Page 75 of My Best Friend's Earl
“I’m trying! The lock sticks. You know that,” Connie grumbled.
“Uncle Owen still hasn’t fixed—is that my husband?”
A carriage bearing the ducal crest barreled toward them, the coachman yelling “outta the way” at anyone unwiseenough to linger in his path. The women plastered themselves against the shop window, narrowly avoiding a wave of water and muck from the wheels.
Dorian opened the door and hopped down before his horses came to a complete stop. “Thank God, I caught you. This arrived after you left.” He thrust a missive toward his wife. “I don’t know what is going on, but it had better involve Oliver walking away a free man.”
Constance read the contents over Caro’s shoulder.
Your Graces,
Oliver and I request your presence in the Forsyth library at 9:30 tonight.
Althea Thompson
“What the devil?” Constance asked no one in particular.
“We need to find Oliver. His damned misplaced sense of duty will cost his entire future at this rate. Vague, dramatic notes might work in your novels, Caro love, but this whole situation makes me peevish.” Dorian handed them up into the coach, then directed Caro’s servants to return home with her carriage. When he returned, he was still muttering about having heart palpitations. “Wait, where’s Hattie?”
“Tutoring a widow’s children down the road. We hoped to pluck her off the street,” Caro said.
He stuck his head out the window. “I see her!” With an order to his coachman to intercept the last member of their party, the carriage rolled into the street, then slowed a few moments later.
Connie threw open the door. “Get in, wench. We’re off to make a grown man cry.”
Oliver thanked his valet, running a hand down the front of his most comfortable traveling coat. He wore the ridiculous pink and lime-green waistcoat, for two reasons. First, in hopes that it would make Constance smile. And second, as a symbol of his willingness to bend and accept chaos into his life.
Heartbeats thumped in his ears in a tattoo.Thump thump. Breathe.Thump thump. Leave the ace of spades on the table. Slip his mother’s ring into his pocket.Thump thump. Downstairs.
And so on, until he arrived at the dark windows of Martin House.
“Shall I wait here, milord? It appears the place has closed for the night.” The coachman’s voice reached him through the open window.
Oliver murmured a curse. He’d never called on Connie before. Sure, he’d visited the shop. But with the storefront closed, he didn’t know how to access the family quarters. Did he bang on the door like a debt collector, and make a spectacle of himself? Was that how he wanted to introduce himself to her parents in this new role of potential son-in-law? He could see it now.Sorry for scaring a year off your life. I’m here to convince your daughter to marry me.
“Drive through the alley. There might be a door to their private residence.”
“As you wish.” The coachman clicked to the horses, and they were moving again.
Behind the store, all was wet and gray with soot and grime. Doors dotted the back of the brick and stone buildings, but few held identifying markings.
Disappointment gripped him. This might ruin his plan for tonight, but at least Althea and Wellsley could still leave. He’dreturn tomorrow, and he could follow with Connie immediately after, if she agreed. Surely there’d be a way to meet Althea on the road somewhere. Yes, the plan could adapt. Adaptability went hand in hand with spontaneity, after all.
Even though this new plan made sense, it didn’t feel right.
Constance had put so much time and effort into helping Althea convince him to search elsewhere for a wife. Well, here he was.
The women hadn’t given up, and he wouldn’t either. Oliver jumped out of the carriage. “I’m going to knock on doors. Wait here.”
At the first door, he met a local solicitor. Very polite man, although bewildered to find an earl wearing an ugly waistcoat on his doorstep after dark.
No one answered door number two.
Door number three opened, and Owen Martin greeted him with equal parts worry and confusion.
“I apologize for disturbing you, Mr. Martin. I’m not sure you remember me, but I’m a friend of Constance’s. The Duke of Holland introduced us a few years ago. May I speak with her?”
Holding his gaze, Mr. Martin called over his shoulder. “Mary, do we know who Caro and Connie went after?”
