.
“Ambrosia’s son.”
Dash rapped once on the door to her townhouse. Then again, harder. When no one came straightaway, impatience boiled over and he pounded his fist against the panel, the sound echoing down the quiet street.
At last the door creaked open. A man he didn’t recognize—certainly not Mr. Carrington—peered out warily. “The mistress is away from home.”
He made to shut the door, but Dash thrust his boot into the threshold.
“Where is she?”
“I do not have the liberty of sharing her whereabouts with strangers.” The man glanced pointedly down to Dash’s foot. “Now, if you’ll be so kind?—”
“Did she take Lancelot with her?” If Lancelot was here, it meant she hadn’t gone far.
“Pardon?”
“Her dog. Red-haired, short-legged creature.”
The servant frowned.
“Sleeps with his tongue out and his eyes open.”
“Ah… the dog. Yes sir, the dog is gone as well.”
“Where is Mr. Carrington? Is he available?”
“Oh, no sir, he’s been given time off, until the mistress returns.”
