Edward lifted his brow. “No outriders?”
Kimpton’s jaw tightened. So, his wife was disobedient as well. Edward contemplated that for a moment, wondering how Kimpton disciplined the lack of respect. It was a man’s duty.
“No. Though she may have instructed them to remain at the inn. There was an outpouring of rain, and confusion upon her arrival.”
“Confusion?” Edward pulled out his coin and tossed it in the air.
Quince looked toward Thorne, who gave a curt nod. “One of the, er… local tenants had a slight emergency.”
Edward bit back a smirk, shoving the coin in his pocket. “I hope all fared well.”
“We as well,” Kimpton said under his breath. “Maudsley, perhaps you’d care to join me for a brandy.”
Edward inclined his head. “That I would.”
“Quince, perhaps you should check on that tenant.” The man bowed slightly and slipped from the room.
Edward admired Kimpton’s sharp manner, but there was something about the exchange that left him uneasy. Kimpton rose from his chair behind the massive oak desk and moved to the brandy decanter on a shelf in the corner. Edward could almost taste the burn of the gold liquid as it splashed in the balloon glass.
Kimpton sauntered over, brandy glass held out, and the realization hit like a punch in the face. Kimpton was shielding Virginia. With shaking fingers, Edward reached for the glass and swallowed the contents in a solid swig. How dare the man interfere in Edward’s marriage? Keep his own wife from him.
Edward dipped his fingers into his pocket and fingered the coin. Blinked in an attempt to clear the sudden rage blinding him. He tossed up his lucky coin and caught it.
Toss, catch.
Toss, catch.
“Another brandy, Maudsley?” Kimpton’s voice jarred him back.
“Yes. Yes, of course,” he murmured, handing over the empty glass. He struggled to push back his seething fury. A million things cluttered his head. He’d find that damned cottage and repossess his rebellious wife with a vengeance.
“Cheers, old man.”
Edward squeezed his fist around the coin and took the glass, biting back another surge of anger. He meandered to windows that stretched from floor to ceiling and gazed out over the expansive lawns. A lone rider cantered past, disappearing into a copse of trees toward the north. Mr. Quince. A slow grin tugged from deep within. He finished off his brandy, set the glass on a nearby table, and flexed his fingers.
Lorelei stretched, groaned, then forced her eyes open. Someone had graciously stirred the fire and ungraciously let in the afternoon sun. She squinted against the parted curtains. A second later, events from the night before crashed over her with the force of a cracking earth. Miss Hollerfield’s bloodcurdling screams. Stark, undisguised fear.
The women would need help. Even having left Bethie behind, Lorelei knew they needed more. Much more. She threw back the coverlets and bounded from the bed. She rang for Liza and sorted through her dresses, quickly selecting a brown day dress.
“My lady?”
“Oh, good, Liza. I must return to the cottage. Have some hot water sent in and inform Andrews to ready the carriage. Then help me with these fasteners, if you will.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Any word from Bethie?”
“I fear not, ma’am.”
“Very good. Hurry now.”
Thirty minutes later, Lorelei hurried down the stairs, her hair not so stable, but she couldn’t worry about that. Before her booted foot touched the bottom step, she spotted Mrs. Metzger. “My cloak, if you please—”
She stopped, catching sight of Mrs. Metzger standing just to off the side, wringing her hands, her expression anxious. “Is something amiss, Mrs. Metzger?”
The door to Thorne’s study swung wide. “Might I have a word, Lady Kimpton?”
Lorelei started at her husband’s deep voice. A voice that should be miles from her less than stout reserve where he was concerned. In London. She swallowed back an irritated reply. “It shall have to wait, I’m afraid. I’m just on my way out.” From the side pane window at the front door, she noted Andrews next to the waiting carriage. She turned to her husband, her lips compressed.
