“I don’t really relish getting involved a second time.”
James had never felt such mortification. It was unsettling, this informing the duke there might be problems in his family. Predicting the behavior of someone so powerful was not James’s idea of an idyllic task. At the same time, he respected his wife’s instincts in the matter. Stanford was up to something. He’d as good as threatened his wife, and James refused to standby and allow that to happen.
“I believe I’ve mentioned Gabriella’s desire to trod the boards.”
As tempted as James was to take umbrage, he persevered. “Still, I feel inclined to mention her concerns.”
“All right.”
“Gabriella worries that Stanford may be violent to Lady Stanford.”
Ryleigh frowned. “In what way? Did Rose have marks on her? I’ll kill the bastard.” The duke stilled, his demeanor rivaling that of a predator poised for attack. “Go on.”
“When I approached Gabriella for a set at Peachornsby’s, Stanford was threatening her.” He quickly went on to explain Gabriella’s observations.
Shock then fury set in Ryleigh shoulders, his jaw, his eyes. James thought even the duke’s hair bristled. “I vow, my sisters will drive me to Bedlam.”
“The good news is that you shan’t be alone,” James said, wryly.
“She really confronted Stanford?”
“Yes,” James said darkly. “Believe me, I was not thrilled to learn of her hair-raising antic.”
Ryleigh let out a low harsh chuckle. “At least she manages to come away from her carrying-ons not bearing scars,” he muttered. “You have a stratagem in place to deal with him?”
“Short of killing him? No.”
~~~
Gabby paced her bedchamber, edginess scraping her skin raw. Whatever was wrong remained elusive, but anxiety rioted through her. Where the hell was Huntley? He’d left her home earlier that afternoon with some gibberish regarding a need to visit his club. That wasn’t so unusual. If she required a reprieve from men, it would stand to reason he would need one from her—oh, not her specifically. She was much too adorable for that—but now it was almost midnight, and he still hadn’t made an appearance. There were all sorts of footpads, foysts, and general cutthroats about.
The last time he’d gone missing, the blasted man had been kidnapped. Her love for him spiked fear in icy black waves, her breath hitched, lodging a block making it impossible to draw in air at not seeing him again. A careening wail hit the air. Hers. An obsidian vortex obscured her vision; felled her to her knees. Her husband had no care for his own safety.
Lady Macbeth pelted Gabby with feminine yips, dug her sharp nails into Gabby’s thighs, lashed Gabby’s nose with her little pink tongue. It succeeded in pulling Gabby back to a semblance of calm, if shaky.
She sat there on her bedchamber floor, taking refuge in Lady Macbeth’s presence. “What is the matter with me?” she asked the pup.
Lady Macbeth pressed her forehead into Gabby’s palm. It was hot, as if her little brain had elevated its inner workings. Gabby swept her up and hugged her warm body to her chest.
The door from the main hall opened.
Gabby slowly lifted her eyes. “Brita?”
“I thought I heard a cry, Lady Huntley.”
“I’m all right.” I think.
“’Tis good you are still awake.”
Alarm slithered through her. “What is it?”
Her maid’s voice lowered to a whisper. “The master, my lady. He’s—”
Gabby set Lady Macbeth aside and leapt to her feet. “Is he hurt?”
“Not exactly, my lady.”
“What then—” A sound crashed through the closed door adjoining hers and Huntley’s suites, cutting off Gabby’s words. She and Brita, slowly, yet simultaneously, turned their heads to the noise.
