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Pippy studied him for a moment, but then she turned and quit the room.

“I don’t know what you’re about, but it won’t work,” Freddie said evenly.

Rochester sneered. “Ah, but it already has. Have you not noticed everyone looking at you? Speaking to each other behind gloved hands?” He chuckled. “His lordship won’t tolerate the scandal. Lady Phoebe will be mine. I’ll look like a saint for taking in the bit o’ muslin. ”

Freddie’s hand shot up to strike the man, but he pulled back at the last second. “Only if I’m dead,” Freddie said low and threatening.

“I can arrange that.” Mr. Rochester snarled.

“Come, Weymouth. I’m certain your father is looking for you.” Lady Dalmeer grabbed Freddie by the arm and dragged him away.

“Do not hurry back on my account,” Rochester called after them.

“We must speak to your father,” she hissed once they were away.

“And why would we do that? He has no use for Pippy. I’m certain he’ll do nothing but aid Mr. Rochester.” Freddie breathed hard. What was he to do?

His aunt clucked her tongue. “Sometimes, nephew, you can be rather daft.”

“What do you mean by that?” he asked.

She pulled him through the crowd until they stopped in front of his father. “Kentwood, there’s a situation. Weymouth needs your help.”

His father rubbed his hand down his face. He looked tired and several years older than he had just hours earlier. “Yes, I’m aware.”

Freddie’s eyes narrowed. “I suppose you think to tell me you were right all along? Well, I disagree.”

His father looked at the floor. “No, son. I made a grave mistake and terrible misjudgment. This situation is entirely my fault.”

Freddie reared back. What? Who was this man standing in front of him? It seemed wholly likely it was someone who only looked like his father.

“Come, Weymouth. We need to talk.” His father pulled him—could no one let him walk on his own?—from the long gallery.

Freddie’s head swam. What had his father meant when he said he was wrong? He had never said those words—at least not to Freddie’s recollection. And how was it all his fault?

Twenty-Four

Evie stepped out of the retiring room and shook her head. “She’s not inside.”

“Are you certain?” Freddie kneaded his brow with his thumb and forefinger. A sudden panic shot through him. Had Rochester made good on his promise and taken Pippy?

Evie nodded.

“Where the devil could she be?”

She shrugged. “I haven’t seen her all evening.” Her eyes brightened. “Have you checked your rooms? Perhaps she went there to escape Mr. Rochester.”

“I have not.” Freddie shook his head. That didn’t feel right in the least. Although she had gone there instead of the library—Why had he not thought of that sooner? “I’ll send a servant to check. But I believe I know where to find her.” Indeed, he should have known to look there first. What lady stays in the retiring room for thirty minutes?

“What will you say?” Evie asked.

He ran his hand through his hair. “What I should have said days ago.” He turned without further explanation and headed down the corridor. Things were a complete muddle. And for once, Fin and Stan had nothing to do with it. Indeed, this time the blame rested solely at the feet of the Earl of Kentwood.

Freddie walked past the noise of the long gallery and moved to the other side of the house. The corridors dimmed the farther he moved from the ball.

Finally, he stopped. The library. If he knew Pippy—and he believed he was starting to—that’s where he would find her…if she were still at Bellthorne. He pushed that thought aside.

Pushing the door open a crack, he peered inside.