Page 51 of Forgotten No More

Alex sighed, as if Harold should already know the answer. “I informed her that my master only attends one evening a week and she knows very well what evening that is.”

Again, Harold felt like he was missing something.

“Mr. Jakeston—I mean Harold,” he said, when Harold looked at him cluelessly. “He was there just a few evenings past, when I snuck the pair of you into his home.”

“How did she take that news?”

“She was relieved, I presume.”

“Very peculiar,” Harold mused.

“My thoughts exactly.” The young man’s stance was one of confidence. “I worried she was going to request my assistance in getting access to the Drake townhouse again. I was greatly relieved when she only requested my uniform.”

She wanted the uniform and was relieved to hear Drake was safely ensconced at home.

Which could only mean one thing…

“Alex, thank you for coming to me.” Harold pushed past the young man to the door before turning. “Please, do not speak to Lord or Lady Haversham about this.”

“Of course not.”

“I appreciate your discretion. I will discover what the woman is up to before she is harmed.”

“I understand things are not always what they seem,” Alex said. “I hope you find her before she does something unwise.”

“I plan to, and expect she will be held accountable for her deeds.” With a quick wave, Harold started for the stairs. He hoped to find her still in her rooms, but the dread in the pit of his stomach told him he was too late.

Without knocking, he pushed her door wide. Sure enough, the room stood empty. The roaring fire in the fireplace told him her maid hadn’t expected her departure this evening. He cast his gaze about the room, searching for anything that would give him concrete proof of where she was headed. Wasting valuable time searching for her in the wrong places might very well cost Ruby her reputation.

The room held the things Harold judged as common to all women of the ton: brushes, mirrors, writing utensils, and stationery.

One thing stood out.

Nestled on her bedside table, between a candle and her wash bowl, was a bound book. The cover, tattered and worn, practically fell from the pages within when he lifted the tome. He turned it in his hand and opened the front cover to see handwritten words. Not the writing he knew well from the papers he’d read of Ruby’s, but the neat, flowing script of another, upon aged yellow pages.

Harold flipped through what he now knew was a journal of sorts, every page filled with words written by the same hand.

The words jumped off the paper, bringing into mind the pages he’d read on Ruby’s writing desk not long ago. Do not judge or condemn me for loving a man who cannot love me in return.

Confused, he flipped to an earlier entry in hopes of finding a better explanation. Instead, he stumbled on more convoluted statements. This child, how can I love it as it will only bring me sorrow?

Harold skimmed a page of writing before he found the end of one lengthy record, where a single name was scribbled: Pearl.

His heart dropped at the meaning of that simple name.

Ruby’s mother.

Within minutes, he’d scanned enough of the entry to glean at least a basic understanding of what the rest of the journal contained.

Page after page of Pearl’s sordid confessions of infidelity, her dim outlook on her future…and that of the child she carried, sired not by her husband, but another man. The pieces fell into place. Ruby’s list was made of up men of a mature age. She wasn’t looking for a husband; she was not set on a path meant to hurt Brock and Lady Haversham. She only sought the man who sired her.

Harold set the book back, exactly as he’d found it.

She needed him, now more than ever. That she hadn’t confided in him was not a shock. In fact, he could hardly blame her.

He left her room and headed to the kitchen, toward the door leading to Brock’s stable and the alley beyond.

He could think of only one topic that had drawn her attention recently—and he hoped, for her sake, he was wrong about her destination.