Molly helped the new Lady Peterborough out of her pitiable gown and into her nightclothes, brushing out her mussed hair. The girl chattered endlessly, recounting how she had been informed that none of her Lady’s things were to be unpacked for they were leaving in the morning for the seacoast, which surely meant a grand adventure.

Once all was made ready, Molly tucked her mistress into the big bed, turned down nearly all the lamps, and put a few more logs on the fire. There was a distinct chill within the large room. The abigail wasn’t sure if it could be blamed on October or on her Lady’s solemn disposition.

“I will leave you now, My Lady,” Molly said, awkwardly curtseying as her mistress had risen significantly in rank in the last few hours.

“Thank you, Molly. Good night.”

The girl scurried out of the room and Henrietta was alone. A bundle of nerves, she stood up on the bed and pulled at the heavy velvet curtains that encircled it. Now completely enclosed within the old tester bed, but with no lamp on the inside, it felt like a tomb. A dark, airless, oppressive tomb.

The Duke finished saying good night to his guests and wearily walked the long portrait hall toward his rooms. What a day it had been! Horrendous in some ways, but at least it had been successful. The Marquess had wed again, and they could all put the past behind them. Hopefully. He spotted his son at the end of the hall and quickened his stride to catch him before he disappeared again.

“Ewan,” he called.

“Father.”

“You are well?”

“I am tired.”

“Son,” he began, but stopped. He wasn’t sure what to say. He was sorry the wedding had been such a debacle. He regretted losing control of himself in public and ordering his son to fetch his bride from the field. And somehow, he now felt they may have gone too far in pushing the Oliver girl on him. The resemblance to Patricia really was uncanny. It had seemed so right at the time, like such a capital idea. And now, well, now, it just felt foolhardy, like a big mistake.

“Ewan,” the Duke began again, “I don’t know what to say.”

“Nor do I, Father,” the Marquess replied, sounding drained. “‘Tis been quite a day. And as Lady Peterborough and I take our leave tomorrow, I wish to retire if you don’t mind. There’s little more to say on the subject anyway.”

Surprise rattled through him. “Leaving? Leaving for where?”

“Scarborough.”

His gray brows drew together in question. “But why?”

“Because I have just taken a wife. Because I have no desire to remain here. Because I need to be away from prying eyes. Because I damn well please. Why not?”

“On such short notice? You have nothing arranged.”

“We will stay at Edward Donner’s or the Old Bell on the cliff. Father, really, you don’t need to trouble yourself. I’m in good standing as the son of the Duke of Everly with a title of my own. All will be well.” His tone was stern, indicating he would tolerate no further argument.

“You must take Gerome, the new servant. I am told he is most resourceful when things are unsettled.”

The Marquess turned in the direction of his apartments, apparently finished with the conversation. Though the Duke chafed slightly at being dismissed, he felt something stir fresh. Relief? Perhaps. This sudden impulsiveness, this desire to exchange Nightingale for new places, for now at least, meant his son was going to try. Or, perhaps it was more than relief that welled up within him. Perhaps it was something deeper and stronger, something like hope.

Hope.

“Ewan,” the Duke called after him.

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

“Good night, Father.”

Henrietta nestled herself under the coverlets of the burrow-like bed, and breathed deeply, trying to relax. She had no idea if she would even see the Marquess again before tomorrow.

Insult to injury.

The words stung afresh. Having given his opinion of her at the altar, she had little cause to worry that this would ever be more than a marriage in name only. She certainly admitted to limited knowledge of such things, but she imagined that a man who looked upon his bride for the first time and felt insulted would probably prefer to sleep alone. Besides, the man was still grieving his first wife. That should have given her some peace of mind, but they had agreed to nothing. They had discussed even less. She knew not what to expect.

Getting no closer to a sense of calm, Henrietta turned her thoughts toward tomorrow. Scarborough! He was taking her to Scarborough! In her wildest imagination she could not have anticipated such a wonderful surprise. The sea. Fresh air. Freedom!

The medicinal spa waters. The circulating libraries. The postal-office. A dream come true!

It wasn’t long before the ever-present voice of reason cleared its throat. Truth be told, it wasn’t exactly a dream come true, but it was an opportunity to begin her quest afresh. She would write a few more letters to the universities, perhaps under an assumed name. Yes, that was a far better plan. With the Marquess by her side, she would be allowed to investigate the medicinal claims of the famous spa waters. His pocketbook would surely open the right doors, and she would visit the reading rooms at Whiting’s or Ainsworth’s. There were no doubt new science periodicals in the stacks, and the journals in those private libraries were known to be far more impressive than those in the General Library.

There was only one problem with her plans, reason returned to insist, and it was a big one.

Molly.

And why should Molly be such a big problem? I will simply dismiss her. I am the great phoenix lady that has arisen from the ashes of humiliation, she giggled at her silliness, and I will not endure my father’s spies. No doubt the Duke and Duchess have plenty of their own to spy upon me.

She would send Molly back home with the General. She knew it would infuriate him, but right now with Scarborough on for tomorrow, she was too happy to care.

Henrietta was quite pleased with herself, then she suddenly froze, hearing someone enter the room. She was unable to move, barely able to breathe. The key in the lock turned with a click.

She waited, holding her breath, straining her ears for clues as to who it was. Her nerves were rattled mercilessly as another log was dropped upon the fire with a thud and a fresh crackle from new wood. She sighed, relaxing slightly. Popping and hissing noises continued to come from the hearth as the fire consumed its fresh fuel, but Henrietta could make out no other sounds in the room.

The moments ticked by with agonizing slowness, giving no clue as to what was going on beyond the four curtained walls of her hideaway. Her curiosity eventually got the better of her and she carefully crept from beneath the covers to the foot of the bed where the curtains came together. She lay upon her belly, as flat as she could make herself and with one finger furtively parted the heavy velvet drape ever so slightly. She just wanted a quick peek.

Her eyes widened as she took in the scene. The Marquess had extinguished the few lamps Molly had left lit, but the fire was behind him, offering a soft silhouette of his movements. He stood before the hearth with no sign of his coat and his linen shirt untucked from his breeches and hanging loose. She watched as he unwound his rather elaborate neck cloth, and tossed it to the settee before he laid down.

Henrietta felt herself blushing. Besides the General, she wasn’t sure she had ever seen a gentleman’s naked neck. The Marquess was indeed a fine figure stretched out full length on the settee, his stockingless feet crossed comfortably at the ankles. His breathing became even and deep, and she wondered how he had fallen asleep so quickly.

“Do you spy upon me, my Lady?” he asked softly without moving, without even opening his eyes.

Henrietta jumped back from the curtain as if she had been burned. How had he seen her? Heart racing, she said nothing as she carefully moved back to burrow beneath the safety of the coverlet.

Soon she heard him snoring lightly, and she felt the tension leaving her own body too. Sleep, however, would not come for quite some time.