Rakehell's Widow (27 page)

She felt ice-cold suddenly, staring at the bolster, her mind racing. Her trembling fingers crept to touch the ruff
at the neckline of her gown, and she backed away from the
bed. She heard her maid enter the room behind her and turned as the girl halted, seeing the bolster.

“Oh, my lady!”

“Have Sanderson come here immediately.”

“Yes, my lady.” The girl hurried away, so alarmed that
she thought nothing of calling the butler’s name as she
went down the marble staircase. Her voice echoed loudly
through the house.

Alabeth went to the wardrobe, looking hastily through
the clothes. Jillian’s traveling pelisse was gone, and several
gowns, and her portmanteau was not in its place. Oh,
Jillian, what have you done? She whirled about again as Sanderson almost ran into the room, still adjusting his half-tied cravat.

“You wished to see me, my lady?”

“Lady Jillian has gone. Have you any idea at all when?”

The butler looked completely dumbfounded. “Gone,
my lady? But we all thought she was still in her bed.” His
glance moved to the bolster.

“Go to the coach house—and quickly!”

He ran from the room again, and for the next five
minutes Alabeth paced anxiously up and down, turning hopefully as he returned, but he shook his head. “No one
knows anything, my lady. She didn’t take a carriage.”

“When was she last seen?”

“Her maid went to her room late last night, to close one
of the windows because of the storm.” He turned, beckoni
ng to the white-faced maid, who stepped slowly forward.

Alabeth looked at her. “At what time was this?”

“Just before midnight, my lady.”

“And you looked in the bed?”

“I saw only that she was huddled beneath the coverlets, my lady.” The girl’s lips were trembling and her eyes were
huge.

Then Alabeth thought of something. “The wardrobe doors, were they open?”

“Oh, no, my lady. I’d have noticed if they were and I’d
have closed them immediately.”

So, Jillian had still been in her room at about midnight, but she could have crept from the house at any time since then. Where could she have gone? And what was worse,
who was she with?

The servants watched her, obviously waiting for her commands, but she didn’t know what to do, her mind was
a complete blank. She couldn’t think of what the right
thing was; she didn’t even know whom to turn to—except, perhaps, Octavia. “Sanderson, will you send a footman to Seaham House directly. I will write a note which must be
landed to the Duchess.”

At that moment there was a loud hammering at the front
door, and hope surged into Alabeth’s heart as she gathered he
r skirts, hurrying along the passageway and down the
staircase, Jillian’s name on her lips; but as the footman
opened the door, it was a white-faced, anxious Charles
Allister who stepped inside.

“Charles?”

He looked up swiftly, handing his dripping top hat and
cloak to the footman. “Is Jillian here, Alabeth?”

“No.”

“Then it’s true—” He seemed suddenly quite overcome.

Alabeth was thoroughly alarmed, running down the last
few steps to him. “Charles? What is it? What do you
know?”

“She’s run away with the Count; it’s all over Town.”

She stared at him. “Oh, no.” Jillian was ruined forever,
her character destroyed beyond redemption by this one rash, thoughtless act.

“I prayed it wasn’t true,” he went on, “for I did not
think she could possibly be so blind.”

“How is it all over Town?”

“The damned blackguard left a note pinned to the wall at
Brooks’s, callously informing the world that Lady Jillian Carstairs was running away with him and would become his mistress. There was no honorable mention of marriage, no thought at all of her, just the plain fact that she was going with him. What chance does she have with such a base creature? No
gentleman
would pen such a note, no
gentleman
would dream of even persuading a young lady
into such an act, unless he had marriage in mind.”

Alabeth could say nothing. The signs had all been there; she had seen them, but she had failed to act swiftly enough upon them. She had dithered, wanted to believe fibs; she
had even allowed Jillian into the Count’s company when
she
knew
he was treacherous! As a guardian she had been
an utter disaster; she had failed her father, failed Jillian,
and she had failed herself! That she, the widow of Lord
Manvers, could have been so utterly unguarded was
beyond belief, for Jillian had followed the path she herself
had taken all those years before—only for Jillian there was to be no haven of marriage, there was to be only ignominy.

Charles went to the fireplace at the side of the vestibule, resting one arm along the mantelpiece and staring down at the tapestry screen before it. “He isn’t acting out of any
love for her; he’s obviously doing this simply and solely to
strike back at me.”

“At you?”

“Because I bruised his precious honor and mocked at his pride. He promised to have his revenge, and this is his way of doing it. How better to hurt me than by ruining the
woman he knows I love? I wish to God I’d ignored Piers
Castleton’s interventions and had gone ahead with calling
that Polish rat out.”

Instinctively she went to him, slipping her hand into his.
“The fault is equally mine, for I too bruised his pride when
I spurned him. I even went to the length of striking his face when he became too importunate. He swore vengeance on me too. With one fell swoop he has hit back at both of us,
but it is Jillian who will really suffer.” Her voice shook a
little. “Oh, Charles, what can we do?”

“There’s nothing we
can
do, except sit tight and wait.”

“But we can’t do that.”

“We
have no choice, for we don’t know where they’ve
gone, do we? We will have to wait and pray that she r
eturns safely.”

“She’s ruined forever, Charles.” Tears filled Alabeth’s eyes and she rested her head against his shoulder.

“Octavia says—”

“You’ve spoken to her?” Alabeth looked up
immediately.

“Yes, she was on the point of leaving Town in some taste, as Seaham’s mother has been taken very ill. I
managed to tell her what had happened and she advised us t
o remain silent and just wait. She says that if Jillian r
eturns and we don’t appear to have acted with any real
alarm, then we’ll probably be able to brazen it all out and pretend it was a hoax. She says it’s a slender chance; she
realizes that, but she really doesn’t think we have any other
option.”

Alabeth swallowed, for suddenly it seemed more hope
less than ever if Octavia was not close by to turn to. But
Octavia’s advice was common sense; it was their only
hope, for if they could put a face on it, then maybe Jillian would not be completely ruined after all. Maybe.

Silence descended over the vestibule, broken only by the
steady ticking of the long-case clock and the sound of the
storm outside. A draft of chill air sucked down the
chimney, making the bowl of flowers on the table tremble a little. Where was Jillian? What was happening to her at this very moment?

Alabeth was vaguely aware of the sound of a carriage
halting outside and the coachman calling reassuringly to
the restless, impatient team. She turned, and through the narrow glass beside the door she saw Piers Castleton’s olive-green drag. Piers was alighting, the wind fluttering
his cravat and the rain clearly visible on his light-gray
coat. Just seeing him like that put a little courage into her,
and she hurried to the door and out into the rain. “Piers?”

He turned toward her, smiling a little, and it was all too
much for her. She ran to him, her eyes filled with tears,
and he caught her close for a moment, his cheek resting
against her hair. “I’ll do all I can, I promise you,” he said
gently. “I came as soon as I received your note—”

Slowly she drew back. “My note? What note?”

He was startled by her reaction. “The note you sent to
me about Jillian’s disappearance.”

“But I sent no note.”

“Is it a hoax?” His eyes darkened a little.

“Would to God it was!” She bit her lip, turning away a
little. The rain was soaking through her flimsy muslin
gown and she shivered. The wind gusted along the pavement, whining through the plane trees in the center of the square and snatching bleakly at the wisps of smoke from
the chimneys high above.

He removed his coat and put it gently around her
shoulders. “Well, it doesn’t matter about the note for the moment, it matters only that we find Jillian. Is there any
news at all?”

“No.” Her voice caught.

“Don’t cry, please don’t cry.” He touched her cheek
gently with his fingertips. “Come now, we’ll go inside, for it will hardly be useful to have you wilting with an ague
when we do find her.”

She nodded tearfully, aware of his arm reassuringly
around her shoulder as he walked her back toward the
door of the house. “Piers?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you for coming.”

“You should have thought of me straightaway. Indeed, I believed you had—”

His voice was so soft and tender in that moment that she
could almost have confessed her love, but she remembered
that he had asked Adelina to be his wife. He belonged to
another now, and confessions were inappropriate. She
drew away a little, and everything remained unsaid as she stepped into the vestibule where Charles was waiting
anxiously.

“There is news, Piers?” he asked immediately.

“No, I’m afraid not.” Piers tossed his top hat and
gloves down upon the table next to the bowl of flowers.
Damp marks were left on the highly polished surface.
‘Now, then, tell me all that you know.”

Briefly they pieced together the portion of the jigsaw
which they knew, and Alabeth was aware of how painfully l
ittle it was.

Piers listened in silence. “And you have no idea when she left the house?”

“Only that it was sometime after midnight.” She shivered, still holding his coat close. It smelled of costmary.

“Well, I believe it almost certain that their destination
will be France,” said Piers thoughtfully, “for after this
episode the Count will certainly be
persona non grata
in
England, and his obvious course will be to return to
Paris.”

She was dismayed. “Then we can do nothing—”

“No? I think that is debatable, Alabeth. In this weather there won’t be a single master who’ll put willingly to sea,
not even a French master, for someone like Zaleski. I’ll
warrant that every ship is still in port, waiting for calmer
weather.”

Hope began to brighten her eyes. Of course, the storm!

Piers went on. “Dover is the obvious place, for he
entered England that way. It’s my guess that they are there
now, waiting to sail, and if I’m right, then we have an
excellent chance of reaching them before they have a
chance to leave for France. With your permission,
Alabeth, I will go to Dover immediately.”

Charles spoke up swiftly. “And I go with you, Piers.”

“Naturally, I would not dream of excluding you. Alabeth, we will do all we can—”

“You do not imagine I am going to remain here on my
own,” she cried.

“Such a journey as this will hardly be a pleasure trip.”

“I don’t care, I am accompanying you. I refuse to
remain behind.”

He smiled a little at the indignant flash in her green eyes.
“Very well, but one thing I do insist upon.”

“And that is?”

“That you wear something a little more serviceable that
muslin.” He glanced down at the way her rain-dampened
skirts clung to her legs.

She nodded, handing him back his coat and then hurrying away up the stairs, calling for her maid.

Piers turned then to Charles. “You do realize, don’t
you, that this may not turn out well, for even if we find
them in Dover, Jillian may not wish to return with us.”

“I know that.” Charles lowered his eyes for a moment. “I love her, Piers, and I’m damned if I’m going to let her go with him. I’ll
never
let her become anyone’s mistress,
least of all a man like Zaleski.”

“I perceive that the Allister lamb is become something
of a lion.”

“And better late than never.”

“Perhaps you are right.” Piers looked up the staircase
where Alabeth had been a moment before. “Yes, perhaps
you are right.”

The carriage traversed the well-paved streets of London
swiftly enough, but the Dover road itself was quite another
matter, being almost impassable in places because of the
continuous downpour. Normally the journey to Dover
could be accomplished in five hours, but today it would
take a great deal longer.