“Well?” Rowan said.
The man swallowed, his breath uneven. “We have searched the entire house, Your Grace. Every room. The gardens as well. Lady Juliet… she has not been found.”
Where could she hide?
For a moment, Rowan simply looked at him. Then, very quietly, “The roads.”
The footman blinked. “Y-Your Grace?”
“The roads around the estate,” Rowan said, each word measured. “Have they been searched?”
The man shifted, clearly uncertain. “We—we sent men toward the main road, but?—”
“Then expand the search,” Rowan cut in, his voice too even, containing himself in a cold, tight grip. “Every road. Every path. Every godforsaken stretch of land within riding distance. I do not care how far you must go. Find her.”
The footman nodded at once, his face draining of color. “Yes, Your Grace. At once.”
“And do not return without something of use,” Rowan added, his gaze still fixed on him.
The man dipped into a hurried bow and fled.
Rowan exhaled slowly through his nose, his jaw tightening as he turned away again, resuming his pacing to give his body something to do that wasn’t punching the walls.
This was not like Juliet. She was impulsive, yes, softer than she ought to be, far too willing to indulge her own feelings, but she was not foolish. She knew what this marriage meant.
“Perhaps she has simply lost her way,” a man’s voice came from the side.
Rowan turned and saw his friend Frederick leaning against one of the stone pillars, his posture far too relaxed for Rowan’s liking.
“You know how brides are. A touch of drama never harmed anyone,” Frederick added.
Rowan did not slow to look at him. “She is not lost.”
Frederick pushed off the pillar, stepping into his path with a faint smile. “Then she is hiding. Which, I admit, is marginally worse.”
“If she were hiding,” Rowan stopped in front of him, his voice dropping, “we would have found her.”
Frederick held his gaze for a moment, the humor in his expression dimming slightly as he took in the truth of that.
“Very well,” he said after a beat, straightening. “Then I shall go and see if I can find her before you frighten the rest of your staff.”
Rowan nodded once. “Take two men with you.”
Frederick smirked faintly. “I should like to think I can handle your sister without assistance.”
“You will take two men,” Rowan repeated.
Frederick lifted his hands in mock surrender. “As you wish, Your Grace.”
He turned and headed for the doors without further argument, his easy stride carrying him out into the morning light. Rowan watched him go for a moment before turning back toward the chapel.
He had just stepped forward when the door to the main hall opened again.
“Your Grace.”
It was Lord Wellfield, his sister’s groom. Rowan noted at once the tension in the groom’s shoulders, the way his gaze flicked briefly toward the chapel.
“Wellfield,” Rowan said.
