As soon as he was outside, he began to run, uncaring of the snow and ice and slippery mud or if he tumbled head over ass the entire way back to the inn. He needed to speak to Rachel. Explain everything. He’d been a fool not to tell her earlier, but he’d thought he would have time during the carriage ride back to London.
Ignoring the burning in his lungs from the cold air, he forced his legs to keep going until he made it to the inn entrance. Christ. The workshop had only been a half-mile at most to get to, but seemed a five-mile return. Clomping his boots on the mat inside the door to get rid of the snow and mud, he then marched up the narrow staircase, uncaring of the noise he made. Briefly pausing outside their chamber door to straighten his jacket and smooth his cravat, Arran then pushed the door open. “Rachel? I need to speak with you.”
Yet even as he called her name a second time, he knew the room was empty. Empty of every trace of her. He cursed viciously, his gaze darting left and right, trying to make sense of something his heart refused to accept.
And then he saw it. An opened letter sitting on the small table.
Snatching it up, Arran swiftly read the brief lines, and groaned at the last one.
We have much to discuss in regard to our marriage.
Bloody goddamned horseshit hell. This read like he and Sarah were already married. And he could only imagine what Jimmy, a good-natured if dimwitted soul who unfortunately chatted to everyone like they were old friends, might have said to Rachel.
He needed to find her. Immediately.
Turning on his boot heel, Arran marched back out into the hallway and near-skidded down the stairs. But despite the dining room being full and busy, she wasn’t there. Nor was she in the card room, the small library, or the back garden taking some fresh air. The only other place she could be was the circular gravel driveway, where the stage and mail coaches stopped.
Struggling to catch his breath, Arran burst out the door. But for the first time in his entire stay, the driveway was without carriages or coaches or people. Eerily silent, with a chill breeze that slid under his greatcoat and sent icy shivers down his limbs, and a light coating of fresh snow that covered all tracks.
His fists clenched. In truth, he wanted to howl like an injured wolf.
“You looking for summin’ sir?”
Startled, he glanced to his left to see a fair-haired, pale-skinned young man wearing what looked like twenty layers of clothing, with a shovel resting on his shoulder. “Have you been working nearby, lad?”
“Yessir. Clearing the paths. Mr. Vine likes them just so.”
Arran forced himself to speak evenly, to not appear like an escaped Bedlamite. “Have any stagecoaches left here recently? Perhaps in the last few hours?”
The lad nodded. “Yessir. Two. Both private and London-bound, they were. Reckon they might be lucky and get there before the worst of the weather hits. My Pa says it’ll be bad, he feels it in his bones, and his bones are always right.”
“Did you happen to see who got on or off?” Arran asked casually as if the answer wasn’t the most important thing in the world.
“Ummmm. A soldier. Two clerks. An old lady dressed all in purple.”
“Not a younger woman?”
“Don’t think so…no, wait. There was one lady. She was late and just managed to get on the stage before it left. I liked watching her run because she had really big b—”
Arran made a feral sound and the lad swallowed hard and stepped back.
“Er, I mean the lady had brown hair. A brown cloak too. Begging your pardon, sir, but I need to get back to work. Mr. Vine will cuff my ear otherwise.”
“Here,” said Arran shortly, digging into his money purse and holding out a sixpence. “For your trouble.”
“Cor! Thank you, sir!” replied the lad, bobbing his head before dashing back inside the inn leaving Arran alone again in the frigid, snow-covered courtyard that even now was darkening as the sky turned an ominous murky gray.
Rachel had left him. And the only information he knew for sure was her name, that she had attended a school for foundlings, was connected to a peer, and had caught a stagecoach bound for the largest city in England.
How would he ever find her again?
London
“Ouch!”
Wincing at the splatter of hot stew on her wrist, Rachel gritted her teeth and continued to stir the huge pot hanging over the kitchen fireplace. Every day she reminded herself how incredibly fortunate she’d been to regain employment at Lady Farringdon’s school, even if it was a position lower than her previous one. The baroness had been initially furious at her return, but had grudgingly let her stay, admitting they were short a kitchen maid because one had left for a better opportunity at a townhouse way over in Bedford Square. They were working her especially hard—the worst tasks like plucking chickens, lugging coal buckets, and scrubbing pots—but it was infinitely better than being on the streets. It wasn’t as though she had relatives to take her in, and under no circumstances would she go begging to the rich end of London to try and find Arran. Like it or not, the school was her home. And her future.
“Rachel! Rachel, where are you?”
Surprised, she turned to see Lady Farringdon hurry into the kitchens, her cheeks flushed.
“Here, my lady.”
“Put down that spoon and splash some water on your face. A prospective patron is in the parlor, and he wishes to speak to you.”
“Me?” said Rachel, confused. “Why me?”
“I don’t know,” replied Lady Farringdon irritably, as she turned on her heel, clearly eager to leave the stifling hot room. “But his lordship is wealthy, well-connected, and would be an excellent benefactor for the school. So hurry
