He tapped the desktop, then reached for the decanter. The brandy was harsh, but it cleared his throat. He took a second swallow, then set the glass aside.
Oscar then considered, for a wild moment, bursting into her chambers and demanding to know the truth. But that would be the action of a brute, not a husband. She needed time to cool. He needed time to think. Besides, he doubted she would even allow him over the threshold.
Pouring a second glass, he sighed. He wanted to believe she would forgive him, once she knew the truth. But forgiveness was a luxury he did not expect. Not from her.
He finished the drink in one swallow, set the glass down, and braced his hands on the back of the chair.
“Scarfield,” he said aloud, “you are a damned fool.”
Oscar straightened, rubbed at his face, and made a list of everything he needed to do before dawn. Visit the stationer in the morning to compare the handwriting. Interview the servants with care. Inquire discreetly about Miss Mercer’s references. Order a report from his solicitor about the comings and goings at White’s and the clubs, to see if Adrian had been there.
He would solve this because he had to. If he didn’t, the entire world would become a farce, and he would be left alone, and worse, with the certainty that he had let the only real thing in his life slip away because of a poorly forged letter and his own monumental stupidity.
Oscar did not sleep. Instead, he sat at the window, watching the city shift from bruised twilight into the ash and gold of morning. The house below him was silent, but by the time the first bell sounded, he was dressed, starched, and on the warpath.
He cornered Mrs. Tullock in the servants’ hallway just as she was launching her inspection of the footmen’s uniforms. She startled—never a woman to rattle, but today, she rattled.
“Mrs. Tullock,” Oscar said, crisp as a new banknote. “Where is the Duchess?”
The housekeeper straightened. “Not in her chambers, Your Grace. I looked in on her, per instruction. The room was in order, but the Duchess was gone.”
Oscar’s pulse did a slow, ugly lap. “And the twins?”
She swallowed. “Gone as well, sir. Their beds made, their trunks gone from the nursery. Miss Mercer and the children’s maid are also absent.”
He stared at her, willing the universe to make sense for once in its miserable history.
“Is there a note?”
“None,” she said. “The only sign was a breakfast tray set for four, half-eaten, and a footman who claims he saw the Duchess departing at dawn.”
Oscar processed this. “So she left of her own accord.”
“It would seem so,” Mrs. Tullock said, voice softening just a hair. “If I may say, sir, the Duchess was in high spirits last night when she left the dinner table. If she had a change of heart?—”
“She had no change of heart,” Oscar cut in. “She was never at home here, and now she’s gone. Thank you, Mrs. Tullock.”
The housekeeper withdrew, eyes lingering on him with a pity that made him want to smash something.
He stood a long moment, weighing his next move. Nancy’s options were limited: She would not go to her parents—her pridewould not allow it. Her friends, perhaps, but even then, she would wish to avoid the humiliation of being found.
He thought of the hilltop house. The one she’d spent two months badgering architects about, the one she insisted be outfitted with every possible comfort for the twins. It was not officially ready, but that had never stopped her from claiming anything she wanted.
He strode to the main hall, pulling on his gloves. “Wilks!” he shouted, and the old butler appeared, unruffled as always.
“Summon the carriage. We leave at once.”
“For the city, Your Grace?”
Oscar paused, then shook his head. “For Elms Hill. The new house.”
Wilks bowed. “It will be ready in ten minutes.”
Oscar stalked the foyer, fingers drumming on his palm. He imagined Nancy—hair unbound, lips set in a line of grim satisfaction—bundling the twins into the carriage before dawn, a victory parade of her own design. He tried to be angry, but all he felt was the deep, slow twist of guilt.
He had failed her. Again.
A footman entered, bearing a card. “A caller, sir. Your solicitor—Harvey. He insists on speaking with you before you depart.”
