Page 3 of Duke of Sapphire

“I am not running,” Charlotte said. “I am walking. Briskly.” The bravado surprised her.

Edith tried to smile and failed. “There is a carriage at the rear stable, set to leave for Bedfordshire before dawn. The driver is my cousin; he owes me three favors and will not ask questions. Do not stop anywhere near London, my lady. Go as far north as you can…” Her voice broke.

Charlotte nodded. “Thank you, Edith.”

The rest of the evening stretched thin and taut. Edith returned once, bringing a bundle of bread, cheese, and a battered book of poetry. “In case you need company,” she said, pressing the book into Charlotte’s hand.

“I will,” Charlotte said.

They waited, sitting close in the dark, not speaking. The silence was the only kindness left.

When the clock in the hallway struck two, Edith rose. “You must go.”

Charlotte followed her through the servant hallways, with her heart drumming so loudly that it created a steady roar. They slipped outside. The grass was slick with night dew, the stables a black hulk against the dim sky.

The carriage was there, lanterns doused. The driver had a burly shape. He had thrown a thick scarf over his jaw. The man nodded once at Edith, then at Charlotte. “You’re the new boy, are you?”

Charlotte nodded, voice locked tight in her chest. “I am.”

“Load in, then. We’ve a long way.” He looked her up and down, and for a breath she thought he might see through everything. Then he shrugged. “Just keep quiet and hold on if we hit a rut.”

Edith lingered at the carriage door. “Don’t look back,” she whispered.

Charlotte squeezed Edith’s hand and climbed inside the coach.

The carriage jolted forward, wheels crunching the gravel. Charlotte pressed her forehead to the window and watched the only home she had ever known fade into the fog.

She wondered, for one wild moment, if her father would notice she was gone before breakfast.

She hoped he gave her enough time to get as far as possible.

CHAPTER 2

“Your coach will not last half a day if you load it like a mail wagon.”

Henry Kingswell, Duke of Sappherton, did not pause in his stride. “I am not bringing the entire estate. Only the minimum for six weeks. I will not risk a delay in delivery.”

Tristan Lilacourt, the Duke of Evermere, leaned in the doorway with one boot braced against the jamb and a smirk that belonged at a gaming table. “The minimum? You have more paperwork packed than food.”

“I anticipate most meals will be taken at coaching inns. I do not anticipate time for reading.”

“Yet you bring a trunk of ledgers.”

Henry set his pen down. “If you are here to offer farewells, say them and be done.”

“I am not,” said Tristan. “I am here because your man said you had not eaten, and I am the only person in London with the stomach to share breakfast with you.” He wandered past the desk, eyeing the stacks of correspondence. “Also because Lavinia said you were liable to work yourself to death before noon.”

“Lavinia should worry about her own husband’s health. You look half-starved.”

“I have a metabolism that burns away everything but charm. You, on the other hand, look as though you have not slept in a week.”

“I have not,” Henry said.

“Why? The Drummond boy will not vanish in a day.”

Henry pushed the topmost folder a quarter inch to the right. “If you had read the latest dispatches, you would not say so. My cousin Nathan Drummond’s estate is in utter chaos. There are three sets of stewards giving conflicting orders, and not one of them has authority to act. There is no word from the Drummonds themselves, and the staff are at their wit’s end. The boy⁠—”

“Ian,” said Tristan.