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Chastity hastened to Mrs. Cooke’s office, thankful to find her there instead of having to track her down in the vast house. She explained the letter’s contents—or false contents, she supposed—to a stoic Mrs. Cooke, who kept her fingers twined together on top of the mahogany table.
Stacks of ledgers were piled neatly to the right of the desk and a small, empty glass sat on the other side. A tiny sliver of brandy stained the bottom of the glass. The housekeeper enjoyed a small tipple when noting down the food brought into the house it seemed. Chastity only hoped it meant she would be in a good mood.
Mrs. Cooke lifted a finger and Chastity held her breath, her throat tight, aware of the sickening sensation in her gut. The last time her movements had been controlled by another had been when she was wed.
“One day,” she said firmly. “I need you tomorrow. The rugs from the east wing will be needing rolled and beaten.”
Chastity let her shoulders sag. “Thank you, Mrs. Cooke. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.”
“Ask Mr. Grover for use of the wagon.” She dragged one of the ledgers across the table and flipped it open, the leather covering thudding against the desk. “But do not tell anyone I offered it, you hear?”
“I won’t,” Chastity vowed and allowed herself a tiny smile.
The Mrs. Cooke she met when she’d first arrived at Heath Lodge remained, and that meant there was still a chance she could get the housekeeper on her side.
∞∞∞
One of the benefits of being an earl was the ability to do whatever he wished without so much as a raised eyebrow. Well, Valentine supposed he’d received at least one raised eyebrow from Lane, but his valet wisely kept his mouth shut when Valentine announced he intended to saddle his horse and take a ride—immediately and despite the late hour.
It had been the announcement that Lane should not wait up to undress him that had caused the eyebrow to twitch. My master has lost his wits, was perhaps what the valet thought. Or else, he assumed Valentine’s celibacy had driven him to the edge and he needed to slake his lust immediately.
Neither assumption was entirely wrong. He suspected his wits had fled him the moment Chastity had put her foot under his boot. And celibacy was becoming tiring indeed with her around, taunting him with curves that should be hidden away under a huge grain sack. Or preferably three.
Gripping the reins so tightly they likely left imprints through his leather gloves, he set his jaw and squinted against the rapidly setting sun. Dustings of pink clouds dotted the sky while the sunlight dappled through the trees, blackening the trunks against the golden light. The last time he’d taken this road had been immediately after Julian’s death. Curse Chastity for making him take this path again.
He’d known as soon as he’d overheard one of the maids discussing where she was. He should have known sooner really. There had been a distinct lack of Chastity today. Despite being determined to keep his distance after his unwitting confession, he found himself watching for her. First the blasted woman practically blackmailed him into talking of his father and now she taunted him with her presence.
Or lack thereof.
Then he’d heard it.
She’d gone to see her dying mother.
Valentine would laugh were his jaw not so tight. She had no mother. She’d died nearly a decade ago. It didn’t take a nose for investigation for him to figure out where she had decided to go so abruptly.
Mr. and Mrs. Harper’s.
The manipulative little witch. Lying to Mrs. Cooke and going to their house when he’d explicitly said no.
Oh yes, not to mention vanishing for an entire day.
The hour had to be late—about nine now, considering the sun was giving up on the day. By his calculations, even having taken Mr. Grover’s slow wagon, she should have been there and back by now, even if she had shared tea with the Harpers and persuaded them to give up all their secrets.
Damned fool woman. Who in their right mind went off alone through the country roads where any vagabond or blackguard could set upon them? For all he knew, some highwayman found her and would keep her for ransom. He’d heard of a spate of kidnappings recently where wealthy women were taken and ransomed.
He frowned. The highwayman would have to be clever indeed. She certainly did not look wealthy in her unform—at least to the untrained eye. He saw the confidence that came with rank in her every movement.
He even admired it, damn it.
Whatever had happened to her, his stomach would not untangle itself until he knew she was safe and he’d given her a good scolding for making him feel this way.
The first gray wisps of night descended over the country road. She’d better be tucked up in bed at the Harpers for some reason or else he would—
“Woah.” He drew the mount to a halt and swiftly jumped off, his boots landing hard on the dry mud.
Angled toward the edge of the road, the wagon was empty. He circled it and came to a stop by the broken wheel. One of the spokes had splintered, rendering it useless. He resisted the urge to throw his hat to the ground and stomp on it.
Damn and blast.
