He glanced toward the clock on the wall. It was just past eight. She had risen at six.
“She was up early,” he muttered.
“She said she could not sleep and wished to take her horse out,” Mrs. Frames added.
“I see,” he said.
“The tea is fresh, Your Grace. I was just about to fetch more cream.”
“Good,” he nodded. “And oatmeal, if you please.”
She paused a moment, her eyes meeting his with a hint of concern, then nodded. “Of course.”
He rarely requested oatmeal. He did not enjoy the taste and only ate it when unwell. But this morning, he couldn’t fathom anything heavier, and even the thought of oatmeal turned his stomach.
Doing his best to pretend everything was ordinary, he opened theLondon Times, sipped his tea, and tried to lose himself in the news. When the oatmeal arrived, hot and salted as he preferred on rare occasions, he forced it down bite by bite.
Mrs. Frames had departed. A single footman remained, standing silently by the sideboard, ready to refill his tea as needed.
Still, Eammon kept glancing out the window, hoping to see her returning. But Charity did not come.
What if she had left? Again? No—surely not. She wouldn’t.
Would she?
A sharp prickle of worry shot through him. He stood abruptly and rang the bell.
Mrs. Frames returned a moment later. “Your Grace? Is something amiss?”
“Send Jean to me at once,” he ordered.
The housekeeper nodded and disappeared.
Jean appeared not long after, a little breathless.
“Has Her Grace taken anything from her chambers?”
Jean blinked, confused. “No, sir. Nothing unusual. I hung some of her gowns and put away her hats. Everything is as it always is.”
“I see. And did she take her riding habit?”
Jean hesitated. “No, sir. She did not intend to ride. She doesn’t usually ride Ambrose. She only took a few brushes and a lead rope.”
Eammon nodded slowly. Of course. Of course, she hadn’t meant to ride. “Thank you. That will be all.”
As Jean left, he walked toward his study, but he knew well he would not be able to focus on any of his ledgers or letters. Instead, he paced. Back and forth, arms behind his back, his mind a whirlwind of possibilities.
Then a knock.
“Come,” he called.
To his surprise, it was not Charity. Nor was it Mrs. Frames.
It was Hastings, the stable master.
“Your Grace,” the man said, removing his cap and stepping inside, “I’m afraid I’ve news that may concern you. Her Grace’s horse—Ambrose—he returned to the stable just now. Quietly. Without his mistress.”
Eammon stared.
