Allan shivered at the thought. He remembered the face of Lord Wetherington that night at the assembly. The more he thought back to how the Viscount had stared at Frederica, the more he thought there was something truly sinister in it.
“So, we don’t know where he’s staying in London. Is there a chance he could have taken her to this house in Hertfordshire you mentioned?” Allan asked, tired of feeling as if he was sitting still and doing nothing.
“Perhaps.” Stephen grimaced, clearly thinking it unlikely. “There is enough time to have moved her there by now. However, you would think that a young lady turning up at a gentleman’s house to whom she is not married in the countryside would be even more noticeable. No, I think if he wishes to hide his misdeeds, then he must still have her somewhere in London.”
The thought of what those ‘misdeeds’ could be made Allan pace more madly than before.
“He won’t have hurt her,” Stephen murmured, plainly reading Allan’s mind.
“You don’t know that,” Allan said sharply. “We can’t know that. Was she not attacked the first time she found herself alone with this man? Did he not try to force himself on her then?”
Stephen paled and adjusted himself in his seat, looking more discomforted than ever.
“I can’t continue to do nothing,” Allan spat. “I’ve got to do something.”
He was tormenting his own mind by thinking of exactly what could be happening to Frederica right now. He was replaying every conversation they had ever had. Every good discussion — every single one — where she had looked tense and uneasy as they talked of her parents.
“Her parents must know where he is,” Allan said quickly.
“Right, and you think they would tell you?” Stephen pointed out with a scoff. “They wanted her to marry him in the first place. If you go and tell them she’s gone and you’re looking for her, they’ll probably dance with joy.”
Allan cursed and marched back the other way around the parlor.
“If you’re to continue to wear a hole in the floor, might I suggest we go somewhere else for you to do it?” Stephen said, suddenly standing.
“Where?” Allan asked.
“Clearly, we cannot find Lord Wetherington between us.” Stephen gestured to the door. “So I suggest we talk to someone else. A man who might have more experience of the way that the streets of a city can work at night if you move away from the affluent areas.”
“Stephen…” Allan didn’t want to share the news with many people that his wife had left him and was looking for an annulment. For some mad reason, he still had a tiny hope in the back of his mind that they could somehow have a reconciliation.
“Gerard. He wouldn’t tell your secret to anyone, Allan, but he might be our best hope.”
* * *
Allan stood uncomfortably on the doorstep, pacing up and down as the rain fell overhead.
“Are you now trying to work a hole in the stone steps beneath you?” Stephen asked tartly. Allan didn’t bother answering him and just walked up and down again.
At last, the door opened, and they were presented with Gerard’s butler.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” the butler said, bowing deeply.
“Good evening, can we speak with the master of the house please?” Stephen uttered rather formally.
All this formality merely irked Allan more. It seemed incredible that they were bothering with such things when Frederica had gone missing, and they had no idea where to find her. For all they knew, at this very moment, she might fear for her life, and they were bothering with saying ‘good evening’?
The butler showed them into the house and through to Gerard’s study.
Despite the late hour, Gerard was up working. He wore one of his customary grey suits, the jacket discarded, and the cravat slung somewhere away. He clearly hated them. He constantly fidgeted when he had one around his neck. He looked up from his tenants’ papers at their entrance.
“Is this about Frederica?” he asked.
At once, Allan turned accusingly to Stephen. His glare must have really been something powerful, for even Stephen took a step back.
“Relax,” Gerard called. “Dorothy wrote to Charlotte.”
“Do these women share everything?” Allan asked tiredly.
