Page 93 of A Match Made On Duchess Square

“I am not devious,” she insisted, “but I do understand how that sort of manipulative mind works. Do you think for a moment he accidentally showed up just when you were on the beach with your sons?”

“How could he know our routine or that Gwen would not come down with us?” James countered.

She regarded him with exasperation. “He’s obviously been asking about you, possibly following you. He also knows Gwen very well. They grew up as children together. He knows she holds everything inside, hates to show her feelings, and does not like anyone knowing her business. Which is why he knew that he could draw her away from your home on the pretext of just talking.”

“I’ll saddle my horse,” James said, cursing himself for leaving Gwendolyn alone even for a moment. But he’d been so worried about being overbearing and scaring her off that he had allowed this to happen.

“I’ll come with you, Papa,” Jordan volunteered.

“No, son. She won’t appreciate an army riding down on her.” Nor appreciate that James followed her as though he did not trust her to make the right decision. But his sons were not going to allow him to wait here with them.

Well, to bloody blazes about showing Gwendolyn he trusted her. She had to know he had complete faith in her. It was Clement that he did not trust as far as he could spit.

“Agatha, do you know where they were headed?”

“No, m’lord,” the maid said, her chin wobbling. “I only saw that they were riding down the long drive. After that, I could not tell whether they turned right or left.”

“I’ll catch up to them. They couldn’t have gone far.”

He was about to turn to his sons, wanting to assure his youngest especially that Gwendolyn was not going to leave them. But how could he give any such assurances?

He turned to Fiona instead. “Take care of them while I’m gone.”

It seemed like forever before his horse was brought around, but could not have been more than a few minutes.

Precious minutes.

He mounted his bay stallion, a monster of a horse that was built for strength and endurance, named Romeo. He had purchased him as a colt and never bothered to change the name his prior owner had given him.

In truth, Romeo looked fierce, but he was gentle and obedient, more of a lover than a fighter.

James came upon one of his gardeners trimming the hedges near the Milbury Hill gate. “Hawes, have you seen Lady Gwendolyn and her companion pass by here in a rig?”

Hawes tipped his hat. “Aye, yer lordship. Not five minutes ago.”

“Which way did they turn?”

His gardener pointed in the direction of Brighton.

James thanked him and raced off, knowing Romeo would soon catch up to them.

To his surprise, it took longer than expected to come upon the rig. Clement must have worked his horse to a lather to get as far away from Milbury Hill as possible.

James was fuming by the time he reached them.

The rig was off to the side of the road, the horse grazing in the shade of a copse of trees beside a stream that was not very wide but flowed toward the English Channel on a steady current.

Gwen was standing on its grassy bank, her expression unreadable while Clement, a big, blond-haired man, was speaking intently to her. In fact, so intently that neither of them noticed James’s approach.

He tethered his horse in the shade of the trees and quietly made his way through the copse to eavesdrop—something he normally never did, but this was important. He needed to know what nonsense Clement was dishing out and whether Gwen was swayed by any of it.

He listened as Clement spoke in a pleading voice. “Wellington himself asked me to stay on in France and assist the noble families who had lost their estates. Gwen, most lost their precious loved ones, too. They suffered so much, so how could I refuse?”

“I am not questioning your acceptance of an important assignment,” Gwen replied. “I am hurt and angry because you never once thought to tell me. What would it have taken for you to let me know you were alive? One short letter in all the years of your absence would have sufficed. I could have stopped torturing myself, wondering whether you were dead or alive.”

“I’ve explained this to you.” He raked a hand through his hair. “I was under the mistaken impression that my father had told you. I thought he was forwarding the letters meant for you. How was I to know he’d burned them and chased you away?”

“How many letters were there?”