Page 76 of My Best Friend's Earl
A woman’s voice replied, faint but discernible. “They didn’t say. Why? Is there actually a body?”
Well, that was concerning.
Mr. Martin lowered his voice. “Son, if you’re the one my daughter shot out of here to deal with, I’m going to give you some friendly advice. Either grovel or run. Good luck to you.”
The door closed in Oliver’s face, leaving him in the dark alley once more. What the hell just happened? Why were Caro and Constance angry?
Back at the carriage, he told his coachman, “Bloomsbury. Duke of Holland’s residence.”
Unfortunately, Hastings, the Holland butler, didn’t have happy news. “I apologize, milord. Their Graces are currently not home. They left separately, both in quite a state.”
“Damn. Nothing is going as expected tonight.” Oliver ran a hand through his hair and bit back a growl. “Are they planning to attend the Forsyth soiree?”
“Yes, milord.”
Returning once more to the carriage, Oliver grumbled to his coachman. “The Forsyths’ on Hill Street.” He’d intended to propose to Connie back at the shop while Althea and Wellsley made their scene at the Forsyth event. They’d agreed to meet at eleven o’clock in the mews behind the pub on Hill Street, then leave Town from there.
Except, Constance wasn’t home. She was with Caro, and God only knew where Dorian had rushed off to. If he’d be at the Forsyths’, Oliver would track him down and work backward from there to find Constance.
Who… might be angry with him, although he wasn’t sure why. Whatever it was, Constance’s mood warranted her father doing everything short of reading last rites over Oliver on their doorstep.
Whatever was wrong, they’d talk it over as they had in his carriage on the way back from Kent. That one trip out of Town had entirely reshaped Oliver’s idea of what he wanted for his future. One morning of waking up beside Constance, and everything in him sat up, begging,more of this, for the rest of my life. To make that possible, the last two days had been frantic, without a moment to himself. Preparing Wellsley for his new position, coordinating with Althea and her beau in planning their elopement as well as his, filled every hour.
When she heard about all he’d done, Constance would probably tease him about painstakingly arranging an event most people did impulsively. Among a dozen other things, he’d needed to visit Gerard Bellmore for more marriage documents.
Someone needed to protect Constance’s future. Especially since she hoped to hold equal ownership in Martin House. What she did with that share was up to her, but he wanted Constance to retain the right to make that decision. Because although he craved becoming one with her in the “making the beast with two backs” sense, under law she’d cease to exist as a separate person once they wed. He couldn’t imagine Constance disappearing, even if it was only in the legal sense. Thus, another trust. Another pile of legal paperwork from his poor solicitor, although he left these for her to file when they wed.
Since Althea and Wellsley were bound for Scotland, he and Constance would be too. Then, all that dimpled sunshine and teasing laughter would be part of his days forever. Assuming she accepted his proposal, of course. Nerves turned his stomach a bit touchy at that thought.
Oliver searched for his usual calm as the coach’s wheels clattered over cobblestones. It would do him no favors to walk into the Forsyths’ with every worry parading across his face, especially as he hadn’t dressed with a soiree in mind. Oliver ruefully examined his most weathered, and therefore comfortable, boots. Appearing in traveling garb was the least scandalous sin he’d planned for this evening, so his attire wasn’t worth worrying over.
As the London streets passed by in seemingly endless blocks of stone or brick houses and businesses tacked one on the end of the next, that familiar reserve settled over him. The buildings changed, growing larger and finer.Architectural nods to the classical lines of Rome crept over the marble structures transforming the facades into things of beauty rather than shelters designed purely for durability.
Sharp, wet night air filled the carriage. Misting rain peppered his face, but Oliver didn’t close the window. The cold was bracing, like dunking one’s head in a frigid stream.
So he heard the Forsyths’ house before he saw it. Coaches lined Hill Street off Berkeley Square, inching forward as they waited their turn to belch their passengers at the Forsyths’ door. Outside, the pavement teemed with finely dressed members of the ton brave enough to subject their evening clothes to the night’s drizzle. Gas lamps lined the street, causing yellow circles of illumination to spark off the jewels encircling necks and winking from artfully styled curls.
Patrons at the Coach and Horse lingered with pints in hand outside the pub doors, watching the hubbub, as if the people were animals in a zoo.
“I’ll walk the rest of the way,” Oliver called to his driver. Donning his hat, he joined the mass of London’s elite. Nodding and smiling greetings at the others walking toward the brightly lit house, he ignored their curious stares at his clothing. Patting his pocket for the outline of the ring, he tried to appear unruffled.
Grand gestures were nerve-racking. Novels never mentioned that part.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Be willing to go as far as it takes to get what you want
To give credit where it was due, Roberts appeared genuinely baffled when he informed them that the earl was not at home. Of course, when faced with three incensed women and a duke demanding entry, it would be understandable if the man prevaricated a little.
Caro braced her hands on her hips. “Are you quite sure? Is he not receiving visitors, or has he physically left the premises?”
“Left the premises for the evening, Your Grace,” Roberts replied with a deferential nod.
“Do you know where he’s gone?” Hattie pressed.
The butler’s eyes shifted away. “As I am not his lordship’s personal secretary, I have no way of knowing, miss.”
A blatant lie. Servants were the eyes and ears of a house. Rather than quibble, Constance stepped down to the pavement. “Maybe we should ask the woman he’s marrying where to find him tonight.” Was that anger and bitterness in her voice? Undoubtably. To think, not long ago, she’d stood in her shop and thought the last few days had been overwhelming.
