“By the Marchioness?”
“Yes, My Lord. Her Ladyship was most particular about handling it herself. She said it was a matter of the utmost privacy.”
August let his quill rest on the page, making a small, round stain of ink. “Did Mrs. Fulham say what she was delivering? Or taking?”
“No, My Lord. Only that the Her Ladyship was most insistent on quality and on speed.”
He pressed the heel of his hand to his brow. “Thank you, Mrs. Finch. That will be all.”
She dipped a curtsy and withdrew, the click of the door closing a shade too quickly.
August turned to the next ledger, as if the answer might be hiding in the numbers, but the more he stared, the less sense it made. Eliza was not a woman given to excess; she did not buy hats or slippers or baubles by the dozen. She dressed plainly, spoke plainly, and managed her own stipend with the discipline of a parson.
What, then, required a discreet seamstress, an unmarked crate, and a sum large enough to rattle the household balance?
He opened the bottom drawer of his desk, poured a small measure of brandy, and tried to imagine a scenario in which this did not end in disaster. He could not.
He set the glass down and went in search of his wife.
The drawing room was empty except for the embers in the grate. The library was undisturbed, not a single volume out of place. In the morning room, a half-finished letter lay on the blotter, the ink still damp. He read the first line: “I am not certain what one is meant to write when there is no one left to receive the letter.”
He replaced it, shutting the thought away.
He circled the hallways, each room more frustratingly empty than the last. By the time he reached the main hall, Denton had appeared, as if conjured by the scent of impending crisis.
“Has the Marchioness been seen this afternoon?” August asked.
“She returned from London at half-past three, My Lord,” Denton said, “but she departed again not half an hour later. She did not request the carriage.”
August narrowed his eyes. “On foot? In this weather?”
“She left in walking dress, My Lord. Alone.”
“Did she say where she was going?”
“No, My Lord. Only that she would be back before dinner.”
August ran a hand down his face. He tried and failed to remember a single instance where his wife had ever acted in apredictable manner. “Thank you, Denton. If she returns, let me know at once.”
She is up to something, and she does not trust you to know what it is,a voice in his mind whispered.
August made it four paces down the hall before the front bell began hammering, not in the rhythm of a delivery but in the panicked summons of a disaster. He hurried back to the front hall.
Denton opened the door where a young man with his hat in hand stood. “Urgent, sir. From Wildmoore House.” His eyes found August and did not blink. “They said—” he hesitated, voice rough. “They said you must come at once. It’s the Duke.”
The words punched the air out of his lungs.
Sixteen
“He will probably not survive the month.” The physician said it with the indifference of a man commenting on the weather. “The fluid is gathering again, and his constitution is not what it was. A week, if you are lucky. Two, if he is very stubborn.”
August stood by the cold fireplace, posture perfect and face composed. “Thank you, Doctor. I trust the servants have made your journey comfortable?”
“They have, My Lord.” The physician packed away his tools with a series of crisp snaps. “I wish I could offer better news.”
August offered the barest incline of his head. “You have done your duty. I will see that you are paid for it.”
The physician left without waiting for further pleasantries. August watched the door close, the latch setting with a small, final click.