Seraphine instinctively reached out, her fingers brushing lightly against his sleeve. “Will you... will you be all right?” she whispered.
For the briefest instant he stopped. He looked down at the hand resting upon his arm, then gently removed it. His expression softened for one fleeting heartbeat before the hard mask returned.
“Do not concern yourself.”
Before she could reply, he turned away and descended the front steps.
Within moments he mounted his waiting horse in one fluid movement. With a sharp command, he urged the animal forward. The horse surged through the gates at a gallop.
Seraphine remained standing in the open doorway long after the thunder of hooves had faded into the distance.
He had not kissed her goodbye. He had not embraced her. He had not even wished her a safe journey.
Drawing a slow, trembling breath, she blinked rapidly against the tears threatening to spill. Somehow, watching him ride away without a backward glance hurt even more than leaving for Scotland ever could.
Will I ever see him again at all?
Chapter Thirty-One
Damien urged his stallion through the London streets at a punishing pace. The folded letter remained tucked inside his coat, its contents repeating through his mind with relentless urgency.
Lord Pemberley has been located. He is being held at the Red Door Tavern. Come at once.
At the time, the message had seemed like the answer to every prayer he had uttered over the past miserable days. Gantry had found the man at last. Damien had wasted no time asking questions. He had simply ridden.
The horse thundered around the final corner before the Red Door Tavern came into view. It was an ageing coaching inn tucked between a cooper's workshop and a warehouse near the river, its faded crimson sign swaying lazily in the afternoon breeze. Damien swung from the saddle before the stable boy could approach and tossed the reins into the lad's startledhands. Without breaking stride, he strode towards the entrance, every muscle in his body coiled for violence. If Lord Augustus Pemberley were inside, the man would not be leaving under his own power.
The tavern door burst inward beneath Damien's hand with enough force to strike the wall. Conversation ceased immediately. Tankards paused halfway to mouths. Cards were forgotten on tables. Every pair of eyes turned towards the imposing Duke standing in the doorway, his dark riding cloak billowing behind him like a storm cloud. Damien ignored the curious stares entirely. His gaze swept across the smoky room with military precision, searching every corner for the familiar face he had imagined confronting a hundred times.
Instead, he found only merchants, drovers, sailors, and weary travelers enjoying their ale.
A bald, broad-shouldered innkeeper emerged from behind the counter, hastily wiping his hands upon an apron that had seen far better days. His round face carried equal measures of curiosity and apprehension as Damien approached. The room remained unnaturally silent behind them. Few expected a duke to appear in such an establishment, much less one who looked as though he intended to throttle somebody before supper.
"I am the Duke of Wexford," Damien said, his voice clipped as he stopped before the counter. "I believe I am expected."
The innkeeper blinked twice. "Expected, Your Grace?" he repeated uncertainly, exchanging a puzzled glance with one ofthe serving maids polishing glasses nearby. "Forgive me, but... I was not informed of your arrival." He scratched the back of his head awkwardly before offering an apologetic smile. "Perhaps there has been some misunderstanding."
Damien frowned. "Is there not a man being held here for me?" he asked, leaning one gloved hand upon the worn timber counter. "A gentleman by the name of Pemberley…or perhaps Bowditch."
The innkeeper's eyes widened. "Held?" he echoed. "Good heavens, no." He looked towards the maid again. "Martha," he called. "Have you heard of any gentleman being held upstairs?"
The maid looked thoroughly bewildered.
"No, Mr. Henrich," she answered, shaking her head. "Nothing of the sort."
Henrich turned back towards Damien, now appearing genuinely concerned.
"If it eases Your Grace's mind," he said carefully, "I'll search every upstairs room myself." He gestured towards the staircase. "Perhaps someone has taken a chamber under another name."
"Do so," Damien replied curtly.
Henrich hurried upstairs with surprising speed for a man of his generous proportions, while Damien remained standing in thecenter of the common room. The patrons gradually resumed their conversations in hushed whispers, though many continued stealing curious glances in his direction. Damien scarcely noticed them.
Something feels... wrong. Gantry is nowhere to be seen. If Pemberley has truly been captured, the investigator would have waited personally.
Minutes crawled by. Henrich returned alone. "I'm terribly sorry, Your Grace," he said, breathing heavily after climbing the stairs. "Every room has been checked. No gentleman by that name is here."
Silence settled between them. Damien slowly reached into his coat and withdrew the folded letter. His green eyes traveled across the hurried handwriting once more. Then, for the first time since receiving it, he studied the paper itself rather than merely its contents. There was no wax seal. No signature.
