‘Two days,’ Martin mused, pacing back and forth on the hearthrug. ‘Any reason given?’
Joshua shook his head. He watched his master stalk the room, then, when no further orders came his way, he asked, ‘D’ye want me to keep watch—to see when he returns?’
Martin stopped his pacing. He looked at Joshua, then slowly shook his head. ‘I’ve a nasty suspicion that when he returns it’ll be too late.’ With a nod, he dismissed Joshua and renewed his striding. It helped him to think.
There was no necessary connection between Helen’s leaving town and Hedley Swayne’s departure. That did not mean there wasn’t one. Martin swore. He wished he had followed up the peculiar Mr Swayne’s abduction attempt. His preoccupation with making Helen Walford his wife— and thus safe from such as Hedley Swayne—had pushed that little incident to the back of his mind. His memories of it had been overlaid by far more interesting recollections of Helen herself.
Shaking such recollections aside, Martin acknowledged his worries. He wanted answers and the only way of finding them was to ask questions—of the right people. And, in this instance, the right people were undoubtedly the Hazel-meres.
When a rapid reconnoitre of the gentlemen’s clubs drew a blank, Martin presented himself at Hazelmere House. To his surprise, although Mytton was as gracious as ever and went immediately to inform his master, ensconced in his library, of his arrival, he was kept kicking his heels in the black-and white-tiled hall for what seemed like a
n age. Eventually, the library door opened.
Dorothea emerged, the heir in her arms.
If she had looked daggers at him at the Barhams’, this afternoon she had added spears and crossbows to her armoury. Bemused, Martin reflected that he should, by all accounts, be dead.
With a decidedly cool nod, Dorothea turned on her heel and climbed the stairs. The stiffness of her spine bespoke her disapproval.
Martin raised his brows slightly at the sight. He was not overly surprised that she should still be so starchy—he had yet to make his peace with Helen and Dorothea was, after all, Helen’s closest friend. But there was a haughtiness in her disapproval that evoked memories of how the matrons had looked at him thirteen years earlier.
Mytton approached. ‘His lordship will see you now, my lord.’
There was nothing, of course, to be learned from Mytton’s impassive countenance. Martin followed him to the library.
Inside, he discovered that his pricking thumbs were justified. Hazelmere was standing by the long French windows, open to the afternoon breeze. His stance, rigid and unyielding, warned Martin that something indeed was up, even before he drew close enough to see the stony hazel gaze.
Martin stopped by a chair, laying one hand on its back. He raised a laconic brow and sighed. ‘What am I supposed to have done now?’
There was an infinitesimal pause while Hazelmere assimilated the information underlying that question. Then his features eased. ‘Don’t you know?’ he asked, his voice slightly strangled.
‘Other than losing my head at the Barhams’ the other night, I’m not aware that I’ve transgressed any of the immutable laws.’
‘Not even before the Barhams’ ball?’
At the quiet question, Martin’s gaze locked with his friend’s. After a long moment, Martin moved around the chair in front of him and slowly sank into it. ‘Oh.’
‘Precisely.’ Slowly, Hazelmere came forward to sit in the chair facing his guest. ‘I take it I don’t need to ask if it’s true?’
Martin threw him a grimace. ‘I did say I was going to cure her, didn’t I?’
Hazelmere acknowledged that with a resigned nod. ‘I hadn’t, however, imagined you would allow such an item to become public property.’
‘Public property?’ Martin was on his feet and pacing. ‘Bloody hell!’ he growled. ‘How the hell did that get out?’
Hazelmere viewed his friend’s agitation with transparent satisfaction. ‘I didn’t think you knew anything about it.’
He spoke softly, but Martin caught the quiet comment. He swung about, brows knit in a furious frown. ‘Of course I knew nothing of it! Why on earth…?’ He stopped, struck, his face drained of expression. Slowly, he sank back into the chair. ‘Dorothea—and everyone else—thinks I let the information slip?’
Succinctly, Hazelmere nodded. ‘To Lady Rochester,’ he added. ‘She was spreading the tale shortly after you danced so briefly with her at the Barhams.’
Martin groaned and sank his head into his hands. How had Serena found out? A more worrying thought surfaced. He looked up. ‘Helen can’t believe that surely?’
A frown had invaded Hazelmere’s face ‘To be perfectly honest, I don’t know what Helen thinks—I haven’t had a chance to ask her. She’s disappeared—gone out of town. I’d hoped you might know where she was, but obviously that’s not the case.’
‘I came to ask if you knew where she was.’ Martin straightened, his worry overcoming his frown. ‘I left town early on the morning after the ball. What exactly happened?’
Hazelmere told him, briefly, concisely. ‘So Dorothea and Ferdie left her to think things through. The next morning, she left.’