She murmured something.
Rowland did not appear to hear her, but instead of repeating it to him, she stepped out of his protective embrace and toward Sir David.
“I know where she is,” she said.
“Thank God! I had begun to seriously worry, for it is truly terrible out there. Where did she go, into the village? I hope she had the sense to get a room at the Dove and Partridge if that is so. We will—”
“No. Sir David, no!” She took a deep breath, her eyes wide and starting from their sockets. “She is . . . she took Lord Vaughan’s horse and went riding this morning. But I cannot believe she has not come home since. She was only going to go out for a while, and then—”
“My horse?” Vaughan took her shoulders in his arms and squatted to look into her eyes. “She took my horse out in this?”
“Do not shake her, sir; she is frightened enough without you shaking her and screaming in her face.” Rowland stepped forward and pulled Vaughan’s big hands off Lady Silvia’s slender shoulders.
“Do not tell me what to do, Reverend. This does not concern you.”
“All of you shut your mouths!” Sir David’s voice, usually low-toned and mellow, was raised in anger and he hammered one fist on a table. He took Lady Silvia’s hand and led her to a gold brocade sofa, seating her and kneeling at her feet. “Now, my lady, what is this about Miss Allen going for a ride?”
“I s-saw her this morning coming from the stable on Lord Vaughan’s stallion. We were petting it the other day, so I know the horse. She said she was only going for a short ride up the moor, and then she would be right back, because I told her I wanted to talk to her about something private, so she must be back, for though I haven’t seen her, she would not have been gone so long.”
Chappell exchanged a glance with Beatrice, and she exited the room, if he had communicated correctly, to have the stable hands check on the horse. “Why do you say she must be back?”
“Why, it is so late! I went up to my room after luncheon and read a book, but I fell asleep. She must have come back; she couldn’t be gone this long . . . could she?”
“What time did she leave?”
Lady Silvia frowned. “It was . . . oh, about eleven this morning. And see, it is almost five o’clock.”
“You did not say anything at luncheon about why she did not join us.”
“She told me to say nothing. She said she would have Lord Vaughan’s horse back in the stable before he even knew it was missing.”
“Stupid female,” Vaughan said. “How could she think she could ride Bolt? He only ever allows me.”
“She was riding him perfectly well,” Lady Silvia said, twisting and glaring at the man behind the sofa. “She is an expert rider, and Bolt loves her. Eats from her hand. She has visited him every day since she has been here. She said he was languishing from not getting exercise because the stable boy is afraid of him and you don’t give a fig if he is happy and comfortable or not as long as he performs when you want him to.”
“Children,” Sir David said, holding up one hand. Beatrice came back into the room then and her face was twisted into a worried frown. “Well?”
“I found Bobby finally; he says the stallion is not back yet, nor is Miss Allen. He is frightened to death that something has happened to her, but he was too scared to tell anyone. I gather she swore that Vaughan told her she could ride him.”
Vaughan spoke again, but his voice had lost all its belligerence. “D’you mean to say Miss Allen is out there in this, and we are standing around gossiping about it? There is no cover at all up there on the moors. I ought to know! That is the direction I came from the first night, when I was lost and in trouble. Nearly froze to death.”
Lady Silvia broke down into tears. “I should have told someone. I should have said something.”
Rowland sat on the sofa next to her and patted her shoulder ineffectually as she sobbed.
“Stubble it, Vaughan,” Sir David said. He caught the girl’s hand in his and said kindly, “My lady, it is Miss Allen who made the choice, not you. It was perhaps not a good choice, but it was hers to make. You did not ask to be taken into confidence, nor to be made a partner in any deception. All you did was keep your word. The rest is her own responsibility.” He looked up, and it was to see Beatrice’s eyes on him, wide and fixed.
He frowned, wondering what it was in her eyes that was different somehow, but he did not have time to think about it. He stood, brushing off his knees. “We must go out for her. She could be somewhere quite close.”
Chapter Seventeen
Her thoughts racing, Beatrice went about the business of helping put together a search party. She had the groom and driver outfit them, and Bobby, the stable boy, would not hear of being left out. He was devastated by Verity’s disappearance and vowed he would help find her or die trying.
But even as she made sure the men had lanterns and ropes—God forbid they should need to use them—and extra clothing, she was pondering Sir David’s words. Her own responsibility. Yes, Verity was responsible for the chances she took, even the foolhardy ones, and Silvia’s silence or failure to reveal her disastrous plans did not make her a part of them.
Oh, but her own part in Melanie’s last journey was more active, was it not? And still inexcusable. Or was it youthful folly, all of it? When the awful present was over, and Verity safe again, then she would tell Sir David all and let him be the judge. It was time to surrender her burden.
Right now every thought, every prayer, every hope must be bent on finding Verity safe and bring her back. As the men trudged into the snowy gloom, she sent a prayer with them.
“Come back safely,” she whispered. “And with that foolish, darling girl in tow.”
The hours ticked by slowly. She and Lady Silvia sat holding hands for an hour or more, unable to talk, each twisted in their own miserable thoughts.
Then Lady Silvia spoke. “You know, I saw her when we were in London, during the Season.”
“Really?” Beatrice was caught by surprise, though she knew instantly the girl was speaking of Verity.
“Yes. She made quite a stir, though I do not believe she knows it. She is so beautiful in a different way. One of my beaux, a Colonel Johnson, was quite taken with her, but most of the gentlemen were afraid of her. She is so intense, wild, and the gentlemen did not seem to know how to understand that. I just wanted to meet her, to be friends with her. She looked so jolly, and yet so sad on occasion, and lonely. But my mother . . .” Her voice trailed off. There was no need to say that the daughter of the Earl and Countess of Crofton must be careful about unsuitable acquaintances if she was to marry properly. She would have been carefully guarded against any taint from the outré colonial girl.
Silence fell again. Tidwell came into the room and cleared his throat. “Will you be wanting dinner, ma’am? Lady Bournaud is having a tray in her room with Mrs. Stoure, but then she expects to gather with everyone in the crimson parlor . . .”
“Oh, I had forgotten!” Beatrice was stricken with guilt. How could she forget her employer, and that the woman would not know what had befallen Miss Allen? To tell her or not to tell her; what was best?
“I’ll come with you to talk to her,” Lady Silvia said, standing and patting down her rumpled skirts.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” she said. “It will give me something . . . someone to think of other than Verity. It will be a kindness if you allow me to.”
Beatrice was glad of the company, and grateful for the streak of practicality in Lady Silvia. As flighty as she seemed, she was a levelheaded and pragmatic young woman.
Hand in hand they went up the stairs to break the news to Lady Bournaud.
• • •
It was dark, and still the snow came down. Lady Bournaud and Mrs. Stoure played a desultory game of piquet while Silvia and Beatrice pretended to sew. Just as the clock struck eight Beatrice was the first to hear the door in the great hall creak open, and she raced out
of the red saloon with Silvia directly behind her. The gentlemen straggled in the front door and collapsed, exhausted, wet and covered in snow.
“Tidwell! Call Sir David’s valet and two of the footmen. We must get the gentlemen’s wet outer garments off and help them close to the fire. And hot drinks. Hurry!” Beatrice raced to David’s side and knelt by him while Lady Silvia joined the two younger men.
“We couldn’t find her,” David gasped. He pushed himself up to his feet with Beatrice’s help.
“You couldn’t find her,” she repeated, feeling the horror settling into her very bones. Involuntarily, her gaze went to the windows that flanked the big front doors. Snow howled past and helpless tears rolled down her cheeks as she thought about the girl outside in such a storm.
“We found Bolt, though,” Vaughan said. “That’s m’stallion. He was wandering just on this side of Harn Moor.” He was panting, his face creased in lines of worry as he shed his greatcoat and the sodden woolen jacket underneath. Sir David’s valet and Charles, the footman, took their wet clothes as another footman opened up the saloon door.
They could hear Lady Bournaud’s querulous voice from the red saloon. “What’s going on? Have they found the girl? Where is she?”
David shared a look with Beatrice. “I shall have to tell her.”
“I know. She is not as strong as she seems anymore.”
The warning was unnecessary. “I know.” He took Beatrice’s arm and squeezed it to his body, passing one hand over his soaking hair. “Come with me.”
Together they came into the saloon and crossed to where Lady Bournaud, sitting at a table with Mrs. Stoure, a pleasant-faced widow of sixty, awaited them. Her watery eyes were red-rimmed and worried, and Beatrice felt a clutch of fear at what this news might do to her.
But she had underestimated the old woman. David sat near her and told of their search. “We sent Bobby home with the horse when we found it and searched some more. But I have a feeling the horse had made it a good way toward home, and that we wasted hours looking near where we found Bolt.”
“Can she have found shelter?” Lady Bournaud, wrapped in layers of shawls by a fretful Mrs. Stoure, shrugged one off.
David pondered that, running through his mind his childhood knowledge of the area. Lord Vaughan approached, separating himself from the group by the fire, leaving Lady Silvia and Rowland alone. He crouched by the knight, his handsome face ruddy in the fire’s glow. “Chappell, I wondered if there was a spot somewhere that Miss Allen could have sheltered?”
Chappell frowned down at his hands, red and raw from the cold. “Lady Bournaud was just asking the same question.” He looked up at his mentor. “Do you remember, my lady, those caves on the other side of Harn Moor? I used to go up and stay overnight sometimes.”
Rowland and Lady Silvia joined them, unable to stay out of the discussion when both were so very worried about Verity. “I remember that,” Rowland said, his face lighting up with expression. “When I was here that summer I explored them. The one is not deep, but the other goes back and down about thirty feet or more. But Miss Allen would not have known about it.”
Tidwell and Charles, the footman, brought in trays of food in place of the dinner the men had missed; they laid the trays on a table near the fire. Sausage-stuffed pastries and mulled wine, cakes and biscuits and coffee; the steam rose in fragrant waves as covers were removed. But Vaughan looked at it all with a twisted mouth.
“I can’t eat,” he said. “I can’t stop thinking about Verity, out there, cold, freezing.” He stared off out the window and silence fell over the group.
“Do you think she might be in one of those caves?” Silvia asked, her voice thick with tears.
“I don’t know,” David said. “She has not had the chance to explore in good weather, so she would not know about them, and how likely is it that she would have stumbled on them in this weather?”
There was general indecision. Should they go back out when the wind was still howling and the snow still falling? Would that not be foolhardy when they only just made it back to safety? After all, they could not help Verity if they ended up lost themselves, Lady Bournaud pointed out.
Not one of the men wanted to admit defeat, but what was practical?
“Have something to eat, and then decide,” Beatrice said, feeling her stomach clench at the thought of David out there again, searching in that awful storm. And yet poor Verity.
David nodded. “If we do go out again, we will need every ounce of strength we can muster. So eat, gentlemen . . . and ladies. Eat and then we shall decide.”
Vaughan, his stomach twisted, could not bear to even smell the food. He took some of the mulled wine, but then separated himself from the group by the fire, retreating to the window. He stared out at the black night, brooding as he stared at the drifting flakes that tapped at the window and sipped the warming brew.
She was out there, alone and vulnerable, shivering, cold, wet . . . frightened. He hammered his fist on the wall, remembering the night before, how she had looked up at him with an expression of—was it longing?—as they had sung together. So what demon had prompted him to try that juvenile trick with Lady Silvia under the mistletoe, and right in front of Verity, too? Verity. She was unlike any girl he had ever met. Too smart. Too energetic. Blazing with restless vigor.
Not a comfortable chit at all. Not a woman one could master. She would run roughshod over a lesser man, but someone like himself, he would be up to the challenge of a girl like Verity.
Was that what frightened him? Life with her would be different from anything he had ever imagined. New territory, marriage to her would be. She would expect more of him. And did that explain his unconscionable behavior toward her, when he had realized early that she had a weakness for him? He had never been deliberately cruel to a woman in his life, but he had hurt her the night before; he had seen it in her eyes when he kissed Lady Silvia the way he had. He had wanted to run after Verity and apologize, oddly enough. He had been a cavalier bastard. It was uncomfortable, this new self-knowledge, but he would face the truth. He wanted time with Verity, time to decide what he felt, and how to handle it. Time to apologize. Time.
He glanced back at the company, comfortably gathered around Lady Bournaud. Then he looked back out the window. The snow had almost stopped, and a faint glimmer of the moon shone out from behind a cloud. She was out there while they were comfortably ensconced by the fire, and he could not bear it another minute. After one long look, he did not hesitate a moment longer, but slipped from the room and down to the kitchen.
• • •
“I don’t know about the rest of you, but I cannot bear to think of her out there, and us not doing a single thing.” The reverend glanced around at the huddled group.
Chappell nodded at what Rowland was saying. The young reverend was right; they should wait no longer. He looked up and said, “Vaughan, what think you of starting out . . . where did the fellow go? I thought he was mad to head out again.”
“He was by the window before,” Rowland said, standing and stretching his legs.
“Tidwell, have you seen Lord Vaughan?” Beatrice asked.
The butler stepped forward. “I last saw him as he left this room, miss. Perhaps he was going upstairs to change his clothing.”
“Have him summoned. The gentlemen are going to go out to look for Miss Allen again.”
“Very well, miss.” He signaled to Charles and murmured something, and the footman left the room.
There was silence.
“Vaughan has the right idea,” Rowland said. “We should change out of our wet attire if we are to go out again.”
The gentlemen agreed to meet in the red saloon in a half hour and departed to change into dryer clothing. When they gathered again, though, Vaughan was still not to be found. Charles, the footman, raced into the room at that moment in an uncharacteristic fluster. He whispered and handed something to Tidwell, who paled.
“What is it?” Beatrice as
ked, clutching her hands together.
“Miss Copland, Charles says that he has been told by Cook that Lord Vaughan and Bobby went out over an hour ago, bent on searching for Miss Verity alone. He left this message.” The butler handed the note to the companion.
She read it once through, and then looked up at the group, who stared at her, eyes alike in the anxiety they held. “It reads, ‘Weather better; I will find her and bring her home. Do not follow. I know what I am doing.’ And that is all it says. It is signed, Vaughan.”
“The fool,” Chappell whispered, glancing anxiously out the window. “He thought the storm had stopped. If he was a Yorkshireman he would know that that lull only meant the storm was preparing to strike again, harder. More deadly.”
• • •
It had remained starlit for only half an hour. As Bobby had predicted as they set out, the wind was howling again and the snow driven sideways, directly into their faces. The lantern sputtered wetly, and Vaughan was sure it was going to go out any minute. They had taken horses the first time, but there was no way any horse could make it through this wind and weather; not up moor. They were better on foot.
Bobby knew the way to the caves, he insisted. Vaughan had not been going to take anyone when he left the house, but the boy would not be left behind, and simply followed the baron even when ordered back. So they were a team, clambering up the moor together through the knee-deep drifts of snow. A distance that should have taken only a half hour was going to take much longer.
And the boy was so small. He was wiry and smart, but small for his age. Vaughan looked back at him struggling. Bobby would never go back, not even if ordered. There was only one thing to do.
Above the howling wind, Vaughan shouted, “You’re holding me back, boy. I would make much better time if you weren’t so damned slow!”
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