Page 132 of Wild Lily
“Why not? Did she forbid you to do so?”
“No, sir. Not forbid me.”
Now he was furious. “Well, what is wrong with telling me what she took the money for or how much?”
“Because, Your Grace, it was to be a surprise.”
“A surprise?”Was Leland insane?“Hardly that, man.”
“She said she’d tell you in her own time.”
Julian did sit now. Puzzled, he sank to a chair. “Phillip, I’m at my wits end. I need to find my wife. She’s gone too long and I fear if I don’t find her soon, she’ll be gone too far for me to ever get her back. She’s not at Willowreach. She left there weeks ago. She’s not in Paris or Biarritz. If she’s returned to America, I must follow her. So do tell me. Did she ask you to give her enough money to buy passage home?”
“No, sir. She did not.”
His last hope drained out of him. He’d lost all that kept him sane. He wanted to scream. “Might you have any idea where she might have gone?”
“I do, sir.” The man attempted a small smile.
“Where?”
“Your Grace, have you ever been to Tipperary?
* * *
Traveling to Ireland had never been a journey Julian considered. The estate his grandfather had purchased more than five decades ago had been an afterthought to both that man and his son, Julian’s father. To a great extent, for him also. As he rode from the port of Rosslare inland to Tipperary, he admired the beauty of the green land. Marveled at its potential and at his wife’s bravery to come here alone to a strange country.
He’d hurried as quickly as possible from Paris back to London, then south to Willowreach and north to Broadmore. The materials he’d purchased in London would arrive by messenger this week. The improvements he’d ordered to Willowreach and Broadmore would be finished, he was assured by his tenants, by the time he returned with his wife. Or so he hoped.
He pressed his fingers to his temples, the stress of the past weeks causing a royal headache. Part of his problem was this blasted coach ride. The directions he’d given the driver were rough, but they were the ones Leland had given to Lily. She’d confirmed her arrival in a letter to the lawyer more than two weeks ago. So Julian trusted that the directions were useful. Would that his words were useful to get his wife back.
Showers beat upon the roof of the coach at erratic intervals. Such intermittent rains were a pleasant change from the downpours they’d suffered in England in the spring and early summer.
The house he saw from the road was a simple Georgian, whitewashed brick in need of a clearing of the brush in the yard. The stone lane to the house looked newly laid and raked, an improvement Julian credited to his wife.
He climbed down, waiting for the driver to deposit his valise and the other leather bag he carried. His valet Pendley he’d left in Waterford this morning. For this journey, he wished to go alone.
He strode up to the front door and knocked. No one answered. He tried again.
This time, a lady called from inside. And a woman pulled open the door to him.
It was the chambermaid whom he assigned to Lily when she left Broadmore weeks ago.
“Your Grace?” She bobbed a curtsy. “M’lord, we did not expect you.”
“I am aware. May I?” He indicated that he had luggage and wished to enter.
She pulled the door wide. “Oh, yes, sir. M’lord. Sir. Come in.”
He picked up his cases, stepped inside and put them down. The house smelled of beeswax and bleach. The wooden floors were clean if scuff-marked and dull. The paint upon the walls could use a new coat. But the house had the charm of the Regency era with soft green upholstery to the salon and white lace curtains floating against ivory draperies at the floor-length windows. His wife had been at work here.
He fingered his hat.
“I can take that, m’lord. Gloves, too. Ah, we ‘ave no butler, sir. No footmen. Beggin’ your pardon.”
“No need of that. What is your name?”
“Lucille, sir.” She bobbed again, nervous and glancing backward to the far side of the huge foyer. “You want Her Grace, I’m sure.”
