Mary tapped her finger against her chocolate cup, staring at her sister’s empty chair across the breakfast table. It appeared Ginny was still sulking; she had even stayed in her room through dinner last night. ‘This must cease,’ she murmured.
‘I beg your pardon, my lady?’ said the maid, who was laying out fresh toast.
‘Is my sister unwell this morning?’ Mary asked.
‘I don’t know, my lady. I haven’t seen Miss Smythe’s maid this morning.’
‘I will just look in on her, then.’ Mary laid her napkin beside her plate and rose from her chair, trying to keep a pleasant smile on her face as she slowly strolled from the breakfast room and up the stairs. The servants surely had enough fodder for gossip, with all Ginny’s fits and their quarrels!
Mary marched up to Ginny’s door and knocked firmly. ‘Ginny, you must eat something! You will make yourself ill.’
Nothing. Only silence. Mary slowly turned the knob, peeking into the chamber as she braced herself for more tears.
But Ginny’s room was dark, the draperies still drawn over the windows. Her heart pounding, Mary dashed over to throw them open, spinning around as grey morning light flooded in. The bed had not been slept in; the dressing table was empty. The wardrobe doors were open to reveal several gowns missing.
For one stunned moment Mary was sure she was imagining things. It had to be some prank on Ginny’s part, to pay her back for not supporting Captain Heelis’s suit! But then she saw a folded paper propped on the pillows of the bed.
It was a note in Ginny’s looping handwriting.
Dearest, dearest Mary,
I am so very sorry to do this, after all your kindness to me, but I fear I have no choice. I love Captain Heelis with all my heart, and we know we must be together.
By the time you read this we will be on our way to
Gretna Green. Please forgive me, dearest sister, and be happy for us.
All my love, Ginny.
Oh, the foolish, foolish girl. Mary crushed the note in her hand, her mind racing. Their parents would be so furious! Surely they would now cut poor Ginny off without a penny, and blame Mary for being a bad chaperon. It would be such a scandal—on the Smythes and the Bassingtons. The Bassingtons, who prided themselves on their good name.
Unless—unless she could stop them before anyone found out. If she could just trace them before they reached Scotland no one would need to know. It could all be hushed up.
And she knew the one person who could help her.
Still clutching the note, she hurried out of the room, closing the door behind her. She had to send for the carriage immediately.
Mary stood on the doorstep of the narrow townhouse, shivering despite her thick wool pelisse and the veil on her velvet bonnet. Was this the right place? She had double-checked the address, but it seemed quite deserted, with all the shutters drawn and no smoke from the chimneys.
She glanced down the street, the sky grey and hazy through that veil. It, too, was quiet, if respectable enough. For a moment she regretted dismissing the carriage and walking here after calling on the Quickleys, but she didn’t want anyone to know where she was.
Perhaps it was better no one was here anyway.
But as she turned away the door suddenly swung open. It was no butler or footman who stood there; it was Dominick himself.
She had obviously interrupted him in a private hour, for he wore no coat, just a brocade waistcoat unfastened over his shirt, his cravat loosened. His golden hair was rumpled, a wave of it falling over his brow. His expression looked as stunned as she felt.
‘I beg your pardon—’ His words were choked off as she raised her veil to reveal her face.
‘My sister has run off with your cousin,’ she blurted out. ‘I need help.’
Dominick’s lips pressed together in a tight line, a muscle flexing along his strong jaw. ‘You had better come in, then.’
Mary nodded and stepped into the house, her hands clutched inside her sable muff. As he shut the door behind her she had the wild urge to flee, as if by leaving she could outrun all her reawakened confused feelings for him. He was the only one who could help her now, though.
And, if she was honest with herself, she did not really want to leave.
‘I’m sorry, but I gave my servants the day off,’ he said, ‘so it’s a bit desolate at the moment. Come with me. It’s warmer in the library.’
He strode down a narrow corridor, buttoning his waistcoat and smoothing back his hair. The gold signet ring on his finger gleamed in the dim light. Well, Mary thought, in for a penny, in for a pound—as her nanny had used to say when she was a child. She followed him.
The library was indeed warmer, less stark than the bare foyer and corridor. Warm jewel-green and red carpets were spread across the parquet floor, and there were dark green velvet draperies over the windows, keeping away the cold day. Lamps were lit on the desk and a small fire smouldered in the grate, illuminating the books lining the walls. Crates lay open by the hearth, as if he had just begun to unpack them.
‘I have no idea how to make tea,’ he said with a rueful laugh. ‘There is brandy, but I’m sure you don’t care for that.’
‘Actually, brandy sounds precisely what is called for today.’ Mary laid her muff and gloves on the table, untying her bonnet ribbons.
‘Brandy it is, then.’ He poured generous measures of the amber liquid into two glasses, handing her one. His hand brushed lightly against hers as she took the drink, warm and strong and strangely reassuring.
Mary took a long swallow, relishing the burn of it in her stomach. It gave her courage, even if it was only false bravery. ‘Yes, definitely what is called for,’ she said.
‘Glad I could be of some service, then. Here, Mary, sit down by the fire and tell me what has happened. How long has your sister been gone?’
Mary dropped into the chair he held out for her, holding the glass tightly in her hands. His own brandy, she saw, was barely touched as he sat down across from her.
‘Since some time last night,’ she said, and took another sip. ‘She didn’t come down to dinner. I thought she was sulking again, but she must have been packing. When was Captain Heelis last here?’
Dominick shook his head. ‘I have not seen him since yesterday morning. He was not at home when I returned from the museum, but he often keeps erratic hours.’
‘Whenever Ginny can sneak to meet him, I suppose.’
‘Do you know anything of her plans?’
Mary stared down wearily into the dregs of her glass. ‘Her note said they were headed to Scotland, and that she was sorry. I went to see her bosom bow, Angelica Quickley, before I came here. After much browbeating she admitted Ginny and Captain Heelis plan to follow the Great North Road as closely as possible because of the unpredictable weather. I have tried to keep it quiet, but … ‘
‘But gossip has a way of getting about,’ he said tightly. ‘Yes, I know that very well.’
‘Captain Heelis said nothing at all to you?’
‘He keeps his own counsel—aside from that unfortunate poetry. Surely you know I would have alerted you had I any notion of their plans?’
‘I—well, you don’t seem entirely averse to elopements, Dominick,’ Mary said, and immediately rued her words. Perhaps brandy was not such a good idea after all.
Dominick’s lips tightened again, but he said nothing. He just went to one of the bookshelves, drawing out a thick volume and laying it out on the desk. Mary saw it was a book of maps, and he studied it intently, his palms braced on the desk. That stray lock of hair fell over his brow again, and Mary had the strangest urge to go to him and brush it back, to see if it was as soft as it looked. As soft as she remembered against her skin.
She firmly set aside her glass and folded her hands in her lap.
‘They have a considerable head start if they left last night,’ he muttered. ‘But if they do indeed stay on the main road north, there’s a chance they can be found. There’s no travelling fast in winter. I will set out immediately.’
‘You will set out?’ Mary said.
‘Of course.’ He peered up at her, his face solemn and unreadable, cast in chiselled shadows by the lamplight. ‘Did you think I would just sit back and let a young couple fall into ruin?’
‘I … ‘ In truth, she did not know what she had thought. She had just needed help, and instinctively had turned to him. ‘You cannot go alone.’
‘Who else would you trust with this tale?’
No one, of course. No one else would understand and not judge, only Dominick. He knew how these matters worked better than anyone. But it pained her to think of him going alone into the winter weather, after her foolish sister. And she had to be there to persuade Ginny to come home peacefully.
Even if the thought of travelling with him, being alone with him, made her heart pound all over again.
‘She is my sister. She was my responsibility and I failed in that,’ she said. ‘I will go with you. I’ll have to take charge of Ginny once you find them.’ Maybe in that way she could atone just a bit for not being able to help her son.
‘Mary.’ He shook his head firmly. ‘It’s December, and bitter cold. There’s not time for a large carriage.’
‘Surely you have something smaller? Faster? I heard you raced a curricle to Brighton last summer.’
Dominick laughed. ‘You want to take a curricle out in this weather?’
‘I’ll hire a brougham, then. You could drive that. Or we can ride; I still have a good enough seat. One way or another, I am going.’
‘Mary,’ he said again. The sound of her name, plain old Mary, in his rich, dark voice, made her toes curl in her boots. ‘What if someone saw us together? The respectable widow Lady Derrington with that rake Lord Amesby—what an on dit that would make. You haven’t thought this through.’
That was true enough—she had not been thinking at all ever since she’d found Ginny’s note. But she was so tired of always thinking everything through so carefully, so prudently. Of always being so blasted cautious. Being cautious had got her into this mess.
‘I have thought about it,’ she said. ‘I can’t sit at home and fret while you go after them. My sister needs me, and I need to make this right.’
‘Mary … ‘ he began, a sharp edge to that word now.
‘No, Dominick. We must go together. I have made up my mind, and I do not change it.’
‘I do remember that,’ he said. He shut the book, bracing his fists on top of it. ‘I have never met a lady so stubborn.’
‘I’m no different now.’ Mary rose from her chair and moved slowly to his side, as if drawn by the bright beauty of him. ‘Dominick. You turned me away before, when we were young. Please don’t turn me away now. Help me to help my sister.’
For an instant there was a flash of pain in his eyes, before that unreadable veil fell back into place. He reached out and gently brushed the back of his hand over her cheek. The soft touch left a trail of pure fire along her skin.
‘The only honourable thing I ever did was to turn you away back then,’ he muttered. ‘I can’t be so noble twice.’
‘Then don’t be!’ Mary reached up and pressed her hand over his, holding him against her. His fingers curved, cradling her cheek. ‘Let me go with you. I promise I am strong. I can face whatever we find.’ As long as he was there, she could face it.
He stared down at her, and she felt as if the very air around them crackled with tense awareness. She could see nothing but him. His head tilted, bending towards her. Was he going to kiss her? Mary’s lips parted, and she found herself leaning infinitesimally towards him, longing to know if he still tasted the same. If his kiss would make her feel as wondrously, burningly alive as it once did.
But then he turned away from her and braced his hands against the desk, his shoulders stiff. Mary drew in a shuddering breath. What a great fool she was, to long so much for a kiss from him! Their youthful romance had been so long ago; they were no longer the same people they once were.
She had come here to enlist his help in finding Ginny. She had to remember that.
‘Can you be ready to depart within two hours?’ he said roughly.
‘I—yes, of course,’ she answered. She had no one to answer to now.
‘Meet me back here, then. I will see to our transportation. And Mary … ?’
‘Yes?’
‘Charlotte told me about your son. I am so very sorry for your loss.’ His words were simple, but his tone was full of understanding and terrible pity.
Mary nodded, even though she knew he could not see her, and rushed from the room as if demons nipped at her heels. She impatiently dashed away the hot tears from her eyes—tears at his simple words of kindness.
If she was so unsettled by being in his company for an hour, what would this journey north, just the two of them, feel like? Would she go mad? Throw herself at him on the carriage seat? Something unfortunate was surely bound to happen.
Yet somehow, despite everything, she almost felt like giving a shout of laughter as she turned towards home.
Dominick strode down the street, ignoring the people who hurried around him on their way home, happy Christmas smiles on their faces. A few of his acquaintances even started to greet him but, seemingly put off by his scowl, soon went on their way.
He had found the livery stable that had rented a vehicle to his cousin, but they had had no idea which direction Arthur Heelis had intended to take. They’d rented Dominick a brougham, though, a little two-seater carriage, and warned him of the harsh weather that was surely on the way.
Damn Arthur for a fool, anyway, Dominick thought, as a puddle of cold water splashed over his boots. Not only had he run off with Ginny Smythe, when he knew he could not properly take care of a wife, but he had headed to Scotland in the dead of winter. At least when Dominick had taken Lady Newcombe away they had tried to make it to warmer climes.
Not that it had done poor Eleanor any good in the end. And now he faced the harsh effects of an elopement by Mary’s sister.
Mary. Well, if Arthur was a fool so was he, for agreeing to take Mary with him on what was bound to be a long and arduous search. When they were younger he had turned her away because he had feared he could not control himself around her. He still feared he could not.
When she looked at him with her large dark eyes he could deny her nothing. And when she parted her soft pink lips …
He wanted to catch her in his arms, to drag her so close there was not even a breath between them, and kiss her until they were both senseless. To see if she still tasted the same—sweeter and more intoxicating than any wine.
If they were together for days on end, bound by this wild quest to save her sister, would he be able to control himself at all? Or would the old memories be irresistible, bursting free after all their years of restraint and determined forgetfulness?
He would soon find out. But he had kept from ruining her life once; surely he could do it again? He was too old to marry now, too set in his ways and no good for any woman, let alone one as inestimable as Mary. He would find her sister for her and exorcise Mary Smythe from his memory once and for all.