Bridgerton Collection, Volume 2 - Julia Quinn Page 0,243

and without mincing words.

Which, he realized, yanking on his coat as he practically hurled himself out the front door, meant that she was dead in some ditch on the Wiltshire road. It had been raining steadily all evening, and the roads between his house and Benedict’s were not well tended to begin with.

Hell, it would almost be better if she’d left him.

But as he rode up the drive to My Cottage, Benedict Bridgerton’s absurdly named house, soaking wet and in a terrible temper, it was starting to look more like Eloise had decided to abandon her marriage.

Because she hadn’t been lying in a ditch by the side of the road, and there hadn’t been any sign of any sort of carriage accident, and furthermore, she hadn’t been holed up at either of the two inns along the way.

And as there was only one route between his home and Benedict’s, it wasn’t as if she were in some other inn on some other road, and this entire farce could be chalked up to nothing more than a big misunderstanding.

“Temper,” he said under his breath as he stomped up the front steps. “Temper.”

Because he had never been so close to losing his.

Maybe there was a logical explanation. Maybe she hadn’t wanted to drive home in the rain. It wasn’t that bad, but it was more than a drizzle, and he supposed she might not have cared to travel.

He lifted up the knocker on the door and slammed it down. Hard.

Maybe the carriage had broken a wheel.

He banged the knocker again.

No, that couldn’t explain it. Benedict could easily have sent her home in his carriage.

Maybe . . .

Maybe . . .

His mind searched fruitlessly for some other reason why she would be here with her brother and not at home with her husband. He couldn’t think of one.

The curse that hissed out of his mouth was one he had not uttered in years.

He reached up for the knocker again, this time prepared to yank the damned thing off the door and hurl it through the window, but just then the door opened, and Phillip found himself staring at Graves, whom he had met less than a fortnight earlier, during his farce of a courtship.

“My wife?” Phillip practically growled.

“Sir Phillip!” the butler gasped.

Phillip didn’t move, even though the rain was streaming down his face. Damned house didn’t have a portico. Whoever heard of such a thing, in England, of all places?

“My wife,” he bit off again.

“She’s here,” Graves assured him. “Come in.”

Phillip stepped in. “I want my wife,” he said again. “Now.”

“Let me get your coat,” Graves said.

“I don’t give a damn about my coat,” Phillip snapped. “I want my wife.”

Graves froze, his hands still poised to take Phillip’s coat. “Did you not receive Lady Crane’s note?”

“No, I did not receive a note.”

“I thought you’d arrived rather quickly,” Graves murmured. “You must have crossed with the messenger. You’d better come in.”

“I am in,” Phillip reminded him testily.

Graves let out a long breath, almost a sigh, which was remarkable for a butler bred not to show even a hint of emotion. “I think you will be here for some time,” he said softly. “Take off your coat. Get dry. You will want to be comfortable.”

Phillip’s anger suddenly slid into bone-deep terror. Had something happened to Eloise? Good God, if anything— “What is going on?” he whispered.

He’d just found his children. He wasn’t ready to lose his wife.

The butler just turned to the stairs with sad eyes. “Come with me,” he said softly.

Phillip followed, each step filling him with dread.

Eloise had, of course, attended church nearly every Sunday of her life. It was what was expected of her, and it was what good, honest people did, but in truth she’d never been a particularly God-fearing or religious sort. Her mind tended to wander during the sermons, and she sang along with the hymns not out of any great sense of spiritual uplifting but rather because she very much liked the music, and church was the only acceptable place for a tin ear like herself to raise her voice in song.

But now, tonight, as she looked down upon her small nephew, she prayed.

Charles hadn’t worsened, but he hadn’t improved, and the doctor, who had come and gone for the second time that day, had pronounced it “in God’s hands.”

Eloise hated that phrase, hated how doctors resorted to it when faced with illness beyond their skills, but if the physician was correct, and it was indeed in God’s