of utmost importance your note said!” Rollings reiterated.
As unlikely as it all seemed, Oliver found himself unwilling to dismiss it out of hand. The previous night had been too strange, the events too significant and too bizarre for him to now simply ignore this unexpected turn. In for a penny and in for a pound, he thought. “Fine. Thank you, Rollings… and if you have it, I’d like to see that note.”
“Certainly, my lord.”
Oliver, despite his uncertain stomach and pounding head, went through the routine of his morning toilette. Bad enough to be going to church, it would be far worse if he showed up looking like he was still recovering from his evening of excess. After bathing, allowing his thankfully steady-handed valet to shave him, Oliver dressed and made his way below stairs. He had no desire for the breakfast that had been laid out. Instead, he grabbed his coffee, much preferred over tea, and drank it down quickly. The hot liquid stung but it brought him to some degree of wakefulness which he supposed was a blessing.
“Your coat, my lord,” Rollings said. “You will be late for the service if you do not leave immediately.”
Oliver let the small man help him into the heavy woolen garment. “Thank you, Rollings.”
“And the note, my lord,” the valet said, producing the slip of paper with a flourish.
Oliver began fiddling with the folded note, preparing to read it and see if he could make any sense at all of what was happening in his household. It was chaos. Pure and simple!
“You haven’t time, my lord! You’ll be late!”
Taking the valet at his word, Oliver tucked the scrap into his pocket to be reviewed later, donned his hat and stepped out into the street. Snow covered the street, a thin white coating already giving way to mud. Climbing up into the carriage, Oliver questioned the soundness of that decision. He could likely have made it more quickly on foot but it was not the done thing at all to show up as a mere pedestrian. A carriage was a symbol of status, after all, and his was very fine, indeed. It was yet another albatross that he’d inherited.
As the vehicle lumbered along the snow-covered street, he reached into his pocket and retrieved the note once more. It was difficult to make out in the dim light. Of course, that might have as much to do with his own bleary eyes and aching head as the lighting and the motion of the coach. Regardless, he was struggling to read it. Squinting, he could recognize that it did appear to be his handwriting, thought he couldn’t be certain. And despite it being his handwriting, the wording of it was very odd for him.
“How the devil can I remember the entirety of the night save for writing this note?” Of course, there was no one there to answer him.
Frustrated, suffering for his excesses and struggling to figure out what exactly was going on, Oliver leaned his head back against the upholstered seat of the carriage and willed the lot of it to make sense.
Elizabeth detested attending church. No, that wasn’t true. She detested attending church when she was surrounded by judgmental society matrons who couldn’t complete their prayers without pausing to whisper about her. She could feel their speculative gazes upon her, as if they were waiting for the Lord Himself to smite her for her sinful ways. Despite the festive atmosphere of the church, decked out in ivy and holly, there was no cheer in her heart. Not that day.
“Stop fidgeting, Miss Burkhart!”
The whispered admonishment had come from the dowager duchess. Uttered in a low hiss, it made Elizabeth jump, startled by the sound. She dared a glance at the elderly woman and sighed. Once more, facing forward, the rector was reciting his sermon with all the verve of a corpse when the sound of the door creaking open caused him to stutter, tripping over his words.
In unison, every head swiveled toward that door, including her own. What she saw made her heart sink. The Marquess of Whittendon—Oliver—stood there, silhouetted by the dim light of the snowy morning beyond. As she stared at him in both recognition and horror, he simply stepped inside, brushed the snow from his shoulders and allowed the door to swing closed behind him. He appeared to be entirely unconcerned about the degree of interest and gossip he had just stirred.
“American,” the dowager duchess muttered with disdain.
“Is he?” Elizabeth asked.
“Yes!” The