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Matthew Bromley. I was there when the constable took him. I have to admit I doubted her story, but the man was clearly disturbed. He ranted about Adam and Eve. The treachery of women."
"And what did he say about Emma?"
Lancaster flashed a humorless smile. "Why, he said she was not Lady Denmore."
His mouth went dry. "Who is she?"
"I would not claim him as a reliable source. But he said she was not the wife of Lord Denmore, but the daughter."
"The . . ." The startling feeling of truth shivered over his skin. "His daughter."
"Actually, the daughter of the ninth Baron Denmore, great-niece to the tenth."
"That. . ." Good God, could that be her story? Daughter to that. . . that disgusting reprobate? "The ninth Baron Denmore died six years ago. Did you know him?"
Lancaster shook his head.
"He was a selfish drunk with no apparent decency. He belonged to one of the old Hellfire clubs, if that gives you an idea. Killed himself and his heir in a riding accident. That was the last I heard of the Denmore line. Until recently. But I think perhaps he had a daughter."
A daughter, a young noblewoman, raised in that filth.
"The constable," Lancaster said without being asked. "His name is Rawley."
"All right. I'll see what I can find out from him. But you've no idea where she might have gone?"
"None. Although she once mentioned Scarborough and the seaside. She'd gone with her mother as a child."
"Scarborough?" He couldn't quite picture her there. Rather, he expected to track her to Paris or Rome or Lisbon. Scarborough would be too simple. Not enough adventure to be had. No deep pockets to be turned out. No rakish dukes to mislead.
"I'll keep that in mind and I thank you for your help. And your trust. If there's anything I can do for you in the future. . ."
"Ah, well. I'll put the bank on notice of your good opinion. But for now I'd be happy with word of her good health when you find her."
If Hart hadn't been so anxious, he would have quite enjoyed his driver's expression when he stepped to the street and gave him his new driving instructions. "The city jail. Quickly."
He'd never expected that Emma would lead him to visit the jail for the first time in his life, but somehow he couldn't muster any surprise.
Chapter 19
The silence of the church contracted around him, squeezing Matthew's heart until he began to weep. Tears spattered against his folded hands.
That mad constable had finally let him go, but Emily had disappeared again. All that searching and suffering and he had gained nothing but a terrible fear of confined spaces. He had not repaired his soul, had not brought her to God.
Reverend Whittier had welcomed him home with a sympathetic embrace and stern words. If you still lust for her, you cannot enter the service of the church with this sin on your soul. If you cannot make it right with the young woman, you must pray for forgiveness. Pray for your very life.
And so he had. Every day, every night. His knees had long since given up working properly. His neck ached with strain. But Matthew did not stop. Either God would remove this hunger from his body, or he would offer a miracle and return Emily to her rightful place.
"Mr. Matthew, sir?" a small voice said.
He raised his head and stared up at the statue of Christ. "You are never to disturb me during prayer."
"I'm sorry, sir," the maid stammered, voice echoing around the chapel. "Your father bade me fetch you. Someone has arrived from London. A gentleman."
When he spun toward her, the girl backed away. "From London?"
She nodded and added in a whisper, "In a crested carriage, sir."
Matthew lurched past her, limping as fast as he could toward the doors. His miracle. His miracle was here.
