Rachel stared at him, her fingernails digging into her palms. Not married? “But his wife’s name is Sarah. She sent him a note when we were at the inn, saying they had to discuss their marriage.”
“Wait. I heard this tale at my club. It seems his parents and her parents decided to betroth them when they were children. I understand the Kyles have always done that, old family, high in the instep and particularly rigid with tradition. But the new Lord Kyle is a second son, bit of a black sheep. Neither he nor Lady Sarah wanted a duty marriage, so she graciously jilted him, he cheerfully accepted, and now they are friends. She is to wed a vicar instead. Apparently, that is a love match.”
“Then Arran is…free?”
Harry got to his feet and held out his hand. “Not for much longer. Not if I have anything to say about it. Come along, now. Celia will want to hear the whole story over tea and berry tarts. Then a nice hot bath, a gown out of my wife’s wardrobe, and I will accompany you to pay a call on his lordship. And yes, I will pack my pistol, just in case.”
Chapter 6
Grosvenor Square, February 1814.
“Do not worry, my lord. We won’t rest until we find her.”
Perched on his library desk and surrounded by maps of London, the most recent edition of Debrett’s Peerage of England, Scotland, and Ireland, plus lists of schools, orphanages and hospitals, Arran tried to smile at Lady Sarah’s gentle reassurances.
In truth, smiling had become damned near impossible.
Six long, aggravating, and endlessly lonely weeks had passed since he’d seen Rachel, and he didn’t even know if she lived. What if she’d been caught by that horrific weather, almost the worst in English history? The heavy mist and fog had rolled in on December twenty-seventh, the day after she’d left. Almost immediately, stories had been shared of coaches missing roads and overturning, riders falling into ditches, numerous collisions, even people walking into buildings, so for safety’s sake he’d made the decision to wait until the fog lifted. Which hadn’t bloody happened until January third. The fates had laughed then, for as soon as the fog lifted, down came a brutally heavy snowfall, eight feet deep in places, making the streets and roads impassable. He hadn’t made it here to his townhouse until the middle of January.
The first thing he’d done was make those lists, then each day he and the four footmen plus Simms who all knew what Rachel looked like, had searched a part of the city. Knocking on doors, showing sketches, endlessly traipsing streets…with no luck whatsoever. His ex-betrothed and new friend Lady Sarah and her fiancé Reverend Oakdale had even joined the search, adding possible addresses and speaking to his fellow clergymen to see if Rachel attended their church, but Arran could tell even they were bracing themselves for bad news. They told him London was simply too big a city, with too many people. And accidents, especially in this kind of cold and dangerous weather, were all too frequent.
Well. His helpers might drift away, but he wouldn’t stop. Not until he knew she was safe, at least.
A knock sounded on the library door, and Arran wearily lifted his head to see his silver-haired butler standing there, an odd expression on his normally taciturn face. “Yes?”
“Beg pardon, my lord, but Lord Jarrow requests an audience with you.”
Arran frowned at the unfamiliar name. “I’m a little busy right now. Tell him to come back another day.”
“Again, your pardon, but the viscount says it is a personal matter, regarding a certain lady at a certain inn.”
He froze, scarcely able to breathe. How the hell could this Jarrow possibly know what had happened at the Queen’s Standard? Could he be the worthless relative who had abandoned Rachel and her mother, finally doing his duty? Perhaps a new protector?
Ready to pummel the man to syllabub either way, Arran near sprinted from the library, his shoe heels skidding on the polished wooden floor as he made his way down the hallway and around the corner to the entrance hall where guests waited. And indeed, there stood a well-dressed gentleman, hat under his arm and cane in hand. But he was young, perhaps only a handful of years older than Rachel. Definitely not an uncle or grandfather.
Probably a protector, then.
Sick to his stomach, Arran advanced on the man, his fists clenched. “Jarrow?”
The visitor inclined his head. “Kyle.”
“I understand you wish to speak with me about a personal matter. Regarding—”
“Regarding Rachel. Yes.”
A shudder passed through Arran, so intense he nearly collapsed onto the marble floor, and he had to brace himself with a hand on the wall. “She…she is alive?”
Jarrow’s hard stare softened. “Alive and well. Forgive me, Kyle, but you appear entirely out of sorts. When did you last sleep? Or bathe and change your clothes for that matter?”
“Where is she?” Arran rasped, ignoring the questions. “Where is Rachel? I need to see her. Talk to her. I’ll pay whatever you want.”
“I’m afraid I can’t allow that, my lord. Not until I know your intentions toward my sister.”
The word had all the power of a cannonball to the solar plexus. “Sister? But Rachel told me she didn’t have any siblings.”
“She didn’t know about me until very recently. Or I her. Technically, Rachel is my half-sister, but she is entirely beloved. So, I ask you again, Lord Kyle, what are your intentions? And may I add, I know you shared a bed with her at the inn, and I am ready to run you through for that alone.”
Arran tilted his head. Jarrow might be smaller and softer than him, but he could only admire that kind of fierce loyalty and protectiveness. Little did he know threats were unnecessary. “My intentions are, Lord Jarrow, to marry your sister and cherish her the rest of our days. I would have told her about my title, and the damned betrothal contract I
