Page 72 of Duke of Myste
Under normal circumstances, Richard would have admired Jane’s courage, but the thought of her riding while emotionally distressed sent cold fear through his veins.
“She took the horse?” he repeated, his voice deadly quiet. “Alone? While upset?”
“I tried to suggest taking the carriage,” Harriet said quickly, recognizing the dangerous shift in his demeanor. “But she was already calling for Pandora to be saddled before I could protest. Richard, she’s an excellent rider?—”
“She’s an excellent rider when her mind is clear and focused,” Richard interrupted, already striding toward the door with renewed urgency. “Not when she has convinced herself that her husband is furious with her over gossip columns.”
The thought of Jane—his Jane, his brilliant, stubborn, wonderful wife—injured or thrown because she was too distressed to pay proper attention to her mare made him feel physically ill. He had spent the entire morning marveling at how little he cared about Society’s opinion of their appearance at Vauxhall while Jane had been torturing herself with imagined consequences.
“Richard, surely you’re overreacting,” Harriet called after him, but he was already halfway to the entrance hall.
“Mrs. Winters!” Richard’s voice boomed through Myste House with an authority that brought the housekeeper running. “What time did Her Grace depart this morning?”
“Just past nine o’clock, Your Grace,” Mrs. Winters replied, her expression showing concern at his agitation. “She seemed rather… determined, if I may say so.”
Richard consulted his pocket watch with growing alarm. It was half past twelve! Jane had been gone far longer than a simple visit to her sister should require, even accounting for emotional conversations and afternoon tea.
“Has there been any word?” he asked, though he already knew the answer from Mrs. Winter’s apologetic expression.
“Nothing, Your Grace. Though I am certain Her Grace simply lost track of time. The Duchess of Fyre’s company has always been a great source of comfort to her.”
Richard nodded curtly, but the reassurance did little to ease the growing knot of anxiety in his chest. Something was wrong; he could feel it in his bones. Jane was many things—impulsive, independent, occasionally reckless—but she was also considerate of others’ concerns.
“Harriet,” he said, turning to his sister, who had followed him into the hall, “if Jane is not back within the hour, I’m going to Lydia’s myself.”
“Richard, really,” Harriet protested, though a hint of concern flitted over her face. “You are working yourself into a frenzy over nothing. Jane is perfectly capable of taking care of herself.”
“Jane is perfectly capable of many things,” Richard agreed grimly. “She should never have been allowed to leave in such a state.”
The next hour passed with excruciating slowness. Richard found himself unable to concentrate on correspondence, unable to sit still, unable to do anything but pace between his study and the front windows that offered the best view of the street below. Every passing rider made his heart leap with hope, only to sink again when it continued past Myste House without stopping.
By two o’clock, his patience had reached its breaking point.
“Order the carriage,” he commanded, his voice tight with barely controlled anxiety. “I am going to find my wife.”
Harriet, who had been pretending to read in the morning room while watching her brother’s increasingly agitated pacing, rose immediately. “Richard, I am coming with you.”
“You most certainly are not,” Richard declared, already reaching for his coat. “If something has indeed happened to Jane, I may need to act quickly. I will not put you in danger as well.”
“If something has happened to Jane,” Harriet countered with the stubborn logic that had infuriated and impressed him since childhood, “you will need someone to help you think clearly rather than charging about like a madman.”
Before Richard could devise a cutting retort, the carriage was brought around. He settled for a glare that promised future retribution and strode out of the house, with Harriet hot on his heels.
The journey to Fyre Manor, which normally took twenty minutes in moderate traffic, seemed to stretch endlessly.
Richard found himself leaning forward in his seat, as though his posture could somehow urge the horses to greater speed. Beside him, Harriet maintained an unusually thoughtful silence, her worry evident in the way her fingers twisted in her lap.
They were perhaps halfway to their destination when Richard’s world tilted violently off its axis.
“Stop the carriage!” he shouted, his voice sharp with sudden panic.
“Your Grace?” the coachman called back, confusion evident in his tone.
“Stop immediately, damn you!”
The carriage lurched to a halt, throwing both occupants off their seats. Richard was out the door before the wheels had fully stopped moving, his eyes fixed on a sight that made his blood turn to ice in his veins.
Pandora stood riderless beside the road, her reins trailing in the dirt, her usually pristine coat streaked with sweat and foam. The mare’s eyes were wild with residual panic, her sides heaving as though she had been running hard for some considerable distance.
