Of course he had. It was a very Harry Vance thing to do.
Chapter Nineteen
Carlson had neverwitnessed such a scene in the duchess’ house. Excepting, perhaps, the evening the duke fell asleep with a lit cigar in his hand and set the drawing room curtains afire. They had been a fine yellow brocade and the duchess had been devastated. She had held up far better regarding the burns on the duke’s hands and his missing eyebrows.
This night, Carlson had been the reluctant bearer of the note from Lady Isabel. What a note it had been! He had prayed for something along the lines of—‘I am afraid I have just been informed that my father is near death and must race to his side.’
But no. What they’d got was—
My dear Duchess, I write this note hastily and then must be off to my father’s house. It seems Mr. Vance has been there all along, setting my father’s affairs in order and managing the estate. I must go to him.
Lord Lymington’s mother, as might be expected, wished to understand more thoroughly who this Mr. Vance was and why Lady Isabel was racing off to his side.
The duchess, had she had time to mull it over, might have thought of some sort of conciliatory if not particularly plausible explanation. She had not had the time though and had only crumpled the note in her hand and shouted, “That girl!”
The next hours had been like flying up and down the Alps in an out-of-control sleigh. One minute, Lord Lymington’s mother would pack and be off. Carlson called for her carriage. Then, she would remember that she had nowhere to be off to and the carriage was canceled. Then, she vowed she would go to her son’s apartments in Town and sleep on the drawing room floor if necessary. The carriage was called again. Then she would remember that her duke, still not home from his club, would likely be put out if she were to leave without him. The carriage was cancelled.
Just now, she explained that she could not spend another minute in this house and demanded the carriage. Carlson nodded and left the drawing room. He did not call the carriage, as the lady’s coachman had been ready to explode the last time they had communicated.
He heard the clatter of hoofbeats out of doors and praised the heavens—it was one of the dukes finally arrived home. Carlson presumed that gentleman would calm his wife. That would leave only one irate lady in the drawing room as opposed to the current two.
A footman opened the door.
It was not one of the dukes.
It was Mr. Vance.
Carlson felt his chest tightening and he clutched at his heart. Apparently, he had been delusional when he had assured himself that this night could not possibly get worse.
*
Harry had madegood time into London and gone straight to the duchess’ house. He did not know if he would find Lady Isabel there, or whether he’d have to crash into some ball or dinner to get to her, but get to her he would.
He dismounted, handed his reins to a groom, jogged up the steps, and pounded on the door.
It swung open. The duchess’ butler staggered backward at the sight of him. Harry almost looked over his shoulder to see if the devil were lurking behind him, such was the horror on Carlson’s face. He also heard rather loud voices coming from the drawing room and one of them was the duchess herself.
They were at home. Lady Isabel was here.
Harry strode into the house. The butler had not yet said anything to him, but was madly waving his hands at him as if to stop his progress.
“Step aside, Carlson,” Harry said.
“No, do not go in there,” Carlson said in a panicked whisper. “You must not. You must leave this instant! Go! Go on, you! Get out!”
Carlson’s eyes were wide, and he was getting very red in the face. Harry was not certain why the butler looked as if anybody going into the drawing room would be murdered, nor had he ever had the experience of a butler attempting to throw him out of a house.
He supposed it did not signify, as he certainly would not leave the house without seeing Lady Isabel.
Harry skirted round Carlson and made his way to the drawing room, ignoring the butler’s halfhearted cries of, “Stop, no! Get out!”
He let himself through the doors and bowed.
“Your Grace,” he said, “forgive me for arriving without an invitation, but it is imperative that I have an interview with Lady Isabel this instant.”
“You!” the duchess said, pointing at him from her position on the sofa.
The other lady, who Harry did not know, glared at him. She whipped her head around to the duchess and said, “Him? Is that, is it that person? Vance?”
