reason she was not familiar with every lord and lady in the realm.
It was not her lack of familiarity with the name that disturbed Jo, however. It was the fact that a woman had written Decker the letter he had run off with. Who was Lady Tinley to him, and why had he been so disturbed by whatever that missive contained?
So many questions.
And no solid answers because Decker was nowhere to be found.
She was sick as she fled from the dining room. Part of her felt as if it had been wrong of her to pry in his affairs. Part of her told her he had left her with no choice after the manner in which he had suddenly taken his leave. The husband who had retreated from breakfast was decidedly not the Decker she had come to know.
Jo tried to calm her madly racing mind as she took his correspondence to his study and laid it upon his desk, along with the envelope. The familiar scents of his study ought to have calmed her. But without her husband in the room, it somehow lost its vibrancy. Not even the naughty engravings on the walls interested her.
Indeed, the absence of her husband only served to haunt.
To mock her.
She had told him she loved him, and he had not returned the words. He was a notorious rake. What was wrong with her, losing her heart to such a man? Why, he had never promised her fidelity. Nor had he told her about the woman he had loved—she had learned that unpalatable truth secondhand. His past, aside from his estranged relationship with his father and his mother, was a mystery.
Was Viscountess Tinley his lover? More importantly—and terrifyingly—was she the lady who had broken his heart?
Jo supposed she had only one place to turn for answers: Decker himself.
Why had she allowed him to simply run off in such haste earlier? She should have been firmer, should have pressed the matter. Being a wife was not as easy a situation as she had imagined it would be.
Jo sighed, thinking it fortunate indeed that she had more business with the Lady’s Suffrage Society to attend to today. The distraction would be necessary and much-appreciated.
Decker arrived at his offices, still at sixes and sevens, and happier than he ordinarily was to see Macfie awaiting him in the vestibule, as had become their custom over the past several years. If his aide-de-camp took note that Decker was fifteen and one half minutes late, he wisely kept mum.
“Just the man I was looking for,” Decker said, heading to his inner sanctum. “Do come with me, Macfie, and make haste. I have not the time for tarrying.”
That was yet another lie today in what was fast becoming a vast sea of falsehoods. Bloody hell, one would think him no better than his self-righteous prig of a sire. In truth, Decker had finished his rough proofs. He had no meeting with Mr. Levi Storm—at least, not a pressing morning one—and he had nothing to do save review some ledgers from the piano factory, along with a leasehold investment in Belgravia he was not particularly keen on.
He made his way through the busy swirl of the men—and women—in his employ, going about their day. Some lady typewriters had been newly hired and were serving well. Decker nodded as he went, doing his utmost not to appear as agitated as he felt. He had learned long ago that one never showed a weak underbelly in business matters.
Not even with one’s own staff.
Macfie, however, was a different matter altogether. Decker trusted the man nearly as much as he trusted Sin.
Decker realized belatedly that he was still wearing his hat and coat as he entered his private office. He had been too damned preoccupied to remove them upon his arrival. He spun about as Macfie crossed the threshold and closed the door at his back.
“Devil take it, man,” Decker snapped, scowling, “why did you not say something?”
Macfie’s bushy red brows rose. “About what, sir? Yer hat and coat? I thought mayhap ye were a wee bit cold this morning.”
He raised a brow, doffing his hat and coat and throwing them into a nearby chair with complete disregard for whether or not they ended up rumpled and crushed. “Why should I be cold, Macfie? We have nearly reached the month of July.”
Macfie blinked. “I cannae say, sir. Why would ye walk about in yer outerwear if not to ward off a chill? In Scotland, July