“Lady Pennington,” Harbury said, “I don’t know what’s happened—”
“Didn’t you get my letters?” she interrupted.
He jerked back. “Youwrote the anonymous letters?”
He’d known he recognized the handwriting. But he’d burned the ones she’d sent him in a fit of pique.
“What letters?” Cassandra demanded.
“Well, I couldn’t sign them, of course…”
Cassandra’s brows rose, then she gave a little snort before shaking her head and turning away again. He thrust his hand into his hair.
He didn’t understand any of this. Why would Vivianne write letters impugning her own father? He wanted to demand answers, but first he had to stop his wife from making a rash decision.
“Viv,” he said, “I realize you are distressed—”
“I should hope you’d be able to tell.”
Cassandra huffed as she continued her march toward the door.
“For heaven’s sake!” he said to Lady Pennington. “This is not a good time.”
“So I can see. But my father hasn’t been seen since yesterday morning. Mrs. Grant is frantic with worry.”
“How didyouget here so quickly?”
“At Mrs. Grant’s request, I’ve been staying at Rose Cottage for the past few weeks.”
Ever farther behind them, Cassandra made another sound of disgust.
“Why would such a short disappearance cause such alarm? Mightn’t he have gone, as he sometimes did, to one of the more remote villages on the estate? Mightn’t he simply take himself off for a solitary ramble?”
“I’m afraid he is not well.”
Cassandra’s footfalls ceased.
Harbury inhaled through his teeth. “I will be back to discuss the matter. But not before I’ve had a brief—and private—talk with my wife.”
“Darling,” Vivianne smiled sweetly, “I don’t think a talk—brief or not—will help.”
He studied her face, surprised by her sarcastic tone, by the malice underlying it. She was worried for her father, yes, but she was also relishing his distress.
Cassandra’sdistress.
He’d fallen in love with this woman so long ago his understanding of her had become deeply entwined with his sense of himself. So entwined, he wondered if he’d ever truly known her at all.
Had the qualities he’d loved ever been real?
Or were they simply things he’d wanted to see?
“You may wait here,” he replied, curt. “You are not permitted in the house.”
“Pratt, the old hag, wouldn’t let me in, either.” She shrugged. “Not that I have any interest in this rotting pile of stone anymore, anyway. Another few decades and the Hall will be as picturesque as the Priory.”
She’d spoken loudly enough for Cassandra to hear.
“Damn you, Viv,” he said in a low voice.
