“I suppose we ought to hear the rest,” David said with a sigh, gesturing to the paper in their sister’s hand. “Carry on, Angela.”
Their sister gave him a blank stare. “Carry on with what?”
“It’s an advice column, isn’t it? What advice did this Lady Truelove have to offer?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Henry pulled the newspaper from Angela’s fingers, and set it to one side of his plate to be taken away by the footman, who would toss it into the dustbin where it belonged. “Let’s not validate this so-called journalist with another moment of our attention.”
Despite his own words, Henry couldn’t resist a glance at the paper beside his plate as he picked up his knife and fork, and the reply of London’s most sensational columnist made him feel even grimmer than before.
My dear lady, in matters such as this, what else can one do but capitulate to passion and follow one’s heart? Life is a short and often painful experience, and we must take our joy where we can find it . . .
He looked away, suppressing a sound of disdain. Following one’s heart and capitulating to passion sounded so exciting, so appealing, but as he well knew, the reality of such a course was painfully different from the romantic picture painted by lurid writers such as this.
The silence at the table pulled him out of his contemplations, and he looked up to find that no one had resumed eating. They were, instead, staring at him.
“Mama is a sensible woman,” he said, impelled to offer further reassurances. “And discreet. She would never allow her private life to be put on display by writing such a letter. And however similar this fiction might be to her own situation, she’d never follow this silly woman’s advice anyway.”
Those words were barely out of his mouth before a pointed cough intervened, and all five of them looked up to find the housekeeper, Mrs. Jaspar, standing in the doorway.
She turned to Henry with an apologetic look. “Forgive me for interrupting your breakfast, Your Grace,” she said, “but Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess, is gone.”
“Gone?” Henry frowned at this imprecise choice of words. “What do you mean? Gone where?”
“We don’t know, Your Grace. But she is not in the house.”
“She’s probably gone out. It’s a bit early, but—”
He stopped as the housekeeper shook her head, her face taking on an apologetic cast, and he knew there was more to this than a shopping excursion or visit to a friend.
“Mrs. Norton—that’s Her Grace’s maid—never goes up until Her Grace rings the bell,” the housekeeper explained. “But when the clock struck half past ten, Mrs. Norton decided it would be best to go up and take a peek, as Her Grace might have been taken ill, you see. When Mrs. Norton went in, she found Her Grace was not there. The bedsheets had been turned down just as they always are, but the bed’s not been slept in.”
“She’s done it, then,” Angela cried. “Oh, God, I knew it the moment I read—”
Henry arrested this flow of words from his sister with one hand. A lack of discretion, even in front of long-trusted servants, was never a good idea. “And are you absolutely certain, Mrs. Jaspar, that our mother is not in the house?”
“Oh, yes, Your Grace. We would never presume to worry you with a matter such as this before having a full search of the house. Mrs. Norton says a valise, a hatbox, and some of the Duchess’s clothes are missing. And there’s this, found on Her Grace’s mantelpiece.”
Henry rose as the housekeeper approached his side and pulled a folded sheet of paper from her pocket. She placed it on the table, and he took it up, breaking the seal as he resumed his seat.
As he read the lines penned in his mother’s hand, his anger widened to include not only Foscarelli, but also the scandal-mongering woman who dispensed reckless, radical advice for the sole purpose of creating sensation and selling newspapers.
He knew, however, that he had to contain his outrage for the sake of his siblings, and he folded the note with slow, deliberate care. After tucking it inside the breast pocket of his morning coat, he looked up, his gaze skimming past Angela’s white face to rest on the housekeeper who had moved to stand again by the door. “Thank you, Mrs. Jaspar,” he said. “That will be all.”
After Mrs. Jaspar had left the room, Henry turned to the remaining two servants hovering nearby. “Boothby,” he said to the butler, “have my carriage brought around. Samuel,” he added to the footman, “have my valet fetch my hat and stick. I’m going out immediately after breakfast. And close the doors behind you, please.”
“I’m right, aren’t I?” Angela murmured after the butler and the footman had departed to carry out his instructions. “She’s gone off with that man, hasn’t she?”
Henry pressed his tongue to his teeth, working to find a palatable reply, but in this case, there was none. “I’m afraid so, yes. They seem to have eloped.”
A sob from Sarah flared up his barely contained anger and put Foscarelli’s health decidedly in jeopardy. “I will take care of this,” he said. “I will find Mama and bring her back before she can complete the foolish course she has embarked upon.”
“If you can,” Angela said before Sarah could reply. “But if you fail, Mama will become the laughingstock of society.”
“Not only Mama,” David added. “By doing this, she subjects the entire family to shame and ridicule.”
With that, Sarah began to cry in earnest. “This is my first season,” she wailed, “and before it’s even over, my mother has gone off with a man nearly half her age, a man who isn’t even a gentleman. I shall never be invited to any ball or party of significance again. How shall I even hold up my head in society? And what of marriage? She talks of her happiness, but what of ours? If she marries that man, she risks my social position and my matrimonial future, and Angela’s, too. How could she do this to us?”
“Do not make yourself so uneasy, Sarah,” Henry advised. “Even if Mama has been as reckless as you fear, none of you will suffer for it. I promise you that.”
