Page 3 of A Spinster for the Cold Duke

His butler, Simmons, approached him at once. His weathered face was threaded with evident relief.

“Your Grace, thank heavens you’ve returned so quickly.”

“How,” Henry demanded of the assembled staff, his voice dangerously low, “does a sixteen-year-old girl simply vanish from under the supervision of an entire household?”

The housekeeper, Mrs. Pike, a formidable woman who had served the Blakesley family for thirty years, stepped forward. She wrung her hands in a rare display of agitation.

“Miss Harrington stepped away to retrieve a book, Your Grace, and when she returned?—”

“This is thethirdtime this month,” Henry cut her off, removing his gloves with sharp, controlled movements. “I expect better from those entrusted with my daughter’s care.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” the housekeeper replied, properly chastised. “We’ve already begun searching the grounds and questioning the staff.”

“And Miss Harrington?” Henry inquired. His tone indicated that the governess’s continued employment hung by the thinnest of threads.

“Taking to her bed with a case of nerves, Your Grace,” Simmons supplied. His disapproval was evident in the slight pursing of his lips.

Henry’s jaw tightened. “Find her replacement by week’s end.”

What a waste, he thought, but he knew it was far better to cut off the useless root now before it could sprout into something far worse.

A frantic search of the grounds ensued, with footmen and maids scouring every corner of the vast estate.

Henry himself inspected Celia’s favorite hiding places: the old oak tree by the lake where she sometimes read, the disused gardener’s cottage that had become her private retreat, and the stable loft where she would watch the new foals.

All were empty.

It was nearly an hour later when a stable boy, no more than twelve, approached Henry outside the conservatory.

“B-Beggin’ y-your pardon, Your Gr-Grace,” the boy stammered, twisting his cap between his hands, “but I saw Lady Celia earlier. She took Mercury and rode east.”

Henry’s head turned to the east as his mind raced with all the possible locations where Celia might stop. There wasn’t much on the way there other than fields, except for…

“Oakley Hall,” Henry realized out loud.

“Oh, yes, Your Grace, Oakley Hall is that way, indeed. Lady Celia was wearing her riding habit and seemed in quite a hurry. Said something about a book she needed to return.” The boy swallowed hard. “I-I didn’t think to stop her, sir, s-seein’ as she often rides out in the afternoons.”

Henry pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the beginnings of a headache forming behind his eyes.

“You did well to tell me, boy. What’s your name?”

“Tom, sir. Tom Bailey.”

“Well, Tom Bailey, consider yourself promoted to stable hand. Report to Mr. Fletcher tomorrow morning.”

The boy’s eyes widened. “Thank you, Your Grace! Thank you kindly!”

Without another word, Henry strode to the stables, his long legs eating up the distance. Within minutes, he was astride his stallion again and thundering down the east road. His thoughts were as turbulent as the hoofbeats pounding beneath him.

Oakley Hall.

Home of the Dowager Viscountess Oakley, a woman with a powerful intellect and high respectability.

What business could Celia possibly have there?

Lady Oakley moved in different social circles. Her path only crossed Henry’s or Celia’s at the larger county assemblies.

As he rode, his concern deepened. Celia was headstrong, yes, but she had never ventured so far without permission.

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