Max’s eyes had gone to Emma Mortland’s face and seen the malicious triumph there. But he had no time to waste on her. He turned back to Lord McCubbin. “Which way did they go?”
The silence in the room had finally penetrated his lordship’s foggy brain. “Er—didn’t see. I went back to the ballroom.”
———
Martin Rotherbridge paused, his hand on the handle of his bedroom door. It was past seven in the morning. He had sat up all night since returning from the ball, with his brother’s brandy decanter to keep him company, going over his relationship with Lizzie Twinning. And still he could find only one solution. He shook his head and opened the door. The sounds of a commotion in the hall drifted up the stairwell. He heard his brother’s voice, uplifted in a series of orders to Hillshaw, and then to Wilson. The tone of voice was one he had rarely heard from Max. It brought him instantly alert. Sleep forgotten, he strode back to the stairs.
In the library, Max was pacing back and forth before the hearth, a savage look on his face. Darcy Hamilton stood silently by the window, his face showing the effects of the past weeks, overlaid by the stress of the moment. Max paused to glance at the clock on the mantelshelf. “Seven-thirty,” he muttered. “If my people haven’t traced Keighly’s carriage by eight-thirty, I’ll have to send around to Twyford House.” He stopped as a thought struck him. Why hadn’t they sent for him anyway? It could only mean that, somehow or other, Arabella had managed to conceal her disappearance. He resumed his pacing. The idea of his aunt in hysterics, not to mention Miriam Alford, was a sobering thought. His own scandalous career would be nothing when compared to the repercussions from this little episode. He would wring Arabella’s neck when he caught her.
The door opened. Max looked up to see Martin enter. “What’s up?” asked Martin.
“Arabella!” said his brother, venom in his voice. “The stupid chit’s done a bunk with Keighly.”
“Eloped?“ said Martin, his disbelief patent.
Max stopped pacing. “Well, I presume he means to marry her. Considering how they all insist on the proposal first, I can’t believe she’d change her spots quite so dramatically. But if I have anything to say about it, she won’t be marrying Keighly. I’ve a good mind to shove her into a convent until she comes to her senses!”
Darcy started, then smiled wryly. “I’m told there’s a particularly good one near their old home.”
Max turned to stare at him as if he had gone mad.
“But think of the waste,” said Martin, grinning.
“Precisely my thoughts,” nodded Darcy, sinking into an armchair. “Max, unless you plan to ruin your carpet, for God’s sake sit down.”
With something very like a growl, Max threw himself into the other armchair. Martin drew up a straight-backed chair from the side of the room and sat astride it, his arms folded over its back. “So what now?” he asked. “I’ve never been party to an elopement before.”
His brother’s intense blue gaze, filled with silent warning, only made him grin more broadly. “Well, how the hell should I know?” Max eventually exploded.
Both brothers turned to Darcy. He shook his head, his voice unsteady as he replied. “Don’t look at me. Not in my line. Come to think of it, none of us has had much experience in trying to get women to marry us.”
“Too true,” murmured Martin. A short silence fell, filled with uncomfortable thoughts. Martin broke it. “So, what’s your next move?”
“Wilson’s sent runners out to all the posting houses. I can’t do a thing until I know which road they’ve taken.”
At that moment, the door silently opened and shut again, revealing the efficient Wilson, a small and self-effacing man, Max’s most trusted servitor. “I thought you’d wish to know, Your Grace. There’s been no sightings of such a vehicle on any of the roads leading north, north-east or south. The man covering the Dover road has yet to report back, as has the man investigating the road to the south-west.”
Max nodded. “Thank you, Wilson. Keep me informed as the reports come in.”
Wilson bowed and left as silently as he had entered.
The frown on Max’s face deepened. “Where would they go? Gretna Green? Dover? I know Keighly’s got estates somewhere, but I never asked where.” After a moment, he glanced at Martin. “Did Lizzie ever mention it?”
Martin shook his head. Then, he frowned. “Not but what I found her talking to Keighly as soon as ever they got to the ball this evening. I asked her what it was about but she denied there was anything in it.” His face had become grim. “She must have known.”
“I think Sarah knew too,” said Darcy, his voice unemotional. “I saw her go out with Keighly, then found her alone in a gazebo not far from the carriage gate.”
“Hell and the devil!” said Max. “They can’t all simultaneously have got a screw loose. What I can’t understand is what’s so attractive about Keighly?“
A knock on the door answered this imponderable question. At Max’s command, Hillshaw entered. “Lord Denbigh desires a word with you, Your Grace.”
For a moment, Max’s face was blank. Then, he sighed. “Show him in, Hillshaw. He’s going to have to know sooner or later.”
As it transpired, Hugo already knew. As he strode into the library, he was scowling furiously. He barely waited to shake Max’s hand and exchange nods with the other two men before asking, “Have you discovered which road they’ve taken?”
Max blinked and waved him to the armchair he had vacated, moving to take the chair behind the desk. “How did you know?”
“It’s all over town,” said Hugo, easing his large frame into the chair. “I was at White’s when I heard it. And if it’s reached that far, by later this morning your ward is going to be featuring in the very latest on-dit all over London. I’m going to wring her neck!”