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The housekeeper's mouth pressed into a line. "I'm afraid the duchess departed not an hour ago, sir. She left word only with the staff."

Julian's mind blanked. "She left?"

Mrs. Rutherford nodded. "A maid saw her carrying a bag to the carriage. She would not be stopped. She said only that she was returning to Kent, and to please see to the household in her absence."

He turned away, swearing under his breath. "Have Danvers bring my coat. Tell him to ready the gray. I will leave within the quarter hour."

"Yes, Your Grace."

He went back to his study, pulling the door tight behind him. For the first time in a year, he was terrified—truly and utterly terrified—not for himself, but for what might become of her if he let this slip away.

He swept aside the papers on his desk, hunting for the letter from Thomas, the field journal, anything that might hold a clue. His hands shook. At the edge of his vision, the old armillary began to tremble from the force of his search.

There was a knock. "What now?" he called, not bothering to hide the fury.

Danvers entered, hat in hand. "Mr. Vance of the museum, Your Grace. He insists it is urgent."

Julian nearly threw a ledger at the wall. "Tell him to come back tomorrow."

Danvers, unusually stubborn, replied, "He has brought a matter of the utmost gravity."

"Fine. Show him in."

Mr. Vance entered, slim, unsmiling, hair damp with the rain. He carried a folio bound in blue ribbon and a sheaf of notes. "Forgive the interruption. I would not impose, but we have a crisis in the records."

Julian barely restrained himself from shouting. "Explain."

Vance spread the documents across the desk. "There is a timeline discrepancy in the Turkish expedition. Several of the Italian scholars are questioning the dates of your findings at Pamphylia. If it is not addressed immediately, the trustees intend to withhold their final approval."

Julian blinked, then laughed. He had never heard a sound so hollow. "This is what cannot wait?"

"It threatens the entire museum, Your Grace."

Julian gripped the edge of the desk. The room spun. He tried to focus on the words in the margins, the dates and notations. Vance hovered behind him, watching every move.

Something caught his eye: a line of correction written in a neat, familiar script, wedged in the margin beside an indecipherable word. Adelaide's hand. She had annotated his journal, found the error, and fixed it with a single Latin note—correcting the botanical names, the date, the entire crisis in a flourish.

Julian stared at it, numbly. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

He looked up at Vance. "You have your answer," he said. "It was a translation error in the plant names. My wife already found it." He handed over the journal with shaking hands. "Anything else?"

Vance looked at the note, then at Julian, startled. "No, Your Grace. This solves it entirely."

Julian stood. He had never felt more alive, or more wretched. "Everything can wait," he said, each word falling like a gavel. "I have to find my wife."

CHAPTER 33

The world had been reduced to a single, endless rattle of carriage wheels and the ceaseless thud of rain against the windowpane.

Adelaide blinked herself awake for the fifth or fifteenth time, lost in a state that was neither sleep nor true consciousness, and stared out at the rolling country hills, what little she could see of it through the fog and shuddering gloom. Each jolt of the springs sent another shock through her skull.

"Nearly there, ma'am," called the coachman, though the assurance sounded about as trustworthy as an Ashbourne at a gaming table. Adelaide did not believe it for a moment..

Kent, she was convinced, had more mist than the road, and Ashwood Manor would never appear at the end of the lane.

If the trip lasted a little longer, she might actually prefer it. There would be no letters from London, no stares, no Lady Calliwell to natter on about her duchess's debut, and, blessedly, no Julian. Ashwood was to be a retreat, a sickbed, an absolute and permanent closing of the door.

With luck, she would never have to hear his voice again.