The blow came hard and fast to his temple.
Alexander buckled forward, light flashing behind his eyes.
He heard footsteps retreating as he hit the ground, the sound of Thalia protesting outdoors as she was untied. He tried a step, and then another, heading for the stairs...
CHAPTER 25
A FEW HOURS EARLIER...
Margaret waited until the shape of Alexander on horseback disappeared down the drive. She pressed her forehead against the window in her chambers, already dressed in her riding habit and boots. She had feigned a headache when Augusta had come up earlier, ordering her to take her meal early with the rest of the staff. Alexander, they thought, had gone into town to meet with some gentlemen for dinner. Eliza, when Margaret had crept to check on her, was already in bed.
With no time to lose, Margaret raced through the manor toward Carlisle’s study, where he was having his dinner alone, as was his habit. She didn’t bother knocking when she arrived, grateful for the sight of Carlisle at his desk, chewing on a dinner roll while he scrawled in his notebook. He started when he saw her, rising and wiping the crumbs off his waistcoat, before asking what the matter was, but Margaret cut him off.
“Your nephew has gone to do a most senseless thing,” she said, rushing around his desk. “He will detest me for telling you, but we must go after him, My Lord. And we must go now.”
Ignoring his bewildered protestations, Margaret lifted Carlisle out of his chair and guided him toward the door.
“Duchess, please,” Carlisle urged, pausing in the doorway. “What do you mean? Explain to me what has happened.”
“A note came from Isadore last night,” Margaret said, releasing him. “She is holding Mr. Hawthorne for ransom, and Alexander has gone to meet her, alone.”
The color drained from Carlisle’s face. “And you allowed him to leave?”
“He would not be stopped. That is why you and I must go now. It must be us—not a footman, nor anyone else. Please, My Lord. I have never begged anyone for anything, but I am begging you now. Ride with me to this meeting point and let us intercept Alexander before it is too late.”
“Intercept him how? Duchess, this is most unwise.”
Margaret ignored him. “The Stone Lion. Do you know it?”
He pressed his eyes shut. “It’s an old tavern, abandoned long ago.”
“Then you must guide me there. Alexander is not thinking rationally. We must go with him to ensure that nothing happens. I know things have been difficult between the two of you, but you cannot abandon him like this, not when he needs you most.”
Her eyes burned with tears as she waited for Carlisle to answer. When he eventually nodded, Margaret’s knees almost gave way out of relief.
“You will tell me more of what has happened on the way,” he said, determination in his voice. He looked so much like Alexander when he set his mind to something. “I will see that two horses are prepared for us discretely. Remain here until I come to fetch you,” he ordered, hurrying toward the door. “With any luck, Alexander will not have ridden far. And duchess, thank you for watching over him.”
After watching Carlisle leave, Margaret retreated into the study. Clutching her arms around herself, she ambled over to Carlisle’s desk, her thoughts trailing off to Alexander. With Carlisle at her side, they had a real chance of stopping him—or at the very least, of joining him when he confronted Isadore.
She pushed aside Carlisle’s dinner tray and took up in his chair. She examined the objects on his desk, freezing on the open page of his notebook. Would Carlisle be cross with her for reading his work? Alexander said he was deathly private about his writing. He had been open with her before, describing his book. Perhaps he was only cautious with Alexander.
Her eyes scanned the first few lines, expecting a chapter on Wiltshire history. But the words on the page had been composed in verse, the first few lines crossed out and began over again. Margaret averted her gaze. A man’s poetry was not something a lady should be reading. Ink from the tip of Carlisle’s quill had dripped onto the table. She put the pen back in its holder, eyes glazing across the page of their own volition...
“She vanished with the closing year,
A voice of flame and love extinguished.
In her wake—not two but one?—
A boy most prized and then relinquished.
He grows within another's shade,
With all my better self inside.
Let him recall when I die?—”
Margaret slammed the book shut and sprang out of the chair.
