Page 83 of The Gentleman’s Leading Lady

“I was aimin’ to, Mary, afore you shoved in here and⁠—”

“We’ve our own transport.” It was taking every fiber of Dante’s being not to tear something apart. “Only tell us, how long ago did you leave her?”

Mary glowered at him. “Save your salt, will ye? Amos only done what he’s tole to do⁠—”

“Three o’clock,” Amos said quickly as Dante felt his face moving. “Mebbe four.”

Hours ago, then. And it was growing dark.

“Much obliged to ye,” Evans said. “You all have a good night, now.”

“We will,” Mary exclaimed as the men turned away from the door. “Daws, me lad, run down to the pie shop on the corner and bring home whate’er they have for our denner, will ye? And don’t let that baker thieve from ye now.”

Evans boarded the coach, which waited for them in High Street, while the other men mounted the horses they’d borrowed from Andover’s stables. Dante’s legs ached from the unaccustomed riding. He’d almost pity Evans, forced to ride with the women, except nothing about the man invited pity. In his own way, he was as hard, if not harder, than the knight and the lord.

Dante knew few men of that rank he found intimidating, but the viscount, earlier, had alluded to surviving three infamous battles. They must all be seasoned soldiers.

These were the men he’d have to explain himself to if he hurt Cerys.

He knew how to find the road to Bayshill Lodge; it turned off at the Old Well, and it wasn’t far. But where they’d be forced to go after that, he couldn’t guess.

He wasn’t puzzled by Bathsheba’s lie. Dante considered what he could make of her logic as he led the search party down the unfinished Colonnade, where he had met Cerys Evans just weeks ago. Bathsheba would have wanted to misdirect him so he couldn’t pursue. But why would Cerys confide in Bathsheba, and not the other women in the troupe while she was riding home with them? Why would she have Bathsheba provide cover for her escape, unless she wanted the other woman to know she was cutting him loose and Dante was hers for the taking?

His head pounded with questions, with rage and fear as they rode along the paths, finding their way as best they could beneath the sliver of moon. At least it wasn’t a new moon or a cloudy night. They passed the Crescent, once the symbol of his thwarted efforts and balked ambition. He couldn’t care about any of that if Cerys didn’t want him.

They crossed the Chelt, thick with the scent of wild garlic and chorusing frogs along its banks. The horses picked their way along the dirt lanes, once widened for the traffic of an earl who had taken a fancy to the waters, and the monarch he told of them. Why had Bathsheba brought her here? Where would she have gone? Who was she with, this time of night, and was she safe? How would he find her to know?

What would he do if she didn’t want him to find her? His whole life had led up to this woman. There would be nothing he’d ever want more than to have her in his life, however she would take him.

The lane split, and Dante debated for an awful, endless moment, trying to remember what he knew of the land. He’d been to Bayshill Lodge once or twice to study the architecture. The house was an odd upright rectangle, curious for the flat roof and the lines into which the front façade was arranged, with the centerpiece a pedimented porch flanked by pillars. He’d meant to bring Cerys here to see if she wanted any of those features for her theater.

A wild animal tore at his chest as he urged his horse down the nearer lane, the one he hoped led to what had been the King’s private well. The waters hadn’t kept old George from madness and having to pass the reins of a regency to his spoiled heir. Men’s plans rarely worked out as they hoped. He’d been so certain his house would win her over. That if he could only show it her, she would see the future he had begun to imagine for them. And she would want it, too.

He’d been so sure, when he saw the look of wonder on her face, that she had.

She didn’t care if he had the status of a gentleman. She admired his work, and she believed in his talent and skill.

When she kissed him, every wound and longing and disappointment of his life vanished, smoothed over by her smooth and delicate hand. When he held her, he was certain that everything in his life would come right in time, so long as she was at the center.

If she didn’t want him—if she had indeed left…

Bathsheba’s betrayal would be a mere pinch compared to the devastation of losing Cerys. He had never loved Bathsheba as he loved Cerys Evans. He had never loved anyone. And there would be no one else for him but this girl, his whole life long.

Dante dismounted in the broad drive and recognized the fatal flaw in his logic as he looked around. The old pump room was a dim outline against the gathering dark, cushioned with smoke bush and vetch, a few dogwoods blooming beside what had once been a well-traveled road. He didn’t know where the road went from here, and it was too dark to see the recent traces of coach wheels or the print of horse hooves. Blood rushed through his head like the Chelt in flood, drowning out the sound of the carriage as the women arrived.

“Why would she have come here?” Penrydd dismounted his horse, moving as if he weren’t the least bit sore from a day of travel followed by more riding.

“It’s a prime spot for a rendezvous.” Sir Hewitt leapt down lightly. “Easy to find, not far from town, but not much visited, from the looks of things.”

“Cerys didn’t run away with a lover,” Dante said. “Bathsheba is lying.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because she kissed me just this afternoon, right before I asked her to marry me.”

“You what?” Penrydd’s hand went to his hip, as if reaching for a sword he wasn’t wearing. Sir Hewitt balled his right hand into a fist.

“And what did she say to your offer?” Evans still had his cool head, damn the man. Dante didn’t know how he could stay level when he thought of Cerys as a daughter, and Dante was drowning with panic that she could be lost, abandoned, hurt.