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The butler opened a cupboard, produced two glasses and a bottle of brandy.
Blake sat down with a thud on the chair on the opposite side of the table and reached for a glass. ‘Does nothing throw you off balance, Turner?’
He took a gulp of brandy and decided that he did not want to know what spirits of this quality were doing in the strong room.
‘One would hope that a superior butler will always rise to the occasion, my lord. I collect that her ladyship is upset—some misunderstanding, no doubt. But she has no close relatives, I think?’
‘None. Oh, come in, Jon, join the party.’
Jon came in, sat down and twitched the brandy glass out of Blake’s hand. ‘You know what the doctor said about alcohol and concussion. I have the wedding invitation list here.’ He brandished a sheaf of papers. ‘That has all Lady Hainford’s close friends on it—although quite how we go about asking if she is with any of them without starting the rumour mills going… I can set an enquiry agent to find who is living in each house…that might be the most discreet way. I won’t say who we are looking for. It will take a day or so.’
‘I had better start with Dr Murray. She liked him when he saw her about her leg, so he’s the most likely medical man she will have gone to for advice.’ Blake shoved both hands through his hair and winced as he knocked against the bandage. He tried to think, tried to focus on something other than the sickening fear that he had lost her.
‘And if we do not find her in London?’ Jon asked, downing the brandy in one go.
‘I’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,’ Bake said.
Or throw myself off it.
‘Dinner,’ Jon said decisively. ‘We are both bone-tired and you are concussed.’
It was sensible, and Jon was right. There was nothing to be done tonight. Blake went upstairs to bathe and change, ate dinner, then swallowed the foul potion that Duncombe produced—‘For your headache, my lord,’—and retreated to his study. He felt drained, beyond tired and yet achingly beyond sleep even as his eyelids dragged down.
What about heartache, Duncombe? Have you a potion for that too?
On the table was the portfolio of papers that he had taken from Eleanor’s locked desk drawer. What had possessed him to break into her private things? It was most definitely not the action of a gentleman, even a despe
rate one, but instinct had driven him—some small nagging voice that he had promptly forgotten in his haste to reach London.
Now he opened the leather flaps and began to read. After a page he sat up straight. After two all desire for sleep fled. Blake laid the papers out on the desk and began to sort them into order because—bless her orderly soul—Eleanor had dated most of them. Dated, and noted the place where each part had been written.
The faintest glimmering of hope crept into the aching void that was his heart.
*
‘Yes, I am happy to confirm that you are in an early stage of pregnancy, my lady.’ Dr Eldridge, the doctor Ellie had gone to on the advice of Mrs Grimshaw, beamed at her.
‘I thought I must be,’ she said faintly. She was pleased—of course she was—and happy, but she wished she might be joyful.
The doctor was a jolly soul, unused to aristocratic patients, and cheerfully frank in a way that Ellie suspected many a London doctor would not be. He explained all the symptoms she might encounter, was encouraging about the morning sickness, and prescribed country walks, fresh air and a lack of worry for anything else that might ail her.
‘But summon me at any time you feel the slightest need, my lady.’
Finch was waiting with the carriage and helped Ellie and Polly in. ‘I bought some newspapers, my lady. I thought you might find them of interest,’ he said.
‘Thank you, Finch.’ He climbed into the carriage after them as Ellie insisted—he was her steward now, after all—and settled next to Polly as Ellie picked up one of the papers and tried to read.
The print blurred and danced before her eyes. So she must not worry and all would be well, would it?
Where was Blake now, and what was he doing? Did he miss her even a little? Was he worried about her? She swallowed, turned the front page—all advertisements as usual—shook the pages of newsprint into order and made herself focus on the first item on page two.
She had reached the foot of the fourth and final page by the time they drew up in front of Carndale. And if she had been challenged to recount a single item of news she knew she would not have recalled one of them.
*
‘Eleanor is not in London.’
Blake pushed back his chair and began to pace up and down the study.
