Page 93 of Make Mine a Marquess

The footman shifted the trunk. “The Dawson family has already departed, my lord. The coachman wanted to leave straightaway due to the weather. They left while you were out.”

Disappointment settled low in his gut. It must have been evident on his face as well. “Lord Willard stood in your place as host and thanked them for coming,” the footman said, as if that piece of information would help. The man set off to load the baggage.

Landon froze. Willard had taken his place as lord of the manor? His heart hammered in his ears and his disappointment yielded to fury. His cousin had no right to take his place.

Scanning the frenetic scene, he noticed Willard speaking with Lord and Lady Delmont. His fingers slowly closed into a fist at his side. He must calm himself, show no outward reaction. The bastard had no idea his arrest was imminent.

But Willard usurping his place to see the Dawsons off irked him, especially since he hadn’t been able to privately say goodbye to Phoebe after the prior evening. He wanted to see her again, dammit. Craved to hold her one last time.

Could he call on her upon their return to London?

Impossible!

He’d accomplished all he’d set out to do. Her future was now bright and in her hands. Suitors would line up when she walked in a room. She would have her pick of the best, whether they were titled or not. She would have a man whose heart was pure, not damaged by vengeance. He’d lived on hate for five long years. What did he know of love?

And she deserved love.

Then why had a strange emptiness settled in his chest? Now that the constable had the evidence to arrest Willard—and that arrest couldn’t come soon enough—he could attend to his life in England. He’d already reclaimed his title and his lands, and now he could focus on rebuilding his fortune. His own future was bright.

But why did it seem as gray as the sky?

Chapter Twenty-Six

Phoebe parted the curtains of her bedroom window of her family’s London townhouse in Piccadilly and observed the hustle and bustle of carriages and pedestrians below. London hadn’t changed. During the long two-day drive home, she’d stared wordlessly out the coach window. She’d barely spoken when they’d stopped to spend the night at an inn. She’d claimed to suffer from travel sickness and her parents, who’d believed her disposition was due to the long journey, had allowed her to retire early.

Phoebe had intended to tell her parents that she desired to end the betrothal first, then tell Lord Willard. But that was before she’d overheard the conversation outside her bedchamber the prior evening.

The conversation that had changed her life in a single, heart-wrenching moment.

Instead, she’d stayed quiet, her stomach in knots, her already bruised heart cracking every time the carriage hit a rut in the bumpy country road. Mr. and Mrs. Dawson would find out soon enough. If she said anything, she’d have to explain why she’d had a sudden change of heart and she didn’t trust herself not to confess how she’d learned of Willard’s crimes.

Now she would not have to say a thing because if events progressed as she suspected, then Landon would not wait to have his justice. Everything would all come out soon enough.

When they finally reached the city, the familiarity of it struck a comforting, yet oddly strange chord in her chest. Everything was heightened, from the jingle of harnesses, the crunch or rattle of carts and coaches over cobbled streets, to the occasional street vendors crying out, “Fresh Flowers!” or “Fresh oranges!” The ever-present factory smoke curled above church spires. The scent of freshly baked bread wafted to her as they’d passed a bakery. They’d turned a corner and the pungent scent of urine from a housemaid tossing a basin out the window made her wrinkle her nose.

Now that she was back home, nothing had changed.

Except…everything had changed.

She was not the same person who’d left London. During a simple country sojourn, her life had been upended. She’d helped the less fortunate in the country. She’d learned what she’d carefully planned for her life wasn’t what she desired at all. She’d fallen in love.

Then she’d had her heart broken. Smashed.

A loud meow drew her attention. She bent down and scooped Mimi into her arms. Petting her soft fur, she held the cat to her chest. “Oh, Mimi. I did it again. I fell for a bad man. A very bad man. Worse this time than before.”

The cat’s large green eyes watched her.

“You helped me heal after Philip. Can you do it again, sweet girl?”

Mimi nudged her hand and Phoebe scratched beneath her chin.

“You liked Landon, didn’t you, girl?” Phoebe sighed. “So did I. What a mess.”

A flash from the window caught her eye. She carried the cat to the window to see the delivery of the morning post. “Oh, dear. It won’t be long now, Mimi.” She knew the delivery of her mother’s favorite post—the scandal sheet—accompanied her father’s newspapers.

Less than half an hour later, the knock on her door sounded like a death knell. “Miss Phoebe. Your parents request your presence in your father’s study.”

They’d sent her maid to fetch her. They were most likely in a panic. The upper class loved a good scandal whether it be the fall of a young lady to a rogue, the gambling loss of an unentailed estate, or the illegal duel over finding a man’s wife in bed with her lover. The scandal sheets were more popular than The Times in many households. But the arrest of Lord Willard would be monumental, and undoubtedly the news had spread like wildfire. The time had come.