Page 76 of The Marquess Wins a Wife
“But I’m a marchioness,” Lizzie said. “I’m not—that is, your efforts would be better spent—”
“I was once a duchess,” Mrs. Knight said, her mouth twisting in a wry smile. “You cannot eat a title, my lady, or sell it. It does not offer protection from cruelty. It is just a word, worth as much as any other, and you are no less or more deserving for it. I believe I told you once that Ambrosia is a refuge. It is exactly that for any woman—allwomen, no matter their station in life. Let it be yours now.”
Oh, dear God. She was going to cry again.
Sebastian coughed into his fist. “I’ve got a handkerchief in my coat pocket,” he said tactfully. And then, to Mrs. Knight, who had glared at him once more, “What? Her face is going blotchy again. It seemed a prudent suggestion. Should I not have said?”
Lizzie fumbled for the handkerchief and swabbed at her face with it. “Thank you,” she said. “But I have a sister. Joanna. She’s just ten. I can’t leave her.”
“There is room for her, too,” Mrs. Knight said. “I have a daughter. I could never leave her behind.”
But she would never have to. Her husbandlovedher. It was painfully obvious.
Get out of my sight. Those words rang still in her ears, pulsed through her veins like poison. Luke had made himself clear enough. She would be doing him a service. She would be doingherselfa service.
“Thank you,” she heard herself saying. “Yes. Yes, I will come.”
∞∞∞
It was well past dawn when Luke at last returned to his townhouse, bedraggled and exhausted, having searched the streets of London through the night. Only the fatigue of the horses and the flagging energy of his coachman had prompted him to return home at last.
He clung to a faint hope as he dragged through the door at last, addressing the footman standing there in the foyer. “Has Lady Ashworth returned?” he asked, his voice a bare rasp.
“Not…precisely, my lord,” the man said carefully.
That hope guttered out, and fear returned, raw and visceral. “Coffee,” he grated at the footman. “And summon a hack. I’m going out again.”
“My lord, you’ve only just arrived home—”
“Now.” Luke scrubbed at his face, feeling the burn of new whiskers beneath his fingers. Shaving would take precious time—and so would pettier concerns such assleeporfresh clothingorbreakfast.Time he couldn’t afford to spare when Lizzie was still missing, lost somewhere in London. At least the coffee would be a matter of moments, swiftly retrieved from whatever had been set out at the breakfast table for the Talbots, who were, by nature, early risers.
Coffee, at least, there was time for. But it was not a footman who returned with it. It was Willie—scowling, surly Willie, who thrust the cup at him in full resentment. Though he’d been on the receiving end of that glare on a number of occasions,thistime it had achieved its intended effect.
“You’ve heard, then,” he said quietly, his fingers curling around the cup, wondering if it might contain a healthy dash of arsenic. Probably he’d deserve it if it did.
“That ye’ve made a right arse of yerself? Aye,” Willie said, and that scowl deepened into a glower, tugging at the wrinkles in his face. “Seems that’s about all ye’re good for.”
Luke felt the weight of Willie’s condemnation settle over him, the shame of it seeping into his bones. “I’m going to find her,” he said, though the words were tinged with more desperation than certainty. “I’m going to find her, and—”
“Findher?” Willie scoffed, his brow furrowing. “Miss Lizzie ain’t lost. No thanks to ye, o’ course.”
“What?” The coffee sloshed over the rim of the cup, splattering across the floor. “The footman said she wasn’t home.”
“She ain’t.Any longer.” Willie folded his arms across his chest, affecting his most forbidding expression. “But she was, just briefly, early this morning. Stayed just long enough to collect Miss Jo and say farewell, and off again they went. For whatever it’s worth to ye.” His gimlet eye raked Luke from head to toe, no doubt judging him by his disheveled appearance, his rumpled evening wear. “Comin’ in at such an hour of the morning, lookin’ likethat. No doubt yer evenin’s caught up with ye.”
“Of course it has,” Luke snapped. “I’ve been out searching for Lizzie. I’ve only returned because the horses are done in, and so is the damned coachman. I’ve just sent for a hack to take me back out again!”
Willie drew up short, blinking in surprise. “Have ye, then?”
“I left likely no more than fifteen minutes after she did.” The first time she’d left, anyway. “I’ve scoured at least half of London, searched every park and alley, shouted my lungs hoarse for her, and returned home only when it was no longer possible to go on.” He downed what coffee remained in his cup, and it burned down his throat. “I would prefer,” he said, “notto waste valuable time searching for her when that time might be better spent in securing her return. So if you happen to know her direction…”
Willie swallowed, his Adam’s apple moving down his throat in a tense bob. “And what makes ye think I do?” he inquired.
“Because if Lizzie has left you behind, it was for a damnedreason,” Luke said. “And she never would have gone without giving her direction. As much as it galls me to say so, you’re as good as family to her.” The closest thing to a father she had. Luke rubbed at his eyes, sighed heavily. “That makes youmyfamily as well.”
“Feh.” It was a disdainful snort, and if Willie had been just abitless well-mannered, it might have been accompanied with a glob of spit straight to the now-dulled polish of Luke’s boots.
“You don’t have to likeit. You don’t even have to likeme.” It ought to have been humiliating to be forced into such a situation—but desperation, it turned out, overrode everything else. “Please, Willie,” he said. “Please help me find her.”
