In other words, Mr. Michaels had vanished with little chance of being found unless he decided to show up again. The idea was shockingly bothersome and unwelcome. It filled Brody with deep disappointment as he headed for Westcliffe House.
10
Everything hurt and it felt as though Westcliffe House were hundreds of miles away. Harriet paused for a moment to gather her strength while leaning against a lamp post. Pedestrians passing by added distance, staring at her as though she were a spectacle.
By the time she arrived at her friend’s Mayfair residence, she was so exhausted she feared she’d never get up once she sat. Ignoring the front door entrance, she descended the stairs to the kitchen door. There, she knocked and waited until a maid arrived.
“Yes?” The young woman gave her an apprehensive look.
“I’m here to see the duchess.” When the maid shook her head and began backing away, Harriet told her, “Please let her know Mr. Harry Michaels needs her assistance. She’ll—”
“Sorry, but the duchess isn’t at home.” The door was promptly shut and bolted. Through the glass, Harriet could see the maid eyeing her with unease before dashing away to the kitchen.
Harriet sighed. She should have expected this based on her appearance. Had she been the maid she might have responded with equal concern if a bloodied individual arrived on the doorstep. Nevertheless, she had to find a way into the house – some means by which to gain Ada’s attention.
She returned to the pavement and glanced toward the front door. A familiar figure stood there, his back toward her as he used the knocker.
“Mr. Evans?”
He turned at the sound of her voice. His eyebrows shot toward his hairline as his mouth fell open and his eyes widened.
“Mr. Michaels?” Abandoning the knocker, he ran down the steps and was instantly at her side. “Where have you been and what on earth happened to you?”
Harriet swallowed past the dryness in her throat. “I had an unfortunate run-in with some thugs.”
He grabbed her upper arm. His expression darkened. “Where?”
“A couple of miles back.” She ignored the disapproving look she received from a pair of well-dressed ladies as they strolled by. “They’ll be long gone by now, I should think.”
“Too bad,” Mr. Evans said, his voice low and rough. “I’d have enjoyed giving them what they deserved for treating you thus.”
“It’s fine. That is, I’ve more important matters to think of, which is why I came here.” She stared at him while acknowledging his sharp appearance. “Are you acquainted with the duke and duchess or are you running an errand on Mr. Hudson’s behalf?”
“I, um…” He scratched the back of his neck and prepared to say something more when the front door to Westcliffe House opened.
A man, all dressed in black save for his white cravat, appeared. He stared at Mr. Evans, then at Harriet, then at Mr. Evans once more. “Your—”
“I’d like to see the duke, if he’s available,” Mr. Evans interrupted.
“Of course,” said the butler. “Do come in.”
“Do you wish to accompany me?” Mr. Evans asked Harriet.
“Yes. I need to speak with the duchess.”
Mr. Evans held Harriet’s gaze for a long awkward moment before he eventually gestured for her to precede him inside.
“My friend will be joining me,” he informed the butler when the man appeared on the verge of protesting.
“Very good, Your—”
“Thank you,” Mr. Evans quipped, cutting the butler off once more.
Harriet frowned. Something about Mr. Evans’s behavior was most unusual, though she could not for the life of her put her finger on what it might be. She entered the beautiful foyer where intricate crown molding graced the ceilings and white marble floors gleamed as though newly polished. Plush red runners softened their footfalls as they walked to the parlor.
“Would the young sir like a bowl of water in which to wash his hands?” The butler inquired. “Perhaps a towel for his face?”
“Thank you. That would be much appreciated,” Harriet told him.
