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Chapter Twenty-Six
“Theory may do much with practice, but without it, nothing.”
Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.
Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.
Adisgruntled Lady Bronwen flounced from the study and Rhys hurled himself back in his chair, wishing he could return to daybreak, waking up with Isabelle in his embrace, kissing her nape, having her twist in his arms, and…
That was when it had all gone to hell.
Hugh had hammered on the Llanedwyn Inn’s bedchamber door, citing the hour of nine had come and gone, the mansion was bedlam and the magistrate had offered a reward for the capture of the fiendish fugitive Miss Beaujeu.
There’d not been time for talk of the future. Instead, Rhys had been obliged to sneak from her room like an errant lover, which in some ways he was. Devil only knows how Hugh hid such subterfuge as Rhys had dropped his top-boots in the corridor and Anwen the maid had cooed a cheery good day. The gossip would be all over Llanedwyn before the first pint of ale had been served.
Then, he’d had to dress hurriedly in his own chamber while Hugh, with a puckish grin, had tapped his Hessians with his crop.
Rhys’ governess had been more proficient at acting composed: her countenance had been all that was unruffled as she’d sat upon one of the inn’s nags, whereas he himself had been a flailing mass of lust, tension and fury.
Once home, his bastion of a study had calmed him somewhat, but after interviewing Lady Bronwen as to the events of yesterday, the matter of the stolen jewels remained as murky as the Clagmore bog.
Doubtless, with all his ducal authority he could quash the absurd charge of theft and replace the corrupt magistrate forthwith, but unless the true culprit was caught, Isabelle’s reputation in London, Wales and beyond would forever be slandered by rumour that not even a duke could quash.
And Isabelle deserved better.
Lady Bronwen’s rubies spilled over his desk and he poked them with a quill nib.
Glass paste.
But even so.
The lady had adamantly sworn she’d not placed the baubles in Isabelle’s bedchamber. With a toss of curls and little remorse, she’d admitted to not actually witnessing Miss Beaujeu in the guest wing but that a shadow had lurked and she’d guessed as to its identity.
Hell, that could have been anyone. Mrs Pugh or a maid going about their duties? Or the ghost of the laughing butler who haunted the staircase on occasion?
Or was it all a pack of lies?
Though it had to be acknowledged Lady Bronwen had seemed to be sincerely upset.
Rising to his boots, he wandered to the double doors and watched the gardeners wrangling with the fallen debris strewing the forecourt.
Added to the tumult within the house was the fact that no one would be leaving anytime soon as although the worst of the storm had blown through, various portions of the track were now submerged beneath water. Horses could wade as they had done on this morning’s return but a carriage loaded with trunks would be impossible to haul through.
Men were out fixing the damage, pumping water and shovelling gravel onto the mud but it would take a day or so. He thrust a hand to his nape when a knock interrupted.
“Enter,” he growled.
Hugh’s blond mop popped around the door, blue eyes twinkling. “The magistrate is due back this afternoon and I’ve an idea how to lure out the culprit before then. Want to hear it?”
Rhys breathed deep. “Of course, Hugh. But, promise me, no doves, dumplings or duels, eh?”
* * *
Isabelle had founda modicum of peace sitting within the schoolroom, the scent of books and crisp chalk settling her. Lessons, however, had been postponed – surely even Miss Appleton would agree – until this entire matter was resolved.
Upon their return to the house, the duke and the Scandalous Mr Cadwalader had decided to smuggle her up the servants’ staircase to avoid any unnecessary dialogue with the guests.
Within her chambers though, Mrs Pugh had greeted her with a fierce hug, arranged a steaming hot bath and served a breakfast fit for twenty mouths, all the while relating the gossip of the household: maids were riffling the laundry for evidence to assist, Lady Gwen was endeavouring to plot everyone’s movements before the theft, Morgan was examining the weave of the rugs for indication of footfall, and Lady Nesta was packing.
