What to do with Gladstone? That fateful night in Stabroek, he was there. Did he have designs on Cecilia? Why hadn’t he said something if he was at the ball?
Why had he not said anything since?
The fool had a lot of explaining to do. Felton could only hope that some mistake was made, but his gut said no. The fool was guilty. Cecilia couldn’t be wrong about what he’d done to her sister.
The fellow he’d practically grown up with, learned to shoot with in the woods of Warwick with the duke, was dastardly. How could Jeremiah Gladstone have changed that much?
Was there another way to pay for enslaving Helena, other than death?
Watson sped toward him. Panic spread across his features, his wide upturned nose and broad lips poked into a disapproving frown. “Lady Gantry’s going rogue again, sir.”
Felton started running to their carriage, but she wasn’t there. “Watson, where is she?”
“She has her portmanteau and wants to catch a coach to the next stop at New Town, near the Royal Military College.”
Pushing past Watson, he saw Cecilia, purple coat flaring, standing in line with people readying to board the crowded transport.
“Sir, go put your foot down! This is ridiculous. A marquess’s wife does not ride on the stage when she’s traveling with her husband, who has a perfectly good coach available.”
“What do you suggest, Watson? Toss her over my shoulder again? You see how effective the Neanderthal approach has gone. Instead of begrudgingly sharing my carriage, she’s actively fleeing it.”
His man shook his head. “I’d say we’re losing this war. When do we cut our losses?”
Felton had tried to do things according to his training, by the Repington’s instructions—all to no avail. He leaned against the carriage. “What would Tramel do?”
The man wouldn’t let the woman he loved or the women he married leave him, until he wanted them gone. Yet, he allowed Cecilia to leave when it was obvious he’d rather she stay. Why? Was she determined to leave all Lance men?
“Lady Gantry has left me twice. This will make thrice. Seems I’m not listening again. In country, I’d leave and prepare a report for Liverpool.”
His man’s eyes narrowed, and he offered an awful scowl. “Paperwork? That’s your response? Truly, sir. Now I see Tramel’s troubles.”
Not another person taking his father’s side. “Out with your suggestion, Mr. Watson.”
“Be Tramel. He’d toss her over his shoulder if he was heading to bed. During the day, he’d shred enough of her pride to make her see his way was right.”
“That’s not who I am, Watson.”
“Who are you, sir? A retiring spy? The errand-running art lover? Or a man on a mission?”
That was a good question. When his father passed, Felton would have a new title and inherit the powerful legacy of a man who always claimed what he wanted.
“You are to be the duke, sir. Any woman would kill to be your wife.”
Cecilia wanted a killing alright, but that was part of the problem.
With a defeated shrug, he turned to walk away, but Watson barreled in front of him. “The old duke would make someone who crossed him feel the weight of the decision. Lady Gantry should rue the inconvenience of not traveling in the protection of your coach.”
“Finally, you’ve said something useful. Go into the inn. Hire every woman you can, to take the stage to the next destination with our marchioness. Let’s make her feel the joy of a crowd. Lady Gantry is like me. She’ll detest that.”
A slow smile crossed his man’s face. “Not what I was talking about, but better than nothing.”
He tossed Watson his purse. “Give them passage back too. But choose fair-minded people.”
“Fair-minded, sir?”
“Traveling alone into the country can make tongues less civil. I don’t want my wife terrorized or suffering offense. Let her be crowded, but with no loss of her peace.”
“Very good, Lord Gantry. Not what your father would insist upon, but better than stewing.”
