“Goodbye.” She opened the door and walked out of the room.
She had not been allowed to know her own mind. Maybe there was no mind of her own to know. She had been forced to this. Manipulated to the end. Still just a pawn.
I should have broken it off when he said he wanted to hit me. But I didn’t. Because I thought I deserved that. I think poorly of myself and he knows it and he would have used it against me for the rest of my life. I would have been worn away to a whisper, like his mother.
His poor mother.
It took an hour and a half, rather than an hour for them to get away. Phoebe was glad to have been spared seeing either Alice or Thornwick during that time. Edmund and William helped the footmen with the trunks in the rain.
She and her mother shared an umbrella to get into the carriage. They settled into their seats and the carriage started rolling a few minutes later. Dawson and her mother’s lady’s maid were in the second carriage behind them.
“It’s too bad about the rain, Mother. I’m sorry the coachmen and the footmen will get wet.”
“At least it’s summer, and they won’t suffer from cold as well as rain. And I’m sorry, Phoebe, about your engagement. I’m happy you won’t be marrying that man, but I’m sorry if you’ve been hurt. And I’m sorry about your friends. But you have your family.”
“Yes.” Phoebe rubbed at the fogged window.
The carriage was just at the end of the lane when a horseman thundered by, going the opposite direction. She recognized the horse. It was one of theirs, one of the Abingdon riding mounts. Phoebe rapped on the ceiling of the carriage, but it was already slowing. She opened the door while the carriage was still moving.
“Phoebe!” her mother called.
She fell into a puddle and got up and started running back down the lane, past the second carriage which was coming to a halt, too. The rider had slowed the horse and was bringing it back around. It was Samuel, the head footman from their house in London.
Phoebe squinted up at him in the rain. “What is it, Samuel?”
“It’s your father, my lady.” He got off the horse.
“Did he send a message? What is it?”
Samuel bowed. His face was grim, and Phoebe knew what he was about to say.
She wanted to scream out and stop him from saying it as if that could make it not true. Instead, she bit her tongue as hard as she could and tasted blood in her mouth.
“He has died, my lady. In his sleep. Found this morning by his valet. Your brother is the new Duke of Abingdon.”
Twenty-Seven
George was present for the funeral and interment of the late duke in the duchy of Abingdon. He kept to the back of the group of mourners, wanting to honor the man who had cared for him like a second father but not wanting to draw attention to himself. He saw Phoebe’s brothers Andrew and Daniel and bowed to them and they nodded back.
He waited an hour or so in the country churchyard after everyone had left and then rode over to the house of the Abingdon estate. As was customary, none of the women of the family had been present for the funeral or the burial. But he needed to see Phoebe. He knew it was foolish to hope she might need to see him, too, but if there was a sliver of a chance she did, he would seize that.
A groom helped George stable his horse. He went into the house through the servants’ entrance. He was seen by several staff members who bowed and said “my lord,” but no one stopped him or questioned him. And why would they? Hadn’t he and Alice treated this home like their own since they were children?
George had insisted Alice stay in London, convincing her that he should be the one to bring about a reconciliation. His tailcoat pocket contained a twenty-page letter from Alice to Phoebe. If an opportunity presented itself, he would give it to Phoebe. But not if he thought he might upset her. He would do nothing to jeopardize any chance he might have with her.
Hang Alice and her intrigue.
He skirted the large drawing room where he was sure the family was gathered. He went upstairs.
He found Phoebe in the first place he looked—the priest’s hole. He couldn’t see her in the shaft of light from the hallway, but he knew she was in there because he could hear her ragged breathing. She must be around the side, in the farthest corner away from the opening.
“It’s me,” he said.
She didn’t answer. He got down on his hands and knees and crawled into the darkness. The panel that hid the opening in the upstairs hallway slid closed behind him. It was a well-made priest’s hole. Not even a chink of light found its way in.
He hadn’t brought a candle with him. He hadn’t even thought of it. He had only thought of her. Of finding her.
One of his crawling hands bumped into something. Her ankle. He sat back on his heels, knees to the floor. She continued to breathe loudly. Every third or fourth breath had a stuttering inhale, and he knew she was crying.
