the latent deficiency was proving more pronounced. However, the room was also beginning to swirl, which was a clear indicator she had overindulged.
Southwick had never allowed her to consume a drop of wine with her dinner. Spirits—like everything she had thrown herself into following her arrival in London—were new again to Hyacinth. A joy and a curse, in the true way of life.
Freedom. Why would it be any different than captivity had been? Captivity which had only been ended when Southwick had died unexpectedly in his sleep.
But none of her ponderous musings helped her to locate her cherished pug.
“Adelaide,” she called above the din of the violin and Lady Downe chortling over a sally the Honorable Mr. Buchanan had told her. “Lady?”
There was no answering scamper of paws. No big brown eyes staring up at her from an adorably rounded face, no tongue lolling. Guilt struck her, for Adelaide was notorious for wandering. Indeed, it had been one of Hyacinth’s primary concerns in moving to London from the country. So many servants, so many doors, a busy road filled with carriages, parties laden with revelers—all of them, opportunities for Adelaide to fancy herself going on an adventure and winding up forever lost.
But Adelaide could not be lost!
Adelaide—Lady—was Hyacinth’s sole comfort, aside from her friendship with Lottie. And even that had been strained by necessity from the time she had spent shackled to Southwick. Lottie was not the sort of lady with whom Hyacinth had been permitted to convene. The result had been a stilted friendship during her marriage, though Lottie had obligingly returned to Hyacinth’s life in full force following her return to Town.
There was no telling where her friend had disappeared to now, or with whom. Lottie was a widow just like Hyacinth, and her set was rather…wild. As was Lottie. Hyacinth’s old bosom bow had changed quite a bit since the days of their mutual comeout.
But none of these thoughts solved the mystery of where Lady was.
“Adelaide,” she called again, attempting to drown out the dratted violin. “Lady! Has anyone seen my pug?”
No one answered her. No one so much as glanced in her direction. At least, she thought none of them did.
Spectacles, Hyacinth. Or less champagne. One of the two…
Hyacinth left the drawing room. Down the main hall she went, passing a couple in a desperately passionate embrace that left her feeling flushed and envious all at once. Ah, to experience such tenderness—a man who did not take pleasure in cruelty and control.
Not yet, she reminded herself. Her wounds were still too fresh, even with Southwick gone. For now, she was living her life as she wished, directly flouting every one of his edicts.
Still lonely as ever.
She spied the housekeeper as she neared the small salon which exited to the gardens, adjacent to the servants’ stair.
“Mrs. Combes,” she said, relieved, for the woman seemed to always have the answer just as surely as she carried the keys rattling about her august personage. “Have you seen Adelaide? I cannot seem to find her.”
“I am sorry, Lady Southwick,” Mrs. Combes said, “but I have not seen her since I last noted her trotting toward the rear of the house. It is possible one of the chamber maids thought she needed to take a turn in the gardens.”
Hyacinth tempered the urge to embrace Mrs. Combes, who knew how to run a household. “I shall have a look about in the gardens.”
A sudden onset of weariness hit her. Perhaps it was because she had stopped consuming champagne. Perhaps it was because she was aggrieved with herself for becoming so sotted, she failed to notice what had happened to her beloved Lady. Whatever the reason, Hyacinth found herself dearly longing for quiet. For no more revelers.
She paused. “Mrs. Combes, do you think you could convey to my guests that I have sought my private chambers for the evening and that they ought to move their gaieties elsewhere?”
The housekeeper nodded. “Of course, my lady. I would be pleased to tell your guests as much.”
Hyacinth had no doubt she would. Mrs. Combes disapproved of the fast set with whom Hyacinth rubbed elbows since her arrival in London.
“Thank you, Mrs. Combes,” she said. “I am off to find Lady.”
Still feeling somewhat dizzy—fine, inebriated—Hyacinth made her way to the gardens. Part of her still expected Southwick to appear from some darkened corner, demanding to know where she was going. Icy, iron fingers, disapproving frown, inescapable rage. But she shook herself free of those memories.