. . .”
She stopped, mind whirling.
“Or to?” Sesily prodded.
The solution crystallized.
She looked to Sesily, then to Stanhope. “I must go.”
That evening, Lily did not attend supper at Dog House.
Alec arrived on time and took his place at the head of the table, waiting for minutes that stretched into half an hour. As the time passed, he prepared himself for the confrontation that was sure to come—the explanation of his deserting her in the center of Hyde Park in the wake of her peril, all of London looking on. Of what he’d been thinking.
The truth was, he’d been thinking of nothing but chasing down the imbecile who’d entered Hyde Park on a horse he could not control. The moment Alec had made certain that Lily was alive, breathing, and would be well, he’d headed for the nearest horse, pulled some pompous aristocrat down, and, with barely a word, headed off in the direction of the runaway steed, leaving the baron he’d upended sputtering in anger.
It hadn’t made him feel any better about the situation, which had sent his heart straight to his throat as he’d watched the horse bear down upon her, running at full tilt, desperate to get to her and terrified that he might not reach her in time. And then he’d had her in his arms and it hadn’t mattered where they were or who was watching; all he’d cared was that she was safe.
He’d loathed the panic in her eyes when she’d struggled to regain her breath, he’d wanted to chase it away, and then do serious damage to the man who’d been responsible for it.
He’d caught up with the rider—a young man barely out of school who was as frightened as he was unskilled, even before Alec arrived to frighten him more. When he’d returned to find Lily, she’d been gone, returned home by the ladies Talbot, he’d been told when he burst through the front door of the Dog House. Returned, along with both hounds.
Angus had been there to meet him, but Hardy, the four-legged traitor, had obviously cloistered himself with Lily.
Alec had assumed he’d be reunited with his missing housemates at the evening meal, but as thirty minutes had turned into forty-five and then a full hour, he’d realized that, once again, Lillian Hargrove had left him alone for a meal.
If he wished to speak to her, he was going to have to go looking for her.
Also, to retrieve his errant hound.
Exiting the dining room, Angus on his heels, he nearly ran down the aging, curious housekeeper.
“Your Grace!” she announced, as though she hadn’t been loitering in the hallway beyond, no doubt wondering what he was doing, alone, in the dining room.
He had no patience for pleasantries. “Where is she?”
Mrs. Thrushwill’s eyes went wide. “Your Grace?”
He looked to the ceiling and begged for patience. “Miss Hargrove. Where is she?”
“She asked for a tray earlier this evening. I think she is ill.”
Was she hurt?
It was possible that she’d been hurt more than he thought. She might have cracked a rib. Or struck her head when he’d pulled her to the ground. He took a large step toward the housekeeper, until he was close enough to tower over her. “Did she call for a doctor?”
The housekeeper shook her head. “No, my lord.”
Shit.
He was already on the way to her. “Call a damn doctor.”
He headed to the upper floor that housed the bedchambers, immediately bypassing the larger rooms for the smaller ones, reserved for guest use. He opened several doors before Hardy came from around a corner and stopped short with a little bark.
Alec looked to the dog. “Where is she?”
As if he understood, Hardy turned tail and disappeared around the corner once more. When Alec followed, he found the dog standing at attention, face to a mahogany door, tail wagging and sighing little, urgent cries.
“Good boy.” Alec pet him absently. “I’ll deal with you later. We’re going to discuss your shifting loyalty.”
But first, he set his hand to the door handle and turned.
Inside, the room was pitch black.
“Lily?” he said, moving quickly toward the bed, heart pounding. It was early and she was already dead asleep—perhaps she was hurt.
Or worse.
He said her name again in the darkness, concern flooding him. “Lily.”
No answer. No movement from the bed.
He fumbled for a flint on the table and felt to reach the candlestick there, dropping the little box from his hand as the flame burst into being, and turning to the bed.
Lily wasn’t there.
Neither were the bedsheets.
That was when