Page 101 of Never a Duchess
But one thing was certain.
“I cannae stay here. I’m leaving town tonight.”
* * *
Lillian kept her nose pressed to the window, scouring the dark streets for Dounreay. He could have been attacked by footpads. Could have fallen into the river and drowned. Could be anywhere by now.
“Where is he?” The desperation in her voice must have tugged on Mr Daventry’s heartstrings.
“Dounreay will run until the shock wears off,” he said, his tone reassuring. “That, or he won’t stop until he has answers. We should visit Valmary’s shop in Old Bond Street. He may want to confirm the perfumer was his mother’s lover.”
He would want answers. He would want to kill the man. Only a fool would mistake Dounreay’s calm persona for weakness.
Pain lanced through her.
She’d wanted to wrap him in a warm embrace, soothe him, ease his woes, but he’d not given her a chance.
“I think you underestimate what he might do. He’ll seek revenge for his mother’s death. He’ll be out searching for Monsieur Baudelaire.”
“Dounreay is an intelligent man. If he wants Baudelaire dead, he knows there’s an honourable way to achieve his goal.”
“Sir, I don’t know your family history, but—”
“It’s tragic, Miss Ware. I understand suffering. But when a man waits years to dance with one woman, he’s not about to throw his life away on a whim.”
Oh, it hurt to think of how she’d pushed Dounreay away.
Of how many lonely nights he’d spent in the Highlands.
Hot tears gathered behind her eyes. “I was to tell him I love him tonight. I was going to prick his finger with a blade and pledge my troth.” She would have sucked his finger and swallowed his blood.
“It may have to wait until tomorrow.”
“There may not be a tomorrow if I don’t find him.”
She would die if she lost him now.
“The mystic had an eye for detail. You’re marrying a man who bares his knees in public. I doubt she was wrong.”
“You’re the mystic,” she said, managing a smile for the first time in an hour. “Though why you concern yourself with affairs of the heart is anyone’s guess.” She considered Ailsa’s prediction. “Indeed, you have made a mistake if you think Miss MacTavish will marry. She’s resigned to spinsterhood.”
Mr Daventry shrugged. “Then it’s fortunate I’m not the mystic. Though, if I recall rightly, someone means to cast a spell over her. Is that not merely another term for falling in love?”
Lillian turned back to the window, peering into the darkness as she considered Mr Daventry’s words. Perhaps the predictions weren’t silly. Dounreay had bared more than his knees in public. In marking her dance card year after year, he’d been baring his heart too.
“Do you know how long it’s been since I first danced with Dounreay?” she said, though it was a rhetorical question.
Still, Mr Daventry said, “Five years.”
“Five years, two months and twelve days.”
“That’s quite precise.”
“A lady does not forget dancing with a man like Dounreay.” Her soul sighed at the beautiful memory. “I should have been stronger. I should have known you cannot escape heartbreak and should have stolen every happy moment instead.”
Mr Daventry was quick to offer sensible advice. “The pain of regret lasts long after the heart has healed. Be assured. Everything happens as it should. You took the path that led to the treasure. Who’s saying the others were the same?”
Lillian cast him a sidelong glance and gave a curious frown. “Are you sure you’re not the mystic?”
