“Fucking hell.” Tristan usually tried not to swear, or to show any emotion, really. He’d had enough of unfettered emotion—ducking vases and crockery and flying books for the five miserable years of his marriage and even after when Linnet had come to weep and plead for him to cease the divorce proceedings. When the tears hadn’t worked, she’d resorted to her old tricks, and Tristan bore a scar in a very private place to prove it.
But he was not going to have a bastard carry the Sykes name, and the way Linnet had been going, that was all too probable. He’d been as hard-hearted as he knew how to be.
He had no way then of knowing she had a cancer of the womb, and that conception would never have been possible. She’d died, alone and in disgrace.
Tristan carried the guilt still. If he’d somehow been able to please her—
No. It was pointless to try to change history. To change his nature, or hers, for that matter. Linnet had been a born coquette—flighty, irresponsible, impassioned. Perhaps she’d somehow known her life would be cut short and tried to experience all of the forbidden. She had been much too young when they married, barely seventeen, and had never really grown up.
But by God, he had to change the present, because, according to the furious telegram from the Duke of Islesford, his fiancée had done a bunk.
Tristan knew he shouldn’t have trusted Lady Sarah to behave in his absence. A shopping trip to Stroud for bride clothes indeed. With three blasted chaperones he’d deputized—a maid, the Reverend Fitzmartin, and his wife. Five if Old Fred the coachman and his son, Young Fred, were counted. He would have been better off shackling her to Anstruther, although the sight of a woman’s unmentionables in a dressmaker’s shop might have caused the man an apoplexy.
A wasted day. All those papers he’d signed at his solicitor’s and bank, so many his hand grew tired. The useless special license in his pocket. Tristan looked around his London flat to see if he’d overlooked anything. A hansom cab was waiting downstairs to take him to the railway station. He’d arrive on the very last train as planned, in preparation for tomorrow’s wedding-that-would-not-be.
He raked a hand through his hair and clapped a hat on his head. Where in hell could she have gone? Lady Sarah had no money and no clothes. As far as Tristan knew, she had no friends in Gloucestershire to help her. Stroud was unfamiliar, although the station was easy enough to find. She could have boarded a train to anywhere.
Damn it. As head of the Puddling Rehabilitation Foundation’s governors, Tristan was responsible for her well-being. The Duke of Islesford would make a stink that would impossible to cloak with all of the Sykes House’s garden flowers.
But the duke was right there in Puddling. He should have been in charge of his own daughter, shouldn’t he?
Fat chance. No one was in charge of Lady Sarah. Tristan wasn’t going to skate away so easily.
The dark trip home seemed endless. He tried to distract himself by reading the architectural contracts he’d brought with him by the train carriage lights, but all the words and numbers fuzzed together.
The madwoman would be the death of him. If he couldn’t concentrate on his work, what would become of his reputation? It had been difficult enough to redeem himself in the eyes of society after the divorce. A man who couldn’t control his wife—well, how could he be trusted to oversee the building of a house? Workmen were known to be wayward too.
Tristan was met at the station by Old Fred and his son, who practically pulled their fetlocks and apologized profusely for letting Lady Sarah get away this morning. He checked his watch—a long twelve hours ago. Twelve hours was a lot of time to get up to mischief.
“It wasn’t anyone’s fault but mine. I should have locked her up,” Tristan said, halfway meaning it. The princess in the tower—he imagined her shouting the walls down, or worse, donning trousers and descending efficiently to her escape.
Puddling was quiet as they passed the locked gates that closed the town off from the main road. If the other governors had been notified of Lady Sarah’s disappearance, there was no obvious sign of distress. No villagers with flambeaux were beating the bushes or marching off to Stroud.
Less than a mile beyond, Old Fred turned into the long avenue that led home. Tristan saw that Sykes House was ablaze again, every window lit. These damned Marchmains were costing his family too much money.
He’d steeled himself to deal with the duke, or so he thought. But he hadn’t expected the man to burst from the house as if he’d been shot out of a cannon, if one wore a paisley dressing gown to fly across the air.
Tristan didn’t wait for the carriage steps to be put down before he dropped to the driveway. “Any news, Your Grace?”
“Not a word! What are you going to do to bring my daughter back?”
“I’ll go in to Stroud first thing tomorrow morning.” The station master’s office had been closed when Tristan got off the train, otherwise he would have asked questions.
“Your man already did that. Made up some story, but I didn’t believe a word.”
“Anstruther?”
“I have no idea what the man’s name is. Looks like a ghoul.”
“I’ll go home and speak with him.”
“What do you mean?”
Tristan attempted to be patient. “I already explained I do not live in my father’s house. I have a cottage on the property. And if you don’t mind, it’s very late.”
The duke’s face flushed in the lamplight. “You dare to talk of sleep when my only child is missing? She could be lying in a ditch this very moment! Dead or, or decapitated!”
The duke’s imagination was working overtime. Frankly, after the things Lady Sarah had said about the man, Tristan was surprised Islesford was as upset as he appeared to be. If Lady Sarah was indeed unhappily headless, her fortune would go to her father, wouldn’t it?
“Lady Sarah is a very resourceful young woman. Let’s not borrow trouble. I will do my utmost to find her—you have my word.”
“Pah. As if your word means anything. You all promised to protect and fix my little girl, and where is she now? You don’t know; no one knows. What kind of a place are you running anyway? I’ll see to it no one of quality is ever snookered by any of you again! I’ve cabled my solicitors again, and a detective agency in London. Their man should be here tomorrow.”
“Excellent,” Tristan lied. Damn. If word got out that Puddling had lost a Guest, it would harm their entire operation.
And he didn’t want Lady Sarah lost. He might not want to marry her, but he realized he didn’t want one copper hair on her head harmed. “I’m sorry Lady Sarah went missing, but I understand that it’s not the first time, Your Grace. Her previous, shall we say, adventurous history is familiar to every Puddling citizen.” Lady Sarah had been running away from home for years.
“All the more reason for you to have taken better care of her,” the duke grumbled.
“I couldn’t be in two places at once, Your Grace. You insisted on the special license.”
“You’ll marry when she’s found. Or else.”
Not if she was headless. Tristan sighed. “I’ll see you in the morning. I’m sure the staff will be delighted to provide you with whatever you need to make your night more comfortable and ease you to sleep.” Brandy, or possibly a well-aimed cricket bat.
Tristan bid the duke goodnight, grabbed his satchel and walked briskly through the gardens to the Red House. The air was perfumed with the last of the roses, and he breathed deeply. But his peace would be cut up until he got his hands on Lady Sarah Marchmain.
And when he did, would he cuff her or kiss her?
His cottage was in darkness, which was odd. Usually Anstruther left a lamp burning on the rare occasions when Tristan came in late. He lit the candle in the entryway and found Anstruther’s note, which appeared to be written in haste:
Have taken the liberty of pursuing a lead on Lady Sarah. A woman of her description was reported to have bought a ticket to Gloucester. Returning to Stroud and taking the train. Will inquire with utmost discretion. Staying at the new Station Hotel tonight. Will keep you informed.
The Freds had said nothing about Anstruther leaving either time. But bless the man for his initiative.
Tristan picked up the candle, shedding his clothes as he made his way down the hallway. He was too tired to tend to them tonight and would do so in the morning. He was not in general slovenly, although it was hard to fully eradicate the dirt from beneath his fingernails. But he hated to wear gloves in the garden—the touch of roots and leaves always calmed him.
He’d need to live in a hollow tree in the garden once he and Lady Sarah were married. Like one of those hermits people hired to make their properties more picturesque.
If they married. He’d have to retrieve her first. So imagine his shock when he got to his bedroom and found her curled up in his bed.