Well, that had her struggle for her next breath. “That sounds lovely.”
“You are friends with Campbell’s daughter, are you not?” Jenkins said as his pen scratched onward.
“I am, sir.”
She soon gave up waiting for any further elaborations. Jenkins tended to sink back into his vast inner world and forget all about her very existence.
* * *
The next morning, a small envelope was waiting for her in her pigeonhole.
Miss Archer,
Would you do me the honor of accompanying our party to the Divine Duo in the Royal Albert Hall this coming Friday? If it is acceptable, I shall arrange for you to travel to London together with Lady Catriona.
C. Jenkins
Annabelle pensively ran her thumb over the card. It was neither satin-smooth nor embossed with gilded letters. But she had not spoken to Catriona much ever since their return from Claremont, and it could be interesting to see Christopher Jenkins outside his natural habitat. And, frankly, to put it in Hattie’s words—she deserved some amusement.
* * *
After ten years as the head of Scotland Yard, Sir Edward Bryson had plumbed the bleakest depths of the human soul, and he’d readily describe himself as a hardened man.
The unblinking stare of the Duke of Montgomery still filled him with an urge to writhe and explain himself. “We may not have found him yet, but we have narrowed the area down to middle England with great certainty, Your Grace.”
Sebastian knew he was making the man uncomfortable. He wanted to make him uncomfortable. He was spending a hundred pounds a week on this mission, and for all he knew, his brother could be dead. Kidnapped, or stuck in a bog, or clubbed over his blond head and robbed.
He took a deep, deliberate breath to ease the pressure in his chest. “What makes you certain, Bryson?”
“The men stationed in the ports on the south coast report no movement,” Bryson said quickly, “and we have men monitoring all major roads and guest houses to the north—”
Sebastian held up a hand. “I’m aware of that,” he said, “but how can you look me in the eye and tell me that you know with great certainty the whereabouts of a lone man in a country the size of Britain? The possibilities are endless.”
Bryson’s thin face tensed. “With all due respect, Your Grace, even if a young gentleman wears a disguise, he usually still sticks out like a sore thumb because of how he acts and speaks. And runaway noblemen inevitably stay on roads and seek the convenience of guest houses. It simply doesn’t occur to them to venture into the forests, build a shelter with their bare hands, and live off the land.”
Sebastian leaned forward in his chair. “So your investigation is based on the assumption that my brother is a milksop.”
Bryson frowned. “It is based on experience. The possibilities may be endless, but the mind is limited. People hardly ever contemplate options outside of what they know.”
Sebastian sat brooding at his desk long after Edward Bryson had left.
He finally made his way to his dressing room, where Ramsey had prepared his evening clothes.
A lost brother. An unwilling lover. A meddling queen. Any one of the three dilemmas would drive a man to drink. And since he didn’t drink, and since he was in London, he had decided to go out.
An hour later, he strode out the side door where his carriage was waiting to take him to the Royal Concert Hall.
* * *
The concert hall looked exactly as it always had—the stage below to the right of his ducal box, the four chandeliers, the ever-dusty red velvet drapes. And yet it was all completely wrong, because three boxes down toward the stage sat Annabelle.
She had been leaning over the banister, taking in the atrium with serious, wondering eyes. And when her gaze had finally met his, she had gone tense and motionless like a doe in front of his rifle.
He had not given her a nod, for if he had, it would be in the papers the next day.
He was still staring. She was not supposed to be here. The reality of Annabelle in his evening program was as bizarre as seeing two moons in the sky.
Frustration crackled through him. Was this how it was going to be—she would reject him, and he would try to move on, only for her to reappear again and again like some exotic malady?
Caroline, Lady Lingham, placed the tip of her fan onto his forearm.