Too Wicked to Marry (5 page)

"Gone? She can't be gone!" But, of course, she was.

"I have searched the house and grounds, my lord," Cadwell answered.

"Search again," Martin ordered. He knew it was futile, though he tried to tell himself that it couldn't be.

It had taken no more than five minutes to go into his study, write out an answer, seal it, and entrust it to the messenger he found waiting in the front hall. When he rushed back out to the garden, she was not there. He'd searched the grounds and every room in the house, then called for Cadwell.
They'd made separate sweeps of every nook and cranny before meeting back in the study. Cadwell hurried to carry out the useless order to search yet again, and Martin found himself staring at the top of his desk, his heart clutched in a grip of iron.

Five minutes, possibly less, and Abigail used that small space of time to walk out of the garden, out of the house, and out of his life. Or so she no doubt thought. He smiled mirthlessly. He hadn't thought she'd make it easy for him, but he had hoped—

That all he had to do was walk in and proclaim his undying devotion and she'd swoon with love and, yes, gratitude, at the offer of his hand. His smirk was a bit less mirthless as he admitted that deep down—barely under the surface, actually—he'd believed such arrogant tripe. When he'd awakened to the revelation of how he felt and what he must do, the vision of lifelong happiness with Abigail as his wife had been crystal clear. That clarity was a bit faded now, obscured by Abigail's arguments and actions. No, it was blocked by her stubborn adherence to class differences and the conventions of society!

"Maybe I should have tried seducing her, then talking to her," he muttered. No, that would have been unworthy—pleasurable, but unworthy. He was going to do right by this woman. He pounded his fist on the desktop. "Whether she wants to be done right by or not."

Martin climbed the stairs to the second floor, to the rooms that were Abigail's domain. There was the schoolroom, a cozy place with pale green walls, a deep window seat surrounded by lace curtains, cupboards and shelves, and a worktable and chairs set in front of a white-tiled fireplace. He had spent much happy time there with his daughter and her governess, and in similar rooms wherever his diplomatic assignments took them. Evenings spent reading to each other before the fire had been the best, with Patricia on his lap and Abigail nearby. They had made the most domestic of trios. There was no reason in the world that they could not go on, with the added blessing that he and Abigail would no longer go their separate ways once Patricia was tucked in her bed. And soon there would be other children filling the nursery and playing in the schoolroom.

He crossed his arms and slowly turned full circle around the room, made even more cheerful and bright by the rays of afternoon sunlight streaming in the wide window.
Oh, no, my dear

Miss Perry. There is no way I'm letting you cheat us out of a richly deserved happily-ever-after.

He had no right to be angry with her—at least very little right. The truth was, the evenings the three of them spent together ended early. More often than not he was out of the house soon after Patricia's bedtime, off to balls, parties, gaming halls, the opera, or some other frivolous entertainment. Always there was an assignation with the mistress of the moment, or a new conquest to be made. He was rarely home before dawn. He understood how Abigail might be wary of him as husband material.

But what about all the times we have spent together? The laughter and conversations shared on shipboard and in coaches and trains, during all our travels? What about all the conversations over quiet meals and chess matches? What about the time we were stranded at the inn in Switzerland during the week-long blizzard and we passed the time learning the local outdoor sports? What about the time in Monaco when the local staff quit and we took over the kitchen and prepared a dinner party for the prince ourselves? What about the time you had that nasty fall when we were in Austria, Miss Perry? Who scrambled down the mountainside and found you
? How well he remembered the terror of hunting for her and the joy of finding her, and the horror at the sight of her injuries.
Who nursed you back to health
?

My maid and Dr. von Kaufenberg
, she would have answered had she been there.
You were conducting delicate negotiations
.

I stopped in every moment I could spare. Held your hand while you slept. Wiped your tears away when you cried in your sleep, and never mentioned once how seeing you so weak and vulnerable tore at my heart.

He sighed, remembering that he'd put all his fear, worry, and caring aside so that he could answer the first sardonic comment she made when she finally opened her eyes with something equally nonchalant. She had masked pain with wit, and he did his best to let her recover in her own way.

I hunted for you before, and found you. Do you think I won't do it again ?

Two doors led off the schoolroom, one to Patricia's bedroom, the other to Abigail's. He had looked in Abigail's room once already, a cursory check to see if she had fled there to be alone. This time he checked Patricia's room, just in case Abigail was hiding in there. Of course, Abigail was not the hiding sort, and was not in his daughter's room. So he went into Abigail's private sanctum, for a thorough look around this time.

Stepping inside gave him the oddest mix of sensations. Though he was impatient to find her, there was also a sense of impropriety, a touch of dark excitement. He felt like a boy breaking rules, a treasure hunter on a quest, and a man about to delve into a lover's most intimate secrets.

Since the room contained so little, his first impression was that it was larger than it actually was. The furniture consisted of a narrow bed with a small night table beside it. An ornate old clothes chest and a washstand with an oval mirror hung above it took up one wall. Abigail's much-used steamer trunk rested on the floor at the foot of the bed. The place was spartan,
impersonal, certainly without feminine embellishment. No lace, no flowers, no
bric-a-brac, no flower prints or china plates hung on the walls or decorated the
mantelpiece. Except for the battered trunk, not a single memento from any of the
last four years' travels was visible. This was a place where a woman came to
dress and sleep, but not a place where she lived. There was not a hint of vibrant Abigail Perry anywhere in sight. Perhaps she did not see the Kestrel household as her home. It troubled him that the woman who made Patricia's life, and his, so very comfortable lived such an austere existence when she was alone. The walls of the room seemed to close in on him as Martin begin to suspect that bringing Miss Perry to the altar was going to be even more difficult than he'd thought.

Nonsense—he was reading too much into this, making things more complicated than they needed to be. They hadn't been home from Turkey for very long. Who knew when or where the Kestrel household would be off to next? Why would a woman as hardheaded and practical as Abigail turn a room she rarely occupied into some cozy nest?

By now he was quite certain she had left the house. His hope was that she had gone for a long walk to think things over and would return within an hour or two. If she'd had anything more drastic in mind, surely she would have dashed into her room for a few belongings first.

As far as he could tell, no clothes were missing from the wardrobe. Her few good, plain dresses were neatly hung on the rack. Dull things they were, mere lifeless cloth in shades of brown and cream and gray and black. Bonnets were in their boxes; a paisley shawl was folded on a shelf. A neat row of three pairs of shoes shared space on the wardrobe floor with a familiar tapestry carpetbag. He found a drawer containing nightgowns and underthings, and couldn't help but smile at the lack of lace and embroidery on this most feminine of apparel.

Now, this takes staid practicality to ridiculous lengths, Miss Perry
. He shoved a high-necked linen nightgown back in the drawer and closed it. And it was ugly, besides. The woman deserved silk and lace next to her skin. He was going to have a red brocade corset made for her, he decided. He wanted to see her in an outlandish, sensual undergarment decorated with black lace and little satin roses. Talking her into wearing it would be a delightful challenge, and seducing her out of it would be more delightful still.

But he had to get her back first.

The washstand held a silver-backed hairbrush, a tortoise comb, and an assortment of hairpins in a china dish. He'd watched her slowly combing out her long sable-brown hair with the brush many times, and did not think she would leave behind an object she seemed so attached to. He stamped on a sentimental impulse to pick up the brush and cradle this intimate reminder of Abigail in his hands; he had no time for sentiment right now.

There was nothing missing, Martin concluded with growing concern as he lifted the lid of her trunk. Not much in
there, either, though her reticule was inside, resting on top of a stack of lending library books. Inside the small black handbag he found several months' worm of wages.

If she hadn't taken any money with her, she
had
to be coming back. With that hope in mind, Martin Kestrel left the house to search the nearby streets and small parks. When he came home hours later, she had not returned.

When she still had not returned by nightfall, he went out again. By this time he was frantic London was a dangerous town, especially for a woman alone. Anything could have happened to her. It was his fault if she was lost, injured, or worse, and he knew it. Though she'd acted rashly by running off, his words and actions had been even more reckless and had driven her off in uncharacteristic panic. He was a man used to having his own way, and he'd made assumptions. He'd been high-handed and full of the arrogant certainty that a mere confession of love would make everything all right, and he'd completely underestimated the woman he thought he knew so well.

He notified the constables of her disappearance long before morning came. The young inspector who turned up on the Kestrel doorstep the next morning was a rude pup named MacQuarrie who ventured impertinent questions about the lady's associates and past and family, to which Martin had no answers. What was worse, MacQuarrie managed to reinforce Abigail's arguments about the perception of impropriety between them, not so much by what he said to Martin, but by looks and significant pauses in the conversation. By the time the man left, with only the vaguest promise to look into the matter, Martin was ready to strike him.

Three days passed with no word from Abigail, nor was there a clue to her whereabouts no matter where Martin and MacQuarrie searched. Fortunately for Martin's sanity, a clue turned up when the post arrived on the third day, in a letter from a lady named Phoebe.

"Beatrice, I'm quite sure the queen would not be amused if she knew you were able to forge her signature."

Sir Ian Courtney MacLeod looked down the dinner table. His seventeen-year-old-daughter didn't seem in the least affected by the quelling tone in her mother's voice.