Ambrose swore violently, now very close to losing his temper entirely. Seizing Miss Sinclair’s wrist with both anger and distaste, he dragged her after him into the hallway, from where Frances had already vanished.
“Barrington!” he bellowed. “Barrington!”
“How strong you are, Ambrose,” panted the now slightly disheveled Annabelle Sinclair. “You know I could not resist you…”
At last, the puzzled-looking butler appeared from the library, his expression only growing more baffled as he took in Ambrose and his too-willing captive.
“Barrington, please summon what assistance you need and have this woman put back in her carriage and removed from the estate immediately. If she resists, you are to summon the constables from the village and report her for assault on my person.”
The butler obeyed and pulled a hallway bell vigorously, causing the appearance of one, two and then a larger group of curious servants in the hallway.
“Maisie, Annie, help me escort the young lady out,” instructed Barrington, nodding to two of the burlier maids. “Johnson, go outside and convey a message to the coach driver from His Grace. Tell him that he is to take this lady away from Westall Park estate without delay. He will be arrested for trespass if he remains or returns.”
“Ambrose, you can’t do this to me…” Miss Sinclair began to protest incredulously, as she found herself surrounded by hostile Westall Park staff and understood finally that Ambrose meant what he said. “I am offering myself to you completely. Do you not understand?”
“I believe this woman may be out of her mind,” Ambrose added for good measure as he released her wrist and backed away. “I shall be writing to her family.”
Annie and Maisie blocked Miss Sinclair’s path as she attempted to rush after Ambrose.
“Don’t you dare touch me, you filthy creatures!” she hissed at the maids.
“Have a civil tongue in your head when you speak to my servants, Miss Sinclair. You are the only one who has brought filth into this house,” the duke defended his employees. “Now go!”
God knows what his staff would think of him after this day’s work, in any case. Still, Ambrose himself was presentlyconcerned only with the opinion of one person, and there was no sign of Frances at all.
Muttering her impotent fury, the unwanted visitor found herself ushered from the hallway, out of the front door and then bundled into a coach that bore the crest of the Delingford family, presumably belonging to her great aunt.
Ambrose followed Miss Sinclair and her escort down the steps and oversaw her departure, although his attention was already largely elsewhere.
“Johnson, wait and watch until that coach is off the premises. Did you see which way the duchess went, Barrington? I must speak to her. She may have, ah, got the wrong idea about Miss Sinclair.”
The butler shook his head.
“I did not see the duchess at all, Your Grace. Shall I sent Nettie to her rooms?”
“Yes, please do,” Ambrose agreed although he doubted she had gone upstairs, having neither seen nor heard anyone on the staircase during the commotion in the hallway. “Ask the staff to look elsewhere too. My wife was very upset and I need to find her. She might even have left the house.”
“The coaches are all in the coachhouse,” one of the footmen volunteered. “I saw the small carriage being put away after Her Grace returned from London.”
“That is good to know,” Ambrose nodded, glad to think that Frances was at least here on the premises somewhere. “If the duchess is not in her rooms, find out whether she went for a walk and which direction she took."
He would find her and explain what had happened with Annabelle Sinclair and everything would be well again. As the duke tried to convince himself of this, he realized that he was still holding in his hand the crumpled paper that Frances had hurled at him in the study.
Opening it and smoothing it out, Ambrose found it was another of those vile scandal sheets, presumably brought back from London. He winced to see his own name again on the top story and felt very bad for Frances even before he read the detail. She had presumably picked this rag up unawares in London and then fled home in search of Ambrose’s comfort and reassurance.
Instead of which, Frances had found her husband alone with Annabelle Sinclair in a most compromising situation. The hurt on her face was worse than if she had slapped him or abused him and the injury to his own heart stung all the more once he actually read the story.
“No, that is a complete lie!” Ambrose could not help exclaiming, drawing worried looks from a maid and footman who wereoccupied in opening doors and looking into all rooms off the hallway.
He shook his head and gestured for them to continue while he got a hold of himself again. Colin’s letter had warned of another story, dreamed up by Miss Sinclair’s fevered mind and sold to the scandal writers before the conduit of Ellen Yates could be removed.
Had Annabelle Sinclair really thought that such a stunt might endear her to the Duke of Westall? Or that if everyone believed that he already had a mistress that he would feel he might as well take one? If so, her mind was truly warped.
But surely Frances had not believed the false story, had she? Not after the last three days and nights together, giving and receiving such intense pleasure, and seeming finally able to let down her guard enough to trust her caring husband…?
Maybe she had not believed it until she walked into his study and saw him entwined with Annabelle Sinclair, even if unwillingly. With another audible groan, it occurred to Ambrose that she might even have overheard what Miss Sinclair had said directly before she launched herself at him.
What if Frances not only believed him to be unfaithful and an untrustworthy liar, but also to have married her only for money? For a woman as traumatized by infidelity as Frances, it would be unforgivable.
