So his father had involved Mr. Benedict in his scheme? Asher made a note to give Mr. Benedict a hefty bonus.
I have become as certain as I can be that you cared greatly for Lady Guinevere, as she did for you. My investigator tells me you have not had dealings with another lady since Elizabeth died, and I can only imagine what your marriage to her was like. Probably like my marriage to my second wife—cold and barely tolerable.
I know from Lady Guinevere’s father that she has turned down several respectable offers of marriage, and I concluded, as did her father, that the two of you are simply waiting, without realizing it, for the time you shall be together.
Asher stared at those words in shock. His father and Guinevere’s had colluded to bring them together?
And now you are. You’re welcome.
That made him laugh. That was more like his father. Pompous, but as fate would have it, he’d had a heart.
I love you, Son. I only wish I’d been able to say it when I was alive.
A knot formed in Asher’s throat. He hated that feeling, but he hated the regret that pressed against him even more. He’d thrown away the chance to know his father, and he could not get that back. He could not tell him he forgave him, even though now he did.
Guinevere.God’s blood, Guinevere. He had just about destroyed his chance with her, too. He hoped she was all right. He had to find her. But where to even look? He’d start by getting help from Beckford, and—
A pounding at the front door broke his train of thought, and he opened it as the footman rushed into the room. He scowled at Asher.
“Habit from years with no servants,” Asher supplied as he stared at Beckford and Kilgore on his threshold.
“I was just coming to see ye,” Asher said to Beckford. Then to Kilgore, he said, “What are ye doing here?”
“He insisted,” Beckford said with a shrug.
“I am striving to atone,” Kilgore supplied, which immediately reminded Asher of his father’s words, so he nodded and stepped back to allow them entrance.
He told them the pertinent information he had discovered, leaving out the parts that were personal. “I’m going to go to my country house to see if they are there, but—”
“I have an idea as to where Talbot might have taken your wife,” Kilgore said, his smile hard. “I lost Grimsthorne, my country home in Lincolnshire, to Talbot. I would wager he’s gone there.”
It made perfect sense. Pierce would not think that Kilgore would be helping Asher. He stared at the man and made a choice to forgive, one he should have made with his father. “Let’s go get my wife.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“What do you think?” Talbot asked, sweeping his hand to indicate the Chinese drawing room.
Guinevere was thinking that she didn’t care, but she suspected Talbot would not welcome that answer. The journey here had been long, and Talbot had spoken nonstop of his home, claiming that he knew she would love it. He’d knocked on her bedchamber door a dozen times in the last day, and she had forced herself out of bed this afternoon, knowing she could not put him off any longer. It was unfair to him, though she honestly did not see why he cared what she thought about his home, but she would strive to be enthusiastic. She owed him that. He was doing her an immense favor by allowing her to take time here to plan.
The problem was she had gone over the situation in her mind in every possible way, and she could not see how she would obtain a divorce without it casting a horrible shadow on her sisters’ futures. Nor in her stupid heart of hearts was she quite ready to let go of Asher, but she had accepted that it would take time. She felt as if she were near death, but that, she supposed, was half-true. Part of her had died. The part that had hoped for extraordinary love with him. What she was left with was a shell of her former self, yet she needed to somehow go on.
Talbot chattered on about the home, telling her where different pieces came from, and she continued to think of her problems while nodding politely every now and then. She had made up her mind that when she returned to London, she would offer Asher the choice to live apart. Just thinking on it made her ache, but she could not live with him knowing he was taking other women to his bed. It was intolerable. Maybe, in time, she would not care, but now… Well, now she had not yet managed to kill her love for him.
It occurred to her suddenly that Talbot was no longer speaking. She glanced toward him to find him closer than he had previously been—within arm’s length—and scrutinizing her.
“What is it?” she inquired.
“I asked if you liked this room. I had it redecorated recently with you in mind.”
She nearly tripped over the rug under her feet. She frowned. “I beg your pardon?” She could not have heard him correctly, but when he stepped closer, an uneasy feeling rose in her. She stepped back only to come up against something. She glanced behind her shoulder and gaped at the ornate walnut and parcel-gilt chair.
“That was a gift from King George to my father,” Talbot said, stepping even closer. “Sit in it.”
“I—” She swallowed. “No, thank you.”
“Sit,” he commanded, his tone hard and his look even harder.
Her heart quickened, and she sat, clutching the arms of the chair.
