Chapter Thirty-Six
John rose late, as he had been awake long into the night, awaiting confirmation that Pritchard had been located and that two men, instead of one, held vigil at the inn in Beadwell to monitor his movements. He’d already come to the decision he would not be idly waiting to see what Pritchard planned next. He would be riding to that particular inn himself to see to the conclusion of this episode with the American.
He passed Emma’s lady’s maid in the hall upon leaving his room for the morning. “Has my wife been down to breakfast?”
“No, Your Grace. She took a tray in her room this morning. Her Grace was wanting extra time to rest.”
“I see. Thank you.”
“Certainly, Your Grace.” The girl gave a quick bob of a curtsy and scurried off.
He had a fence to mend there, he knew. She should have immediately informed him of the threat from Pritchard. That was not in question. But she had a right to be bothered by his omissions in explaining Charlotte’s past and the man lurking about Brantmoor. He’d been too mired in his concerns upon hearing of Pritchard’s visit to recognize the need to atone for that mistake last evening. Now that Pritchard was in hand, he could explain himself. In his defense, it had been Charlotte’s request to keep the information from Emma, but if he truly believed his defense, he wouldn’t feel the twinge of guilt that plucked at him as he made his way to find some food. After all, he’d only assented to Charlotte’s wishes because he’d gained her agreement to attend dress fittings and dance lessons in exchange. In the end, it had been for the greater good.
It truly had.
He simply needed to explain this to Emma.
Once John found his way to the empty breakfast room, he discovered he was too preoccupied to linger long. He consumed just enough to stave off any immediate hunger pangs and retreated to his study where he found his secretary, Marshall, waiting for him.
“I’ve had a report on Pritchard, Your Grace. He will not be returning to Brantmoor today, as he is currently en route to London. He bought a place on the stage that passed through this morning.”
“To London, you say?” It was too much to hope the man was giving up and seeking a ship to return to Boston. “There is a great deal of trouble the man could cause in London.”
“He’s not likely to gain entrée with any of your circle, Your Grace.”
“Hmmm.” Pritchard would not gain acceptance into any respectable home or exclusive club, but that did not mean he could not find a sympathetic ear were he bent on locating one. There were certain gaming hells or other establishments of vice where a man of the any station could encounter the occasional titled gentleman. Men were just as wont to repeat gossip as women, John well knew.
“Your men are following the stage. Once he arrives in London, they will determine his destination and report back.”
John sighed heavily. “If Pritchard goes to London, I go to London. We do not know what this man may do.”
Marshall nodded and left John to his burdens. How naïve he had been. He had genuinely believed once he was able to bring Charlotte to England, he should have every aspect of her future well in hand.
* * *
Given his recent lapses in judgment in sharing details with the duchess, John proceeded to her bedchamber to inform her immediately of the latest developments regarding Pritchard. The bedchamber, however, was empty. He inquired of four members of the staff, who did not know her whereabouts, and located her lady’s maid again, who insisted she had not seen the duchess since delivering her tray early that morning.
“Well, go and find Miss Betancourt, then,” he barked at the maid. “I’m sure the duchess is with her.”
The girl stepped back from his blustered command. “I…I’m sorry, Your Grace,” she stammered. “Miss Betancourt is gone. She left this morning to return home.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Your Grace. I believe the carriage has already returned.”
Of course. Beadwell. Emma was upset and she had retreated to her blessed cottage and her mother’s garden. Pritchard or no, it seemed John was destined to make the journey to Beadwell this morning.
* * *
John arrived at the cottage a mere forty minutes later, having forgone the comfort of the coach for the speed of his mount. He rapped on the door and heard the flutter of hurried footsteps before it was answered by Mrs. Brown.
“I’ve come to see my wife.”
“Oh.” Mrs. Brown looked past the duke and around him in confusion. “I’m so sorry, Your Grace. She’s not here. Should she be? Is something amiss?”
John shook his head. “Do not fear, Mrs. Brown. I’m sure the duchess is quite well and I am guilty of misunderstanding. She must be at the parsonage house with Miss Betancourt today. I’m sure I will find her there.”
Only Emma was not at the parsonage house. Lucy was as alarmed as Mrs. Brown.
John was becoming so as well.
Where did the woman go? If she was not in Beadwell, why wasn’t she at home? John cursed himself for not inquiring more thoroughly at the stables before rushing away. He didn’t even know if her horse was gone. What if she had taken a morning ride to clear her head and met with some mishap? Would they have the sense at Brantmoor to search for her, even though he’d run impulsively off to Beadwell, certain of finding her here?
John felt a slow thickening in his gut that significantly impeded his ability to develop rational alternatives for where she may safely be. All sorts of torturous possibilities assaulted him. Most involved serious injury for which she was unable to gain help. One particularly disturbing possibility was Pritchard. The American had evaded his surveillance before. A drunk and desperate man was capable of anything. If he could not reach Charlotte, would he harm Emma?
John could not account for the depth of his fear other than to accept how greatly he had come to care for his wife. He needed her. He needed her back, safe and sound. Not because Charlotte’s debut was coming and he knew nothing of dress fittings or dance lessons. Not because he needed an heir to the dukedom. Not because he was supposed to marry. He wanted her back for himself. Even if they shut themselves up in Brantmoor and never entered polite society again, he wanted his Emma back—his sharp-tongued, brilliantly beautiful, perfectly sensual Emma. If he could have that, he would hold her to him and beg forgiveness for his stupidity, his lack of faith and any other transgression he may have committed.
If Emma were lying hurt somewhere, he was wasting precious moments here in Beadwell. He should be combing the forest around the estate. Still, he could not quite let go of the image of a drunken Pritchard somehow getting his hands on her. After talking with Lucy, he did not turn in the direction of home. He turned toward the inn.
* * *
It was midday, but the inn was mostly empty, as the stage had come and gone. John ducked his head through the low doorway into the shadowed public room that remained dark despite the bits of cloudless sunshine that were allowed to leak in through still-shuttered windows. John called for the innkeeper.
“Your Grace!” The man rushed in, red faced and perspiring, and wiping his hands on a dirty apron knotted around his waist. “Welcome, welcome. Would you like a meal, Your Grace? My wife has venison stew today. I’ll have to warm it, but it won’t take a moment.”
“I do not seek a meal. I am seeking information.”
“Anything you need, Your Grace. How can I help?”
“I need information on this man Pritchard who stayed here. The American.”
The innkeeper’s red face twisted at the mention of Pritchard’s name. “That man stayed here all right, but he’ll not be staying again until he’s settled with me for the lodging and the drink he’s already got.”
“I understand he bought a place on the London stage this morning.”
“Aye. He did. Snuck off before I had a chance to claim my due.”
John peered at the man. “So you did not actually see him depart on the stage?”
“I did, Your Grace, but not until it was too late to stop him. That stage doesn’t stop for anyone, once it goes. If you’re a few minutes late, or wanting to collect a fare. No mercy. They just keep right on going.” He sliced his hand through the air to illustrate the forward trajectory of the stage in question.
“Are you absolutely certain that Pritchard boarded the stage?”
“As certain as my own name, Your Grace, not that it does me any good. He’s hours down the road by now and I’ll never collect.”
“Could he have gotten off the stage outside of town?”
The innkeeper considered this a moment, then shook his head—slowly at first, but with increasing certainty. “I said before, the stage won’t stop for anybody. And even if the American did get off, he’s got no horse. Where would he go?”
The lump in the pit of John’s stomach dissipated just a bit. Where would the man go without a horse? He’d likely used the services of the livery when he came to Brantmoor before, but if he leapt off the coach on the London road, he’d not find an available livery for miles.
“How long until the next stop?”
“Won’t stop for half the day, Your Grace. Not until Peckingham.”
John released a breath he hadn’t even realized had been caught up. If Pritchard was trapped on the stage until Peckingham, he could not possibly have harmed Emma. He had nowhere else to look but to return home. Perhaps she had already returned. God, he hoped she had. If she had, he would kiss her silly then lay into her for worrying him so damned much.
“You’ve been most helpful,” John told the innkeeper, sliding a smooth coin into his hand.
The man palmed it for a moment, then changed his mind and held the coin back out to John. “Happy to be of help, Your Grace, but I couldn’t rightly take a payment from you. Consider it the paying of a debt. All of us here are grateful for what you done for Simon, Your Grace.”
John paused. “For Simon?”
“The duchess…well, she weren’t the duchess, then, but she was worried sick for Simon, I know. We all were, what with Crawford’s accusations. We all knew them to be lies, especially the duchess.” The innkeeper smiled and shook his head. “She’s got a real tender heart for Simon, that one.”
John stiffened. A tender heart? He searched the depths of his memory and seemed to have some faint recollection of a Simon. Then he landed on it. Her gardener. She had mentioned him once or twice.
“Yes, well, I don’t recall being of any assistance to Simon.”
“Mrs. Brown told us all about it—what we didn’t already know from Crawford’s caterwauling—how you agreed to vouch for young Simon on account of him being such a good friend of your betrothed, so Crawford couldn’t take his foul accusations to the magistrate. We all breathed a sigh of relief for that, Your Grace.”
“Did you? I am happy to have been of assistance. And thank you for the information. Please consider your debt repaid.”
John walked out of the inn. He was no longer certain he felt compelled to rush to his wife’s aid. A tender heart for Simon, her gardener. Such good friends. My, but she was full of secrets, wasn’t she? She’d been no less mercenary than he in pursuing their marriage. She’d done it to save her precious Simon. And to think, she’d demanded a promise of fidelity from him. From him.
John mounted his horse and turned toward Brantmoor. He’d come on a fool’s errand. He’d raced across the countryside to find her. When he’d not found her in the village, he’d immediately feared the worst and bargained with the devil himself for her safe return.
The devil had taken the bargain. His wife was no doubt safe and sound. When she wanted to be found, she would be. That was the way with women who held secrets, and unexplainable attachments to gardens, and tender hearts for strong, able-bodied gardeners.