The reason is simple. There isn’t anybody like her,he thought sorrowfully.There’s nobody like her in London, and that’s one of the best things about her.
His heart twisted painfully. She was pretty, but more than that, she was one of a kind. She was funny, clever, caring and gentle and she had stolen his heart entirely. He wanted to tell her. He had invited her to the pavilion so he could tell her.
And now she’d run away.
“Lord Rothendale? Lady Rothendale?” he called, relieved that there was a gap in their conversation.
“Yes?” Lord Rothendale asked, smiling nervously at him. “What is it?”
“It’s Bernadette,” he said quickly. “Did she come inside?” He was almost certain he’d seen her go into the ballroom, but he was starting to wonder if his mind had tricked him.
“Was she outside?” Lady Rothendale asked, sounding a little shocked. “I thought she was in here.”
“She came outside to talk to me,” Nicholas said quickly. “I asked her to. But I wondered if she’d come back in.”
“I haven’t seen her,” her mother said slowly.
Nicholas felt his heart thud. He had hoped she’d run to her parents—that would be the logical response. Even if he’d had to explain to them what was happening—and that would have been far from easy—he would have welcomed it, since it would give him time to explain to her, too. He felt sweat trickle down his back.
“I’ll look in the house,” he said quickly. Perhaps she’d runthrough the ballroom, distressed, and escaped somewhere in the house—the drawing room mayhap—to express her emotions. She was naturally upset.
He walked through the ballroom, hurrying to the doors even as he struggled not to draw too much attention to himself, and shut them swiftly, letting out a sigh of relief as he hurried up the hallway into the house.
“Bernadette?” he called. The hallway that led from the ballroom to the privy was brightly lit, but the rest of the house was in darkness, and he stumbled up the corridor, finding the stairs by feel. The marble balustrade was cold under his hand, and he shivered, hoping she hadn’t fled blindly up the stairwell in the dark. It wasn’t safe.
“Bernadette?” he called softly as he reached the doorway of the drawing room. He felt sure she was in there. It was the logical place to go, since it was one of the only places she’d been in the house, and she’d have known how to find it.
He gazed around, eyes becoming accustomed to the soft glow from the fireplace. The room was empty, he was sure of that after a few moments, even though he wasted a minute or two searching in the darkened space.
“Where is she?” he asked, pained.
He ran downstairs again, blinking in the light in the entrance-way. The entrance was empty, except for the two footmen in charge of the cloaks and coats of the guests. He felt his brow crease in a frown, noticing that the doors were slightly ajar.
“Did someone depart?” he asked the footmen swiftly. The man on his left nodded.
“Yes, my lord. A young lady just requested her cloak a few minutes ago. She said she felt ill.”
“You let her go out into the street alone?” Nicholas demanded, horrified. London was far from safe, and it was late at night. He glared at the men in horror.
“No, my lord,” the other footman spoke reassuringly. “Mr. Swinburne hailed a Hackney for her. She’s safe, my lord. On her way home.”
“Oh.” Nicholas felt his heart sink. It was Bernadette who sneaked out. He was quite sure of it. “Did she have a blue dress? And brown hair? About this tall?” He lifted a hand, indicating a height between his shoulder and the middle of his chest.
“Yes. Yes, my lord. That describes her exactly,” the first footman murmured.
“Oh.” Nicholas swallowed hard. It was certainly her.
He stood in the hallway, utterly unsure of what to do. He couldn’t pursue Bernadette to her home—it would be most unseemly, and rumors would circulate, ruining her reputation. But he also couldn’t bear to go back to the ballroom and smile and laugh and talk to guests as though nothing untoward had occurred.
“Tell my grandfather I have retired to bed,” he said promptly. “I feel ill.” Perhaps if he went to rest, he could decidewhat to do.
The butler, who had just returned into the entrance-way, bowed immediately.
“Of course, my lord.”
Nicholas went up the stairs, head aching. He did feel sick. Worry and sadness weighed on him, draining his strength. His first wish was to find Emily and give her the talking-to he should have given her years ago, but he let out a long, slow breath. It wouldn’t help—all it would do was upset her and upset him and it wouldn’t set anything right with Bernadette.
He reached his bedroom, but paused and turned without going in. He didn’t want to sneak off and hide. He needed to do something. He walked down the hallway, feeling restless, and as he did, he almost walked into his grandmother. She was on the stairs, and she looked up at him in surprise.
