The Secret Pearl(107)

Fleur.

It was almost the middle of the next morning when his carriage took him along the winding, wooded driveway to the neat Palladian mansion that was Heron House. It was flanked by an orangery and greenhouses at the one side, stables at the other. There were colorful formal gardens set out before it. The sun was trying to break through the clouds as the carriage drew to a stop before the marble steps leading to the main doors.

“Miss Bradshaw, if you please,” he told the butler, handing him his hat and cane.

“Miss Bradshaw is in London with Lady Brocklehurst, I’m afraid, sir,” the butler said, inclining his head.

“Miss Isabella Bradshaw,” his grace said.

“And who may I say is calling?” the man asked.

“You may not,” the duke said curtly. “Show me to the room where she is, please.”

Something in the duke’s manner caused the man to turn and lead the way to his left along a tiled hallway to a room at the front of the house. She must have heard his approach, then, the duke thought. She must have seen his arrival.

He walked past the butler into a square room that was obviously a morning room. Sunlight was slanting through its long windows. The clouds must have parted finally, he thought irrelevantly.

She was standing in front of a chair from which she must have just risen, across the room from the door. She stood very straight, her chin high, her hands clasped loosely before her. She was wearing a pretty sprigged-muslin dress. Her hair was styled in soft curls and ringlets.

She looked more beautiful than he had ever seen her, his grace thought, even as his eyes took in the pallor of her face, the firm set of her jaw.

And then her expression changed and the tension almost visibly disappeared from her face and body.

“I thought you were Matthew,” she said. “I thought that was Matthew’s carriage. I thought he had come.”

He took one step toward her, thinking that she was about to faint. But instead she moaned and hurtled across the room and straight into the arms he reached out for her.

“Oh, I thought you were Matthew,” she said as his arms closed about her softness and his nostrils were filled with the sweet fragrance of her hair. “I thought you were Matthew.”

“No,” he murmured against her ear. “It’s just me, love. He is not going to hurt you anymore. No one is going to hurt you anymore.”

She looked up at him, her eyes dazed, and her fingertips touched the scar along his cheek. “I thought I would never see you again,” she whispered.

He swallowed as he watched her eyes fill with tears.

“I am here,” he said. “Can you not feel my arms about you? I have you safe, love.”

And he lowered his head and opened his mouth over hers.

And heard her moan again.





IT HAD BEEN A FRUSTRATING MORNING. FLEUR had woken up with renewed energy and hope after a good night’s sleep. The rain had stopped, although the sun was still covered with clouds. And she remembered the visit of the evening before and smiled at the knowledge that she still had friends.

But there must be so little time, she told herself as she went downstairs for an early breakfast. Matthew would surely be home at any time. He must guess that she would have returned to Heron House rather than to London. Or would he? Perhaps it would seem to him that she had fled again, hoping never to be found. London would be the obvious destination if that were the case. Perhaps he would pursue her there.

Unless he had the sense to call at the stagecoach office, of course, to find out where her ticket had taken her.

Annie was gone. That was an annoyance. There were all sorts of questions concerning the jewels that she would have liked to ask her former maid. But there was no time to brood on regrets.

“Chapman,” she asked the butler at breakfast, “where was Hobson’s body taken for burial?” She flushed at the necessity of speaking so openly on a topic that must have the servants’ quarters abuzz.

“I don’t rightly know, Miss Isabella,” he said.

“Then will you send me someone who does,” she said.

“I’m not sure that anyone knows,” he said.

Chapman had never been the most garrulous of souls.

“Someone must have taken him there,” she said. “And perhaps someone went to attend the funeral. One of his friends? Lord Brocklehurst himself?”

“His lordship, yes, miss,” he said. “Flynn drove the carriage. He is with his lordship now.”

“The body would have gone separately,” she said. “By wagon, I suppose. Who drove that?”

“Yardley, miss,” the butler said.

“Then send Yardley to me, if you please,” Fleur said.

“He is gone, Miss Isabella,” he said. “Into Yorkshire, I believe it was. He took a new position there.”