As soon as the door began opening, he braced himself for his battle of wills with Brewster.Only it wasn’t Brewster who stood there, but an older man with silver hair and a slender build whose posture was ramrod straight as though he was expecting a military inspection to take place at any minute. Had they let Brewster go because he’d trusted Oglethorpe?
“Yes, sir, may I help you?” the butler asked.
“I’m here to see Miss Esme Lancaster.”
He tipped his head slightly. “I believe you have the wrong residence.”
“I’m quite certain I don’t. Announce to the mistress of the house that the Duke of Wolfford has come to call.”
“There is no mistress, Your Grace. Only the master.”
What the devil? Shoving his way past him, ignoring his protests, Marcus charged into the parlor. Everything looked the same. The carpeting, the furniture, the paintings on the walls.
But where Esme should have been standing was a man: tall, broad-shouldered, immaculately dressed in black trousers, a dark blue coat, and a light blue brocade waistcoat.
“My apologies, sir,” the butler stammered, “but he simply barged in. Says he’s the Duke of Wolfford.”
“It’s quite all right, Collins, I suspect this is the chap who’s been sending us the lovely flowers. I’ll handle things from here,” the man said before bowing his head toward Marcus. “Your Grace, how might I be of service?”
“Where is Esme?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know of whom you speak?”
“You’re not acquainted with Esme Lancaster?”
“No, Your Grace.”
Marcus walked farther into the room. Only a faint wisp of her fragrance remained, but still he filled his lungs with it. “How is it that you live here?”
“My employer has generously made it available to me as I have some work to do in the area and this abode was conveniently vacated recently.”
Marcus slammed his eyes closed. “You work for the Home Office.”
Silence greeted his statement. Opening his eyes, he saw the resolve set in his opponent’s—because that was how he thought of him now—chin. The man wasn’t going to confirm the statement. “Do you know where I’ll find her?”
“As I said, I’m not—”
“Acquainted with her. Yes, I heard you, but that doesn’t mean that you don’t know her by reputation or that you don’t know where she is now.”
“I don’t have the information you seek but you might find it helpful to know that I have a personal residence. As do most of those with whom I work. Perhaps the woman you’re looking for does as well.”
Turning on his heel, Marcus headed for the door.
“Does this mean you shan’t be sending us flowers any longer?” the blighter called out after him.
“Go to the devil.”
The first night of November, Marcus wandered through the London residence. Colder weather had arrived. Every fireplace was lit, the flames dancing on the hearth in each room he passed. He’d visited both his estates and set out tasks to be handled by the individual estate managers, but he couldn’t seem to stay away from London for any length of time. No doubt because he wanted Esme to be able to find him easily if she had a change of heart.
With a bit of sleuthing, he’d managed to confirm that the Home Office owned the residence in which she’d lived, so he was rather certain the man he’d met there was also an agent. He supposed the government had properties all over London. For times when they needed to hide someone away, perhaps. Not that it mattered. What mattered was that she was no longer there, and he still had yet to determine where she might be. Maybe she wasn’t even in London but was living elsewhere.
As he was now a duke again, with some prestige and power, perhaps he’d simply ask the Home Secretary where she was.
He finally made his way to the library and poured himself a scotch.
I believe your preference is scotch.
He could seldom go an hour without something reminding him of her. Glass in hand, he walked over to the fireplace, leaned the shoulder she’d once stitched up against the mantel, and sipped his favorite whisky while he waited for his guests to arrive. He was having Althea and Griff, along with their spouses, over for dinner now that the residence had finally been returned to what it once was. Slipping the hand not holding the glass into the pocket of his coat, he skimmed his fingers over the painted wooden soldier. He carried it with him not as a reminder of his father, but as a reminder ofher. Esme. Because she had found it, because her fingers were the last to touch the toy before his. It was all he had of her. By not keeping the ring, she’d ensured she had nothing of him. The knowledge shouldn’t make him so sad, but it did.
