A Duke by Any Other Name by Grace Burrowes Page 0,45
hand. Had Althea not been watching Lady Phoebe’s eyes—every pugilist knew to watch an opponent’s eyes—she might have ended up with tea all over her favorite blue velvet dress. Instead, Althea saw her ladyship’s gaze narrow an instant before Althea would have taken a hold of the saucer.
Tea spilled all over the sofa and carpet, but not a drop landed on Althea’s clothing. “Oh, I am so sorry,” Althea said. “So clumsy of me. I should have been more careful.”
“No, no,” Lady Phoebe replied, rising quickly. “The fault is entirely mine. I do apologize, my lady. Thomas, deal with this.”
The footman hurried over and applied a linen table napkin to the damp sofa cushion, while Miss Price looked as if she wanted to weep.
“Aunt, perhaps we should send someone to look in on the gentlemen? We don’t want to keep our guests too late. The moon does eventually set, you know.”
The moon would not set for hours, but Althea’s hopes for the evening had slipped far, far below the horizon. When the gentlemen joined the ladies, she sought the company of Vicar Sorenson, who could be trusted to be civil. He proved an able conversationalist regarding Dutch landscapes—a riveting topic, indeed.
For the next hour, Althea smiled and nodded and tried not to glance at the clock too often, but by the time she was tucked up in her coach and trotting toward Lynley Vale, she considered the evening anything but a success.
She had followed Rothhaven’s brilliant advice in both spirit and letter, and still, she had failed to favorably impress her neighbors, and they—more to the point—had failed to impress her.
Chapter Eight
“Would you please let Treegum know I’d like a word with him in the estate office after breakfast?” Nathaniel had raised his voice to pose the question because the butler, Thatcher, was somewhat hard of hearing.
“Of course, Your Grace. Will do, straightaway, Your Grace. Treegum. Breakfast in t’ estate office. At once, sir.” Thatcher shuffled off, neglecting to bow before taking his leave.
Nathaniel suspected Thatcher would have forgotten his jacket half the time but for the housekeeper’s vigilance. Thatcher should have been pensioned off years ago, though finding a replacement was a delicate undertaking. The front door needed no tending, and thus Thatcher also functioned as a first footman and general factotum.
Last night Nathaniel had tarried in the library until late, though Robbie hadn’t had any great insights into who might be sending threatening notes. He’d ruled out Dr. and Mrs. Soames, the couple who had had primary responsibility for keeping him all those years when he’d been “at school.” Dr. Soames was in poor health, and Mrs. Soames had died the previous autumn. That Robbie remained informed regarding his former jailers was interesting.
Other than that pair, nobody beyond the Rothhaven staff should have grasped that Robbie was alive and dwelling at the Hall.
Well, nobody but Mama, Vicar Sorenson, and possibly Althea Wentworth.
Nathaniel had entered the breakfast parlor, prepared to resume the conversation with Robbie, but the room was empty.
“Is my brother in the garden already?” Nathaniel asked, as Thatcher shuffled toward the door.
“Nowt in t’ garden, Your Grace. Have yet to see t’ young master.”
Nathaniel had overslept—the waxing moon typically disturbed his sleep—and Robbie was an early riser. “You’re sure he hasn’t come down?”
“Always up and about, that one, but have not seen him this day. Shall I fetch more toast, Your Grace?”
Not only was the rack Thatcher had delivered full, another full rack sat by Nathaniel’s teacup. “No more toast, thank you. But a word with Treegum in the estate office within the half hour would be appreciated.”
“Aye, sir.” Thatcher left, muttering about no rest for the weary.
Robbie’s place setting was untouched and a glance out the window confirmed that he wasn’t in the garden. Nathaniel’s first thought was that Robbie had started the day with a seizure and was still abed.
Except Robbie wasn’t in his room, and his bed was neatly made up. His painting supplies were in their usual cabinet in his sitting room, his newspapers neatly stacked in anticipation of several hours’ reading.
Robbie wasn’t in the garden, he wasn’t in the orchard or the cellars, or anywhere Nathaniel or the staff could think to look.
“Grown men don’t just disappear,” Nathaniel said when Treegum reported that Robbie hadn’t been sighted at the stables or the home farm, not that he’d ever ventured either place in adulthood. “Did we check the kitchen garden?” That space was also walled, though reaching it would mean crossing the back