“I will...” When her vocal chords thickened, Abigail cleared her throat. “I will take that advice under consideration, Your Grace.”
Mara nodded. “I sincerely hope that you do.”
*
Only after she’dsettled into the guest chamber (a beautifully appointed room three times the size of her own), pulled the covers to her chin, and closed her eyes, did Abigail acknowledge, with a sharp pang of guilt, that she had lied to Mara with uncharacteristic expertise.
Because that morning in the carriagewasn’tthe last time she’d seen Stephen.
No, their last interaction had occurred almost three years ago to the day, when he had surprised her with an unannounced visit.
A visit that had started in the park... and ended in her bed.
Chapter Six
Red Oak Alehouse
London, England
December 1813
Stephen considered himselfto be a reasonable man. While he maintained his own social and political viewpoints, he was willing to listen to anyone that had a differing opinion. He did not expect his household to work to excess. He forgave gambling debts under a hundred pounds. But when it came to his runaway bride... when it came to his runaway bride, he was feeling distinctlyunreasonable.
“Another brandy, if you’d be so kind,” he told the barkeep, as he stood at the bar and slid his empty rummer glass across the polished oak bar top. Behind him, the bell on the door jingled as another patron left the alehouse, indicating the hour had grown late. With the exception of himself, the barkeep, a maid who had begun to clear the tables, and a trio of young bucks so far into their drink they were all but asleep, the establishment was empty. Something that the barkeep, Sterner, took note of as he topped off Stephen’s glass with Armagnac, a French brandy courtesy of a small smuggling operation that brought in the illicit, albeit highly coveted, spirit under the cover of darkness with the glint of a few gold guineas to light their way and coat the palms of the port guards.
“You’re out later than usual, my lord.” As observant of his regular patrons as he was tall, Sterner towered above most grown men, including Stephen, and had a quiet, unassuming manner that lent itself well to divulging sorrows and secrets. Both of which Stephen harbored aplenty.
“I’ve had a long day,” he said, squinting hard into the amber depths of his drink before raising the glass to his mouth. “I anticipate an even longer one tomorrow.” The brandy burned on his tongue before mellowing to a rich, warm trickle with notes of vanilla and cinnamon when it slid down his throat.
“I didn’t realize an earldom was so demanding,” said Sterner, the corners of his brown eyes crinkling as he dipped a towel in a bucket of sudsy water and began to wipe down the bar.
As it tended to do, the reminder of his inherited title gave Stephen an unpleasant start. Like biting into an orange and tasting a lemon instead.
He’d become the Earl of Lancaster three years ago when his father was found dead in a brothel, an unfortunate, but fitting final end for a nobleman who had never been particularly noble. His mother had retired to a modest dowager estate in Surrey where she maintained a large wine cellar, and Stephen had been thrust into a role that he hadn’t ever truly coveted aside from it granting him full agency over Summerwind House... along with the manor in Grosvenor Square, townhouse in Bath, and hunting lodge in Killin that leaked when it rained. Properties that had all been under the stewardship of his meticulous land agent, Mr. Johnson, while he had been traveling abroad.
“It’s not the earldom that troubles me.” Scowling, Stephen finished his brandy and slid the glass back across the bar top. “It’s my wife.”
“The one you’ve been chasing for six months?” Sterner emptied the bottle of Armagnac into Stephen’s glass and ducked behind the bar to find another.
“Twelve,” he corrected. “For an entire year, I’ve traveled to every bloody city and town from Falmouth to Porters Neck. No small measure, given the war. A maritime blockade kept me trapped on a ship in Boston harbor for nearly two weeks.”
“There was a bet here that you’d died.”
Stephen snorted. “Did you make any money?”
“Indeed I did. Last week, when you miraculously rose from the grave unharmed, I earned myself almost ten pounds. So this one is on the house.” Reemerging with a brand-new bottle, Sterner grinned as he cut off the sealing wax and popped the cork before refreshing Stephen’s drink and then pouring himself a glass. “The real bet is on whether or not you found her.”
“Would I be here with you if I had?”
“Maybe,” the barkeep shrugged. “Plenty of men come through that door to escape their wives. Very few leave it to go in search of them. Where is Falmouth? Never heard of it.”
“A small seaport in a state called Maine. She wasn’t there.” As far as Stephen could tell, Abigail wasn’tanywhere. He’d started at the last place he’d seen her, a small townhouse she’d been renting in the village of Mystic, Connecticut, with an office below and living quarters above. But when he knocked on the door, a woman with five children peeking out from behind her skirts had opened it with absolutely no knowledge of a woman physician having ever been there. With no discernable leads to follow, he’d gone back to Manhattan, and while he had found Dr. Bard—still as pompous as ever—the now President of Columbia College Medical School hadn’t known where his previous student was, either.
“Practicing medicine somewhere, I’ve no doubt,” he’d said, shuffling a stack of papers. “Despite being a woman, Miss Pratt was one of the brightest minds in her class.”
“Lady Lancaster,” Stephen had corrected, his jaw ticking in annoyance. “And did it ever occur to you thatbecauseshe is a woman, my wife is exceptionally bright?”
Dr. Bard had chuckled. “Exceptions to the rule, my lord. Exceptions to the rule. As for her name, I don’t know what to tell you, other than she always went by Miss Pratt, and while I was aware of your marriage, she never brought it to anyone else’s attention.”
