“LADY TRENTINGHAM?”
Chrystabel turned to the Duke of Bridgewater and took note of his troubled expression. “Yes, your grace?”
“I thought I should let you know your daughter is missing.”
“Oh?” Poor man, he really seemed to care. “Whatever makes you think that?”
“She went off more than an hour ago. I was hoping she’d return within a reasonable time, so I’d have no need to alarm you—”
“Did she go off with Kit Martyn?” Feeling sorry for him, she laid a hand on his arm. “Mr. Martyn is a friend of the family. I asked him to escort her.”
“Back to your apartments?” When she didn’t answer, he apparently took that for an affirmative. “She did say she felt peaked. Will she be returning later this evening?”
“I’m not certain,” Chrystabel said slowly, feeling a twinge of guilt for misleading him.
But she hadn’t really lied, had she? She’d merely allowed him to jump to a conclusion. He truly did seem concerned. A pity he was all wrong for Rose—too dull and unchallenging.
Although her daughter would make her own decision, Chrystabel had no doubt that, with her subtle help, in the end Rose would choose the right man.
Bridgewater suddenly frowned. “It seems that, besides Lady Rose, a number of other ladies have gone missing.”
Chrystabel looked around, surprised to find he was right. There were noticeably fewer women than earlier. The abandoned men shifted restlessly, standing in little groups and talking about heaven knew what.
“Do you expect they’re all feeling peaked?” Bridgewater asked. “Perhaps the prawns were bad.”
“You men ate prawns, too, did you not?” Dull, just as she’d thought. But his heart was in the right place. Looking over to her right, she brightened. “Oh, here comes Rose now.”
Her daughter’s step was lighter, her cheeks pinkened from the fresh night air—and perhaps an encounter with Kit.
Chrystabel could only hope.
Bridgewater swept Rose a bow. “We missed you, my lady.”
“Did you?” she murmured distractedly.
Chrystabel took that as a good sign. If Rose was failing to flirt with a duke, she must have another man on her mind.
“Are you feeling better?” he asked politely.
“I…um…not really, I’m afraid. I…I just returned for my cloak.”
“You’re wearing a cloak,” he pointed out.
“Oh.” She blinked. “I borrowed this one.” She unfastened the gray wool garment and shrugged it off, handing it to Chrystabel. “Will you both excuse me?”