“Would you?” Her face brightened as though she were a child promised a bedtime story.
“It would be my pleasure,” Henry said. “Shall we go?”
The torrent had subsided, but the rain had not stopped. And the threat of new clouds on the horizon promised another deluge.
“We best start for Canterbury.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Crawford nodded and shivered at the same time.
“May I offer you my overcoat?” Henry asked, handing her the umbrella before she could decline.
“Thank you,” she said after he’d shrugged out of his overcoat and draped it over her shoulders.
“Shall we?” His gloved hand briefly closed around hers as he reached for the umbrella handle, and he felt a definite thrill race up his arm.
*
The path hadbecome sodden and difficult to maneuver, so they made their way to Whitstable Road, which provided them with a dryer path home. Mud clogged Henry’s boots and clung to his trousers. The walk was cold and uncomfortable, but Henry could think of no other place he’d rather be.
“The whole affair is quite scandalous,” he said, delivering on his promise to tell Mrs. Crawford the story of the runaway bride that had appeared in the newspaper. “You’ve heard of Leonard Confectionery, I assume?”
“Of course, who hasn’t? Was Mr. Leonard’s daughter the one set to marry a viscount?”
“Indeed, a rather mercenary viscount. Not a pleasant man, as I understand it.”
“Did the article say as much?” she asked.
“Not in so many words, but I think I read something to that effect in the gossip columns,” Henry lied. He had a strong desire to distance himself from the whole sordid affair, and so decided not to reveal his connection to Craventhorp.
“Perhaps that is why she eloped with her true love to Scotland—I managed to read that part,” Mrs. Crawford clarified. “Have they named her lover?”
“Not to my knowledge, but they’ll be scouring the country for both of them. If she got married in Scotland, her father can do little about it. Scottish law does not require parental consent for a girl over the age of twelve.”
“How scandalous. I’m surprised an important man like Mr. Leonard made this information public.”
“I doubt he did so willingly,” Henry said. “It was most likely a servant or another insider who gossiped or sold the information. Of course, it could be that Mr. Leonard has grown desperate. He claims his daughter was kidnapped and the letter forged. They didn’t mention when she disappeared; it could have been weeks ago. Who knows how long he has been searching while keeping the story quiet.”
“Perhaps she is dead,” Mrs. Crawford suggested.
The comment struck Henry like an unexpected blow as the image of a frightened young woman, trembling in his arms came to mind.What if he killed her, and I did nothing to help her? I saw the malice on Craventhorp’s face that night, and I knew what he was capable of, yet all I could do in my drunken state was make a fool of myself.
“Do you think she might be dead?” Mrs. Crawford asked.
Her tone sounded hopeful, as though Miss Leonard’s death would be an exciting turn of events. “That’s a rather morbid thing to say,” he snapped.
“Do you mean for a young lady?”
“For anyone. Why would you say such a thing?”
“I didn’t say that I hoped she was dead; I said shemightbe dead. If she was kidnapped, that is.”
Henry frowned, trying to shake off the memory.
“I am sorry if I shocked you, but the reality is that life can be difficult for women, even inside the sheltered walls of Mayfair and Belgravia.”
He swallowed rising nausea in his throat and endeavored to change the subject. “Have you been to London? You sound as though—”
“No,” she interjected. “I like to read, that is all. “Brontë, Collins, Dickens.”
