“Let us go,” Julian said.
Together, they crossed to the carriage, soaked to the skin in the few steps it took to reach the door. The ride was rather more harrowing than he would have liked, the horses startling badly at the lightning more than once. When they finally reached the Fox and Hare, Julian leapt out and ran the last few steps to the door with Nathaniel close behind, cursing under his breath.
“Wait here,” Julian called back to the coachman. “Get down off the box and wait inside the carriage. I would not have you catch your own consumption out here.”
The man looked at him, clearly baffled by the instruction, while Nathaniel rolled his eyes.
Inside, the inn was packed. It seemed Clara had not been the only one to decide it would be wiser to wait out the storm than press on.
Julian made his way to the innkeeper, who was busy pulling pints for his patrons.
“I beg your pardon,” he called.
The man did not look up. Nathaniel slammed a fist on the counter. “My good man, the Duke of Lynden addresses you.”
The man’s head came up at once. “I do beg your pardon, Your Grace. How can I help you?” Julian noted, even in the middle of his panic, how different this was to Dover, where titles had bought them nothing but suspicion. Here, his title earned instant deference.
“I am looking for my wife. She would have come in earlier, likely just as the rain began.” He described her.
The man’s eyes widened. “She was here, Your Grace, but she left. With a tall gentleman. Came in just as the rain started as you say. Asked me for a quill and some writing paper.”
Julian frowned. “Writing paper. For what?”
The man shrugged. “I couldn’t say. Wait a moment.” He disappeared into a back room and returned with a torn piece of paper. “She left this on the table when she went. I picked it upbefore anyone else could. It’s got a bit of ale on it, Your Grace, but you should still be able to read it.”
Julian took it and read it at once. It was addressed to him. The words landed one after another, each one its own small blow. What was she talking about? Why did she believe he did not love her? And then it struck him. The conversation with Nathaniel and Gideon. She had overheard it. Or enough of it, at least, to believe he no longer wanted her.
His world tilted sideways.
“You said she left with a gentleman. Tall. What else can you tell me about him?” Nathaniel asked, leaning in.
“Not much more than that, Your Grace. Dressed like a coachman by the look of him. That’s all I saw. Would you care for a drink on the house?”
Julian shook his head as Nathaniel took him by the arm.
“She left with somebody. Do you think she sent word to her father? Or to someone in our circle?”
“She left because she thinks I do not love her.” Julian thrust the letter against Nathaniel’s chest. Nathaniel took it, read it, and rubbed his forehead.
“Well. This has only become more complicated. We must put this right. Where do you think she has gone?”
“Excuse me.” A voice came from behind them, and both men turned at once. A woman stood there, older than the two of them, perhaps in her forties, a cloak still drawn around her shoulders, the hood pushed back. “I could not help overhearing your conversation with the innkeeper. You are looking for your wife?”
“I am, indeed.”
“I believe she may have been taken against her will,” the woman said. “My husband and I came into the inn earlier and saw a woman matching your description stepping into a carriage. She went willingly enough at first, but when we drew closer, we heard her pounding on the window and calling to be let out.”
“Tell me everything,” Julian said.
“My husband went to the coachman. We were concerned for her welfare. The man told us she was his master’s runaway daughter, being brought home against her wishes, and we believed him.” The woman’s expression tightened with apparent regret. “I am sorry, Your Grace. We did not think to question it further.”
Julian closed his eyes briefly. “Which direction did the carriage go?”
“I could not say. We went inside almost at once, and the rain was coming down so hard by then it would have been impossible to follow it more than a few yards in any case. But it was a black carriage with red handles. I remember the red quite clearly.”
“Thank you,” Julian said, and pulled Nathaniel outside with him before the woman had even finished her curtsy.
“That is Devereau’s carriage,” he said. “I remember exactly how pretentious it looked when he arrived in it for my birthday celebration. Red handles, red trim on the wheels. He has her.”
