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Henri leant back, remembering how Robert had kissed her nose before he left and how his hand had given her arm a light caress. A warm curl of desire wound its way around her insides. A next time? Her entire being demanded it, even though her head screamed that she should be wary. ‘I hope so.’
* * *
‘Has Miss Ravel returned, Downing? Is Mrs Ravel with her?’
His butler stood in the hallway, looking at him. His face became grave. ‘Not precisely, sir. Mrs Ravel is here, but has been indisposed all day with a headache.’
‘Sophie is here.’ Robert tried to look around Downing’s bulk. All the way back from Market Square he kept telling himself that Miss Armstrong’s notions were fustian nonsense. Sophie would not be as foolish as to actually elope with Sebastian Cawburn. Doctor Lumley had caught her eye, and she’d learnt her lesson about rakes and other ne’er-do-wells. ‘She has to be here.’
‘Miss Ravel returned earlier in a dishevelled state, but she has departed again with her basket. I believe she had some visiting of the infirm to do. Miss Ravel seeks to emulate Lady Thorndike by taking an interest in the general populace rather than simply attending frivolous At Homes.’
Silently Robert cursed Sophie. She obviously had decided that she had had enough of Miss Armstrong and her social pretensions. However, it didn’t explain the basket. Where had Sophie gone? Had she quarrelled with her stepmother as well? But then why did she not wait for the carriage? He drew a steadying breath. Miss Armstrong had put ideas into his head. He required facts rather than speculation, innuendo and gossip. Calm cool logic and digestion of facts rather giving way to sentiment.
‘Did she say where she was going? Or how long she might be gone?’
‘No, sir, but she did leave this.’ Downing held out a sealed letter. ‘With instructions to hand it to you personally on your return.’
With impatient fingers, Robert broke the seal.
The bold lettering stood out. She was sorry to cause him pain, but she had decided her future was best spent with the man she loved—Viscount Cawburn. She trusted that he understood, but by the time he read this, she would be well on her way to being married. She had decided to elope just like dear Henrietta Thorndike had done. Dear Henrietta Thorndike. Perfidious exasperating Henrietta Thorndike, who had just happened to utterly and completely unexpectedly melt in his arms this morning. Henri, who had seemed perturbed about a family matter this morning. Dear Henrietta Thorndike, who on the evening of the ball confessed to having meddled, but he had ignored it. Just as he had ignored a hundred other little insignificant details she had said. That she liked to keep secrets, or that they needed to suspend the wager or that Mrs Ravel always had a headache after a dinner party. And last night they had dined at the Croziers’. Cawburn had known when to strike. Isolated incidents? Or part of a deliberate plan?
Robert felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach. He’d thought her a friend. His father had insisted on applying cool logic to women and had warned him about the folly of trusting women. He’d allowed his emotions to cloud his judgement.
‘Are you all right, sir?’ Downing asked. ‘You have turned pale.’
‘I’m fine, Downing.’ Robert crumpled the piece of paper between his fingers. He didn’t want to make a hasty judgement. He needed to weigh all the evidence first. ‘Get me Fredericks. And get the carriage ready to go. We leave within the hour.’
‘Is Miss Sophie all right, sir?’ Downing’s face creased with concern. ‘She is a great favourite amongst the servants. I did not really think anything was amiss. Lord Cawburn, after all, is Lady Thorndike’s cousin.’
‘I do hope so, Downing. I most sincerely hope so.’ Robert tried to concentrate. Panic would not help matters. He needed to go about the search methodically and rationally.
‘And one other thing, sir.’ Downing’s voice floated down the corridor. ‘Cook reported to me that Miss Sophie came into the kitchen before she left. A large cast-iron frying pan has gone missing. Cook thought you ought to be informed. She’d like it returned. It is her favourite.’
‘I cannot see what use my ward would have with a frying pan, particularly not if she is eloping. Cook must be mistaken.’
‘Very good, sir. I will inform Cook of her mistake.’
‘Where is Fredericks? Fredericks! I have need of you!’ Robert thundered. His voice echoed up the stairs, mocking him.
‘Mr Fredericks is out in the garden. I’ll fetch him.’ One of the upper-stair maids peeked over the banister at him.
While he waited for Fredericks, Robert withdrew the note from his pocket and rapidly scanned it again, searching for clues as to where the errant couple had gone. His ire grew as he realised the inconsistencies his initial shock had blinded him to. Despite the letter being in Sophie’s name, it wasn’t Sophie’s handwriting. And Sophie wouldn’t have called Henri Henrietta. Henri’s elopement with Sir Edmund Thorndike was not strictly common knowledge and he doubted anyone else would have mentioned it. There was something about the writing that reminded him of Henri’s. His stomach did a sickening lurch.
