“She’s engaged,” Anthony muttered, then added, “almost engaged.”
“What on earth do you mean?” Louise asked. “Is she or is she not? It makes a big difference, you know.”
A moment ago, he’d been off to bed. Now he had some explaining to do. Resuming his seat, Anthony said, “I believe there’s a long-standing agreement, though the gentleman in question—whoever he may be—has not yet proposed.”
“Well then,” his mother said with a determined set to her jaw, “it’s not too late if she’s the one you want, though I can’t say I approve of a woman who sneaks around behind the back of the man she’s meant to marry, regardless of whether or not their attachment is formal.”
“She doesn’t wish to marry him,” Anthony said. He was tired, and now that they’d embarked on this topic and he was forced to address all that he had learned about Miss Smith during the course of the evening, he was beginning to feel discouraged. “But in spite of that, she kept saying that she had to and that anything else would be impossible. I think it’s a match arranged by her parents, and for whatever reason, she believes it to be final.”
“Whatever the case,” Winston said, “you’re a determined fellow. You also know how to seduce a woman. If I were you—”
“That’s enough,” the duchess said, her head turning toward her youngest son in dismay. “That you would even suggest such a thing is reprehensible, and in front of ladies no less. It’s so unlike you, Winston, whatever were you thinking?”
“Merely that my brother might consider drawing on some of the experience he garnered before he reformed,” Winston said, looking mildly uncomfortable. He’d always been the one to do as he was told and never stray from the dictates of Society, making his career choice all the more surprising. “I’m sure he can manage to charm both her and her parents into accepting a courtship. He is a duke after all.”
“My social standing didn’t seem to sway her opinion when I brought it up earlier this evening,” Anthony muttered. His eyes were beginning to hurt—he really ought to get some sleep. “She still insisted that I should dismiss any ideas I might have of seeing her again, courting her or marrying her. In truth, I don’t believe I’ve ever encountered a woman more bent on turning me down.”
“If that’s the case, perhaps it would be wise to do as she asks and stay away,” Huntley said.
“That’s impossible. Especially now that the Deerfords are involved. No, I have to find her, if only for their sake.” But he knew he was lying to everyone, including himself, as he said it. The Deerfords were just an excuse. Once he saw Miss Smith again, it would be impossible for him to walk away from her without a fight. The sort of connection they’d shared, however brief it had been, could not be ignored. He’d been with countless women, so he knew—knew as well as he knew his own name—that there was something special between them, something most people never had the fortune to experience. He’d be damned if he was going to let it slip through his fingers.
Chapter 11
The following morning was bright and beautiful. It took a bit of organization to ready the search party, given that the staff was not informed of it until Anthony mentioned it to Phelps as he was heading in to breakfast. He asked that everyone be ready to leave within the hour, which put a bit of a strain on the butler’s features, but, being the dutiful servant that he was, he simply said, “I’ll see to it right away, Your Grace,” and then departed, leaving Anthony to enjoy his eggs and ham with Winston and Huntley.
It was nine o’clock by the time they set out, the horses as eager for a burst of fresh air as the men who rode them. Having made a simple plan during breakfast detailing who would cover which parts of the town, Anthony, accompanied by a footman, rode toward the eastern side of Moxley, while Winston, Huntley, and the rest of the footmen veered off in other directions.
Arriving at a neat row of houses, all white with black roofs, Anthony handed the reins to his accompanying footman and proceeded to climb the front steps. A butler answered, and, having stated his purpose, Anthony showed the man the sketch that the artist had made of him and Miss Smith the previous evening, inquiring if he recognized the woman. A shake of the head indicated that he did not, so Anthony moved on to the next house, where the process was repeated.
And so it went all morning, without the slightest bit of luck. Granted, the picture that Anthony had of Miss Smith was one where her face was partly obscured by the mask she’d worn, but he felt certain that anyone who knew her well would recognize her anyway. He let out a sigh of frustration, for it did seem as though the ground had somehow swallowed her up.
“Any luck?” he asked Winston and Huntley when they rendezvoused at the Sword and Pistol tavern in the middle of the day.
“None at all,” Winston said, chasing the sandwich he was eating with a gulp of ale. “Nobody has recognized her based on the drawing, and if you ask me, it’s a pretty good drawing, even though our copy was traced from the original.”
“We still have a few parts of town left to visit,” Huntley said, sounding optimistic. “I wouldn’t give up hope just yet.”
“You’re right,” Anthony agreed. Still, he couldn’t ignore the sense of doubt that settled over him. They’d visited all the homes belonging to the gentry, which meant that if Miss Smith did indeed reside in Moxley, it was becoming increasingly unlikely that she was of noble birth, or even the daughter of an affluent business owner. Unless of course her butler had deemed it necessary to protect her and had given no indication that he knew her.
Anthony sighed. It was possible—butlers were notoriously protective of their masters and mistresses. Of course it might also have been possible that her family had fallen on hard times and had been forced to move into cheaper accommodations. That would explain her need to marry a man who didn’t appeal to her taste, although, if that was the case, Anthony saw no reason why she couldn’t as easily marry him.
Something stood in the way—to her mind at least. Only two solutions presented themselves. She or her parents had either made a promise that she felt honor bound to keep or . . . Anthony steeled himself. What if the Deerfords were right? What if the gown she’d worn had belonged to their long-lost daughter? He had no idea how Miss Smith might have happened upon it, though he supposed she might have received it as a gift from someone—perhaps Lady Margaret had been in need of money and had sold it. Miss Smith’s suitor might then have bought it, offering it as a gift. No, that would be inappropriate. Perhaps Miss Smith had stolen it then? Whatever the case, Anthony found himself unable to dismiss the possibility that Miss Smith was a simple woman from a simple family—a lowborn ignoble, to put it bluntly.
With renewed determination, Anthony kicked his horse into a trot and headed toward the less affluent part of town, his heart filled with a mixture of certainty and apprehension. He was a duke. He couldn’t marry just anyone, could he? Determined not to worry about it until his suspicions had been confirmed, he tried to relax. He’d always enjoyed a good challenge. Even if Miss Smith turned out to be the daughter of a blacksmith, he’d still find a way to make her his. He wasn’t sure how he’d do it, but he would. Somehow.
Two hours later, he’d visited every house situated between Mill Road and Hill Street. He’d walked down Church Lane and was now turning onto Brook Street, exhausted and lacking the hope he’d had when he’d set out in the morning. It was entirely possible that Miss Smith had only lived in Moxley as a child and had since moved away to another neighboring town. If this was the case, it would be near impossible to find her.
Leaving the footman to keep an eye on the horses, Anthony unlatched the gate leading into the front garden of a small thatched cottage that sat apart from the rest, on the very edge of the town. It was a quaint little place, with daffodils and hyacinths filling up the flowerbeds. Anthony stopped to stare at them, then looked toward the cottage. Miss Smith had spoken fondly of daffodils—they were her favorite flowers. A coincidence perhaps, but one that demanded further investigation.
Shoulders back, Anthony strode up the pathway toward the front door and knocked. Nobody answered. He knocked again. Still nobody answered. Discouraged by his lack of success, he turned to go, but paused at the sound of a door slamming somewhere toward the back. Someone was there; there was still hope that this last person would be able to give him a useful bit of information—unlikely perhaps, but possible.
Skirting the building, he rounded a corner to discover a maid who appeared to be busy at work in the vegetable garden. It looked as if she was digging up new potatoes and tossing them into a basket. “Excuse me,” Anthony said, keeping a reasonable distance so as not to frighten her.
The woman looked up and then immediately rose, bobbing a curtsy while she hastily tried to brush the soil from her hands.
“I hope you’ll forgive the intrusion, but nobody answered the door when I knocked, so when I heard a noise coming from back here, I thought I’d see if anyone was at home—save myself the trouble of having to return at a later hour.”
“My apologies, sir, but the Chilcotts are not at home right now. You’re welcome to wait of course, or leave your calling card if you prefer.”
Anthony didn’t bother to correct the maid’s improper form of address. She’d no way of knowing that he was a duke, and detesting the thought of acting like a pompous aristocrat, he determined to keep quiet about his heritage. “It’s been a long day,” he said, feeling suddenly overcome by a heavy feeling of weariness. All he wanted was to go home and sit in his favorite chair in the Kingsborough Hall library and enjoy a glass of brandy. “I will be back tomorrow. Perhaps you can recommend a more convenient hour for me to call.”
“If it’s Mr. Chilcott you’re seeking, he’s hardly ever here except during the evenings and on Sundays.”
Anthony really didn’t feel like waiting or venturing back out later in the day. He gave the maid a pleasant smile. “Well, perhaps you can help me then. You see, I’m looking for a woman who attended the Kingsborough Ball last night. If you’d please take a look at this drawing, I’d be most obliged.”
Holding the piece of paper up for the maid to see, Anthony watched her frown. She took a moment, but eventually shook her head. “She holds no resemblance to anyone I know,” she said.
Well, so much for that.
Thanking her, Anthony slipped the drawing back inside his jacket pocket, turned, and began making his way back toward the front of the cottage when something caught his eye—a piece of fabric stuck in a window. It fluttered slightly, and Anthony watched it shimmer as the yellow threads captured a bit of sunlight. Leaning forward, Anthony reached out and gave it a gentle pull, freeing it. A smile tugged at his lips as he straightened himself. The maid had clearly lied to protect her mistress, for it did appear as though he’d just discovered Miss Smith’s whereabouts after all.