The porter’s lodge lay abandoned. The quadrangle of the college was preternaturally still, except for a lone student strolling along in the shadows of the arcade opposite.
She hovered on the limestone path. Last night had taken her rudder and her sail, leaving her adrift like flotsam. Turning left to the west wing or back to the lodge was an impossible decision.
The student disappeared through the archway to the next quad. No doubt he was going someplace warm and purposeful.
She turned back to the lodge.
The lights had been lit, and there was movement behind the windows.
She walked back to the door and gave a hesitant knock.
From the corner of her eye, she saw the archway at the end of the limestone path to her right, and she frowned, unable to pinpoint the niggling feeling at the back of her mind.
The door to the lodge creaked open and revealed a stout, white-haired porter. “Good morning, miss,” he said. “How may I help you?”
“Good morning. I’m a student at Lady Margaret Hall and I—”
And then she knew. The student. The student in the arcade. His lanky form. The ambling gait.
All the fine hairs rose on her body.
She turned on her heels.
“Miss?” the porter exclaimed.
She was already walking toward the archway, the hasty fall of her footsteps echoing from the surrounding walls. By the time she reached the archway, she had broken into a run. Panting, she looked left, right—and caught the movement of a door to the west wing falling shut.
She dashed.
The door opened to a narrow, poorly lit corridor, musty with the smell of ancient stone walls.
The young man had turned right and was moving quickly toward the door at the end of the corridor.
“Sir!”
He didn’t break his stride; if anything, he walked faster.
She started after him. “Sir, a word.”
His shoulders went rigid.
Bother. What would she say if he was in fact not who she thought he was?
Still, she was surprisingly unprepared when he turned and she was face to face with Peregrin Devereux.
“Oh, goodness,” she exclaimed.
Long, lank hair and a pasty pallor detracted considerably from Peregrin’s charms. He looked like a creature that only came out at night.
She rushed to him. “Are you all right?”
“Why, good morning, Miss Archer,” he said, politely ignoring the hand she had instinctively put on his arm. She snatched it back. “What an unexpected pleasure,” he continued. “What brings you to St. John’s at this ungodly hour?”
He stiffened when the door behind him swung open.
Annabelle glanced around him, and her chest flooded with relief when she saw Catriona standing in the doorway. “Catriona,” she said, “I was just looking for you.”
She made to move toward her friend when she noticed the small basket under her arm.
And her utterly guilty expression.
“Catriona?”
Catriona gave her a weak smile. “Annabelle. And Lord Devereux. What a surprise.” She sounded guilty, too, and tried hiding her basket, all shifty.
One could almost hear the sound of Peregrin rolling his eyes.
Annabelle stared from one to the other as memories began to strike: Catriona’s blushes whenever Peregrin was near, her effort to go without glasses for the ball at Claremont . . . oh, by the fires of Hades.
Her gaze dropped to the damning basket on Catriona’s hip. “This is food, isn’t it,” she said, “food for Lord Devereux?”
Catriona glanced at Peregrin. Asking for permission, was she?
“Do you know that he has been missing for more than a month?” she demanded. “That Scotland Yard is turning over every stone in England to find him as we speak?”
Peregrin and Catriona gasped in unison.
“So you knew,” Annabelle said, incredulous.
“How do you know?” Peregrin demanded.
She whirled on him. “Does your brother know you are here?”
His brows flew up at the Duke of Montgomery being called “his brother.”
“Miss—”
“Well? Does he?”
“With all due respect, I’m not certain why you ask.”
Because he had just been kissing me when he learned that you were gone. Because I held him and could feel his heart crack inside his chest when his own brother had betrayed him. Because whatever hurts him hurts me.
Hypocrite. She had hurt him most of all last night, when she had mercilessly tossed his love, his proposal, and his trust back at him.
She rose to her toes, right into Peregrin’s gaunt, aristocratic face. “How could you?” she said. “He doesn’t know whether you are dead or alive.”
Peregrin’s gaze narrowed slightly. “I apologize, miss,” he said. “Again, I’m not quite certain what for exactly, but it was not my intention to agitate you.”