“Gone, your grace?” Mrs. Laycock opened a drawer of the dressing table. It was empty. “Where would she have gone? And why?”
“Foolish woman,” the duke said, closing the door of the wardrobe and standing facing it. “Where has she gone? That is a good question. And how did she leave here? By foot? It would take her almost all night to reach Wollaston.”
“But why would she leave?” Mrs. Laycock was frowning in thought. “She seemed happy here, your grace, and is very well liked.”
“Go back downstairs, Mrs. Laycock, if you please,” his grace said. “Find out what you can from the servants. Anything at all. I shall go to the stables to question the grooms.”
“Yes, your grace.” She looked at him strangely and left the room.
None of the grooms knew anything. The foolish woman must have walked, the duke thought. And he wondered when during the night the rain had started. And he wondered where she was going. To London to lose herself again? It might be harder to find her this time. She would doubtless stay away from employment agencies—and from fashionable theaters too.
And he wondered if Houghton had paid her at all yet.
“Driscoll,” he said, turning to one of the youngest of his grooms, “ride down to the lodge, if you please. I want to know if and when Miss Hamilton passed the gates.”
“Yes, your grace,” the groom said, but he hovered where he was instead of rushing into immediate action.
The duke looked steadily at him.
“May I speak with you, your grace?”
The duke strode out into the stableyard, heedless of the rain. Ned Driscoll followed him.
“I took Miss Hamilton into Wollaston this morning before first light, your grace, in the gig,” he said. He added irrelevantly, “She got wet.”
“For what purpose?” his grace asked.
The groom was twisting his cap nervously in his hands. “To catch the stage, your grace,” he said.
The duke looked at him steadily. “On whose orders did you take the gig?” he asked.
Ned Driscoll did not answer.
“Why did you lie to me a few minutes ago?” the duke asked.
Again there was no answer.
“One or more of the other grooms must have known that you were gone,” the duke said.
“Yes, your grace.”
“So he or they lied too.”
Ned Driscoll was watching his cap turning in his hands.
“You must have expected to be found out,” the duke said. “You must expect dismissal.”
“Yes, your grace.”
“Did she pay you?”
“No, your grace.” The groom’s tone was indignant.
The duke looked at his young groom, standing with feet firmly planted on the cobbles of the stableyard, his eyes downcast, his cap turning and turning in his hands, his wet hair plastered to his head, his shirt clinging to his shoulders and chest. He remembered a certain morning when the same groom had stood outside the paddock laughing at Fleur and openly admiring her as she tickled the puppy with one toe.
“I will want my traveling carriage ready before the doors in one hour’s time,” he said. “You may inform Shipley to be ready to take the ribbons. You will accompany him. We will probably be away for several days. You will need to pack a bag.”
“Yes, your grace.” Ned Driscoll looked up at him with wary eyes. His cap had fallen from his hands.
