Then again, who was there to mourn but Christiana?
When they finally arrived, he handed Amelia down from the carriage and after a moment, the front door opened to reveal a man in his fifties, stocky and grizzled but with a kindly face. He glanced from Hugh’s carriage, bearing his crest, to the mask across his face.
“Well, now,” he said slowly. “I reckon you must be the Duke of Somerset.”
“Well met.” Now that they were here, all Hugh could think about was seeing Christiana and checking if she was all right. Her face swam across his mind—the paleness of her cheeks when they had left. The disappointment in her eyes the final morning they’d spent together, where he had left before she could so much as speak to him. “This is my sister, Lady Amelia Westfield. Is Her Grace here?”
The man bowed his head. “I’m afraid not, Your Grace. She left yesterday evening, though I can’t say to where.”
“Sheleft?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Hugh’s stomach dropped to his shoes. The right side of his body ached, and he wanted to recline on his left side, or sink into a cool bath. Instead, Christiana was missing.
Missing.
He gathered his thoughts. “Are you Mr. Stephens?”
“At your service, Your Grace.”
“What of Lord Barnsley?”
Mr. Stephens’s face hardened. “He’s still alive, the old goat, but not for much longer, God willing.”
“Did he say something to Her Grace yesterday?”
“Aye, I imagine so. She went to see him, then left without so much as a goodbye. The old man said he wouldn’t betray what had occurred between a father and his daughter.” The man’s face flushed a little. “And he said some things I won’t repeat here, sir, not in front of the lady.”
“I have quite the stomach, sir,” Amelia said blandly. “I believe I am more than equal to it.”
“Aye, so you might be,” Mr. Stephens agreed. “And yet I have no intention of telling you—or anyone else, mind—what that codger said.”
Hugh inhaled slowly. “Show my sister to an appropriate place—a parlor or library, perhaps—and offer her whatever refreshments might be found in this crumbling pile. I will see Lord Barnsley.”
“Hugh, let me—”
“No.” The word was harsh, but he would not allow her to commune with a degenerate such as Lord Barnsley. “Do as Mr. Stephens says, and if you attempt to disobey me, you will feel the consequences.”
For a moment, he thought she might argue the case, but she merely sighed. “Give him a piece of your mind, Hugh.”
“Believe me,” he said grimly. “I will.”
Lord Barnsley’s bedchamberswere a miserably dark affair. The light strained through thick curtains, and the stench of sickness was heavy in the air. Hugh was not overly familiar with illness, but some primal part of his body recognized the slow decay of life.
He didn’t care.
Striding to the windows, he flung the curtains wide, letting the September sun burst in. The man in the bed let out a strangled cry.
Good.
Hugh turned, laying eyes on his father-in-law for the first time.
His first thought was that this spineless excuse for a man could not have sired Christiana. Where she held strength behind her intelligent eyes and proud nose, Lord Barnsley held nothing but weakness and greed. His eyes were watery and beady, filled with impotent outrage, and Hugh could practically see the calculations behind his expression.
Not a fool, then—not entirely. And certainly not able to blame his recent outburst on no longer knowing his mind.
“The Duke of Somerset, eh?” Lord Barnsley smiled, displaying yellowing teeth. Some were missing. “The very man I wanted to see.”