Page 131 of Wild Lily
Killian stared at him. “Marianne is not here, either. And I assume you did not write to your friend, the Duc de Remy?”
“Why?” More bad news was coming. Julian could sense it in the man’s cool black gaze.
“She lives with him. Against my wishes.” Killian’s disapproval drew out the Irish scrapper in him.
Julian had always hated opposing this man. “I have to find Lily. I’ll visit them. Ask for her.”
“Do that, but I was there last night. Unannounced. We had a row. Lily is not with them, I tell you. I would have seen her.”
Killian was very protective of his charges. All loving, all encompassing. Julian was a pale comparison to the dedication of Lily’s father. It stung him to admit.
“Lily’s not with you. Not in Biarrtiz. Not with Marianne.” He thought of one last terrible possibility. “Would she have returned to America?”
* * *
Phillip Leland lived in a town house in Queen Square. His home, once his parents’ abode, was a respectable red brick with neat white trim. Julian had never been here but as he looked at it now, it was a stately house for a bachelor of the legal profession. It stood on a quiet expanse of genteel respectability, except when a friend drove up in a traveling coach at five-thirty in the morning and banged upon the broad oak door like an escaped inmate from Bedlam.
A bespeckled man, most likely Leland’s man of all work, yanked open the front door.
“Yes, sir? Yes, sir! May I ‘elp you?”
“I’m here to see your master.” Julian removed his hat and handed over his card. “Immediately.”
The man adjusted his glasses to read it. “Sir? Oh, un. Your Grace. Yes, well, sir. Right away sir.” And off he scrambled down the hall while Julian let himself in and closed the front door.
Upstairs, the servant created a commotion and within minutes, Phillip Leland descended the wooden stairs. He pulled tight the sash to his navy brocade dressing gown and ran a hand through his wild golden hair. “Your Grace? What are you doing here?”
“I need to talk to you. About Lily.”
“Lily. Certainly. Lily.” He blinked, still half asleep, having trouble making sense of Julian’s words.
“My wife, Leland.”
That spurred him to action. “Of course. Come with me. The parlor. Jenner?” He spoke to his man who stood in the shadows. “Get cook to make us coffee.”
“Aye, sir.” And off the man went.
“I’ve no time for coffee.”
Leland took in Julian’s attire. Yes, he must look a mess, traveling like a banshee from Paris to Calais, bargaining for a spot on the next steamer packet to Dover. Arriving in the middle of the night and catching a public conveyance up to London. Unable to wait for the next train. Unable to bide his time when he had to find his wife.
“What can I help you with, Your Grace.” Leland indicated the sofa.
Julian paced and refused the offer. “Lily. Tell me, Leland. What kind of money does she have?”
“Sir?”
“What I mean is, what funds might she have that she could buy passage to New York or Baltimore?
“She does have her own pin money, via the marriage settlement.”
“Did she access it recently?”
Leland blanched.
“So she did.” Julian breathed in relief. “How much did she take?”
“I don’t think it appropriate that I tell you.”
