“Your Grace?” called Pruitt from the top of the stairs. He held up two pairs of boots.
“No, no,” yelled Ian, “Neither of those! I mean to ride, man, not go to the bloody opera. Do not worry, girls. I’ll find her. I’ll take all the grooms. I’ll send a stable boy to Bow Street.”
Imogene made a noise of disgust and stomped down the stairs.
“Where are you going, Imogene? Please do not think that you’re leaving this house.”
“I’m going to tell my mother,” she countered, not looking back.
Ian lacked the presence of mind to process this. He turned and sprinted up the stairs taking them two at a time. The cat streaked before him with a yowl, and Ivy struggled to keep pace behind him.
His mind was a riot of emotions—disbelief, strategy, terror—but he forced himself to keep calm, to prioritize. There would half a dozen ways to reach Blackwall, which would she take? As the storm intensified, where might she have reined in, seeking shelter? The possibilities were endless, and potential for danger stalked each one.
Reaching the door to his room, he flung it open, calling again for Pruitt.
“I’ll need—”
Ian stopped so fast, Ivy collided with his legs.
“Oh, Uncle,” she said, peeking around him. “How pretty. It’s like a fairy room.”
His bedchamber, he realized, blinking at the soft glow, had been transformed. The fire, now low embers. The bath, filled with water long gone cold. All the candles, guttering now from hours aflame. A small dinner table, laid for two, had been situated in front of the fire, candle wax from a tall candelabra dripped into glasses of wine.
Pruitt appeared from around the corner, two more pairs of boots in his hands.
“What the devil is this?” Ian asked.
“The design of the duchess, Your Grace,” answered Pruitt, looking around. “She’d been working on it since your return from Kew Palace. Left a long list of supplies this morning and began arranging it when you returned from the royal visit.”
“But... but,” he turned around.“Why?”
“I would not deign to gues—”
A clap of thunder shook the house, and Ian leapt into action, replacing wet stockings and pulling on fresh boots.
Drew’s maid appeared in the doorway, flushed and tearful. “I cannot find her anywhere, Your Grace,” she said. “I . . . I didn’t know she’d gone out. She didn’t ring forme. She’d asked to be left alone. In here. She’d been so diligent about laying the supper.”
“Does anyone know if she was dressed for rain?” Ian asked. He couldn’t think about the room. “What shoes has she worn, Chappy?”
“The pink cloak is gone, Your Grace; but her boots remain,” cried Chappy, near hysterical now. “She’s gone out in satin slippers.”
Ian cursed, shrugging into a dry overcoat, jamming a fresh hat on his head.
“Was she angry, Ivy?” Ian asked his niece, trying to work through her motives. “Did she seem angry?”
“She seemed... determined,” Ivy said.
“Determined to leave?” he clarified. From nowhere, an image of his mother flashed in his head.
Before Ivy could answer, Imogene strode into the room, Timothea trailing behind her.
“Oh look,” enthused Timothea, peering into the candle-bright room. “How beautiful.”
In that moment, Ian very nearly imploded. He wanted to hurl himself out the window. He wanted to hurl Pruitt who, God help the man, was coming at him with a neck cloth. He wanted to tie Imogene and Ivy to a chair, and pick up Timothea, flip her, and shake her upside down until all the nonsense left her body. Mostly he wanted his bloody wife out of the raging storm and back in his house.
“Everybody out!” he shouted, hoping to clear the room for ten seconds, to gather his wits.
“ExceptTimothea,” he amended. “Pruitt, Chappy, locate Greenly and send him to the stables. The grooms are to saddle four fresh mounts and should be prepared to ride within five minutes.
