The dreamy expression on Aunt Etta's face caught Sarah by surprise. "You know him?"
"I did once." Lady Dunbridge nodded. "We met years ago when we were both rather unhappily married." She bit her bottom lip. "I heard his wife died a year or so before Calvin died."
"What happened?" Sarah asked.
"I believe she died the way your mother died," Lady Dunbridge said.
Sarah met her aunt's gaze and asked the question she'd wondered about most of her life. "How did my mother die?"
"Bathsheba never recovered her strength after losing the baby. She simply wasted away."
Sarah inhaled sharply. "What baby?"
Was it possible? Lady Dunbridge drew her brows together. Could Sarah have lived all these years without knowing how her mother died? Had she and Simon neglected to explain it to her while it was happening? "Your younger brother or sister," Henrietta said gently. "I'm sorry, my dear, I thought you knew. Your mother lost a child shortly before your fifth natal day." She swallowed hard and blinked away a rush of tears for her sister, who had died far too young and who hadn't lived to see her beautiful little girl grow up. "She grew weaker and weaker until one morning, she failed to wake up."
"I don't remember her." Sarah had always been ashamed to admit it, but it was true. She couldn't remember her mother's face. "I only remember you."
"That's probably because your mother and I looked a great deal alike. When she became ill, Calvin was living in London with his mistress so I left Somerset and journeyed to Helford Green to take care of you and your father and mother. My husband didn't need me, but my sister and her family did. As Bathsheba lay on her deathbed, I promised her I'd take care of you. And when she died, I kept my promise by staying in Helford Green." She glanced out the hotel window. "I never returned to Somerset."
"I always hoped that you and Papa would marry," Sarah admitted.
Lady Dunbridge nodded. "I know you did, but we couldn't have married even if we'd been inclined to do so."
The Church of England forbade marriage between a man and the sister of his late wife. Although it was forbidden, Lady Dunbridge knew that other men had gotten around the prohibition, but Simon Eckersley had been a man of principles. He would never have tried to get around it. Even if he'd wanted to. "And neither of us was inclined," she continued. "I was fond of your father the way a sister is fond of her brother and he felt the same about me. Goodness!" She produced the handkerchief she kept tucked in her sleeve and blotted her eyes before looking up at Sarah. "But I've become a veritable watering pot." She sniffed. "It's been years since I dwelt on these things." She shrugged her shoulders, then looked at Sarah and grimaced. "Your mention of Lord Mayhew's name was a bit of a shock. Of course, my flirtation with him was quite brief. It can't begin to compare with the grand passion you have for his godson in strength or duration."
"Only in satisfaction," Sarah replied, stepping into the last black dress she'd pulled out of the wardrobe. "Or lack thereof." She turned around and presented her back to her aunt.
Lady Dunbridge chuckled as she began buttoning the row of onyx buttons at the back of Sarah's dress. "We're about to change that."
"If you say so," Sarah answered.
"O ye of little faith," Henrietta declared, quoting scripture.
"I have plenty of faith in the fact that one day Jays will realize he loves me. As for him pursuing me… " Sarah shrugged. "I'll believe it when I see it."
"Believe it," Aunt Etta said. "Because the chase is about to begin."
* * * * *
Jarrod walked through the door of his London town house at half past twelve calling for his valet. He had half an hour to change his shirt, neckcloth, waistcoat, and breeches and make it to Ibbetson's Hotel in time for his appointment with Sarah and Lady Dunbridge.
"Sir!" Henderson hurried to catch up with him. "You're home early."
"I shouldn't be home at all," Jarrod told him. "I have an appointment at Ibbetson's Hotel at one."
"Yes, sir, I know," Henderson told him. "Lady Dunbridge sent an affirmative reply to your invitation to join you for breakfast." He gave Jarrod a strange look.
"It's the ladies' breakfast at her hotel," Jarrod explained. "It begins at one in the afternoon."
"Indeed, sir."
"Have I received any more messages?" Jarrod asked, making his way across the marble entry hall toward the stairs.
"No, sir."
Jarrod stopped in his tracks and looked at his butler. "None at all?"
"No, sir."
"Nothing from His Grace, the Duke of Sussex?"
"Nothing, sir," Henderson told him. "Are we hoping to hear from His Grace?"
"Yes, we are," Jarrod answered. "Because His Grace failed to appear at White's this morning."
And that, Henderson knew, was unprecedented.
"No one has seen him since his mother's ball last evening," Jarrod continued. "And that was only a brief glimpse. And no one has seen or heard from him this morning. I'd believe he was delayed in France if Avon and Barclay hadn't sworn they'd caught a glimpse of him at Sussex House last night. And if he hadn't brought the dispatches here last night."
"He didn't bring them, sir," Henderson informed him. "He sent someone in his stead."
"Travers?" Jarrod mentioned the name of the Duke of Sussex's secretary.
"No." Henderson shook his head. "I'd never seen the fellow before. He told me that King Arthur commanded that he bring his offerings to Merlin. He handed me the pouch and a round of cheese and returned to his coach."
"The duke's coach?"
"No, sir, an unmarked one."
Jarrod frowned. "The dispatches were sealed. They showed no signs of tampering and the information they contained appears to be genuine."
"The messenger repeated the correct phrase: 'What is bread without cheese? Or cheese without French wine?" And delivered a round of French cheese," Henderson added.
The Free Fellow entrusted with the dispatches usually delivered them to Jarrod or to Henderson, but there were times when that wasn't possible; so the Free Fellows had devised a code for each mission whereby anyone sent in their stead was required to relay a specific message and deliver a specific item. The messages and the items were decided upon at the planning of each mission and given to Henderson, who accepted pouches in Jarrod's absence.
The butler looked stricken. "Perhaps I was mistaken in the message and the cheese, sir."
Jarrod shook his head. "There's no need to blame yourself, Henderson. You were not mistaken in the message or the cheese. That was the message we settled upon before the mission and His Grace chose a round of cheese as the item. Avon and Barclay both saw him at his mother's party last night. But he didn't appear at White's this morning."
"His Grace would never miss a meeting unless something was wrong."
"I agree," Jarrod answered as Henderson confirmed his worst fears. "And we're all concerned." He glanced back over his shoulder at his butler. "Where's Fenton?"
"He's out, sir," Henderson replied. "It's Thursday. Fenton's half day. He has the afternoon and evening off."
"Then come with me." Jarrod took the stairs two at a time, shrugging out of his jacket and unbuttoning his waistcoat as he went. "I'll require your assistance because the sooner I conclude breakfast with Lady Dunbridge, the sooner I can concentrate on finding Sussex."
Henderson hurried to keep up with him, accepting the clothing Jarrod was discarding as he climbed the stairs.
"If you don't mind my inquiring, sir, what happened to your garments? Was there an accident?"
"No accident," he said. "It was deliberate."
"Deliberate?"
Jarrod nodded. "I took the liberty of pointing out Lord Dunbridge's deplorable taste in waistcoats after we concluded our business at the Cocoa Tree Coffeehouse." He managed a slight smile at the memory. "And he took the liberty of dousing me with his beverage." He wrinkled his nose. "A rather strong brew, liberally laced with cognac."
Henderson gasp
ed. "Will we be demanding satisfaction, sir?"
Jarrod shook his head. "I insulted him first. And the ruination of a set of clothing is not reason enough for me to call a man out. No matter how much I despise him."
"But, sir, Lord Dunbridge is only a viscount. You're a marquess and he assaulted your person."
Jarrod recognized the disapproval in Henderson's tone of voice. While hierarchy was important to members of the peerage, it was doubly so for the men and women who worked belowstairs.
"That's true," Jarrod agreed. "But assaulting my person with a cup of coffee is hardly a gibbeting offense. And it wouldn't be at all sporting or gentlemanly of me to call Lord Dunbridge out when I deliberately provoked him." He finished untying his neckcloth and pulled it from around his neck. "There was no real harm done. My honor is intact. And my reputation is not so fragile that it can't sustain an angry man's insult. Frankly, I would have been more surprised if he hadn't retaliated. He may have been ordained into the clergy, but I knew better than to expect him to turn the other cheek." He reached the landing and headed down the passageway toward his bedchamber. "Unfortunately, I didn't anticipate the manner in which he would retaliate or the time it would take me to return home and exchange my stained garments for clean ones."
Jarrod entered his bedchamber and went directly to his wardrobe. He opened the doors and removed another jacket, waistcoat, and pair of breeches, then crossed to his dressing room in search of a clean, starched shirt and neckcloth. He located his tissue-wrapped shirts and carried them back to his bedchamber and placed them on his bed.
Henderson applied himself to the job at hand, lending assistance where he could, unwrapping the tissue from the starched shirt and unrolling a clean neckcloth as Jarrod stripped off his soiled shirt and pulled the clean one over his head.
Jarrod settled the shirt into place, then sat down on a wing chair and tugged off his boots. He peeled off his tight coffee-splattered breeches, then stepped into a fresh pair, skimming them over his legs and hips before buttoning them at the waist. He glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantel and urged his butler on as Henderson turned up the ends of his collar and draped a new cravat around Jarrod's neck. "Hurry, Henderson."
"I am attempting to, sir."
"Then add some speed, man," Jarrod ordered.
"That will only be possible if you stop fidgeting, sir." Henderson had originally trained as a gentleman's gentleman, but it had been fifteen years since he'd served as a valet and fashioning flawless four-in-hands was damnably exacting and frustrating work.
"I can't," Jarrod snapped. He was dead on his feet and running almost entirely on nervous energy. If he stopped now, he'd be no good to anyone until he managed to get some sleep.
"No doubt a result of too much coffee."
Jarrod cracked a smile at Henderson's dry wit. "I do seem to have had more than my share this morning." He nodded toward his stained clothing.
"You've been without sleep for over twenty-four hours," Henderson reminded him.
"And getting an early start hasn't helped at all," Jarrod joked. "I've been running late all morning and I've no wish to perpetuate that state of affairs."
Henderson was astonished by Lord Shepherdston's admission. His lordship had grown up with the notion that punctuality was the politeness of kings. It had been instilled upon him almost from the cradle that gentlemen never kept other gentlemen waiting and, as a consequence, Lord Shepherdston was never late. "I beg your pardon, sir," Henderson apologized as he deftly executed the final loop on Lord Shepherdston's four-in-hand. "For I've no wish for that state of affairs to continue either. After all…"
"L'exactitude est la politesse des rois," Jarrod quoted. "Punctuality is the politeness of kings." He buttoned his waistcoat, then splashed a small amount of his favorite wood spice scent on to eliminate the lingering aroma of Dunbridge's coffee. Jarrod wished he had time for a full bath, but that was out of the question. He'd barely make it as it was and could only hope that Sarah and her aunt, like most women of his acquaintance, were perpetually tardy. He gave the clock a final glance. "You can reach me at the main dining salon in Ibbetson's Hotel," Jarrod told him. "Send word immediately if you hear anything about our King Arthur."
"Of course, sir."
"Thank you for your assistance, Henderson. I was afraid I'd be late again. But I'm ready with eight minutes to spare."
* * *
Chapter Fourteen
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Punctuality is the politeness of kings.
— Louis XVIII, 1755-1824
He was late.
Lady Dunbridge smoothed her palms down the front of her dress and shifted her weight from side to side on the massively uncomfortable chair. And the chair constituted a mere fraction of the discomfort she felt at being on the receiving end of so many pointed looks as she'd crossed the sitting area and entered the dining room unescorted.
The dining salon might welcome unescorted ladies during the two hours designated as the ladies' breakfast, but the same could not be said of the gentlemen occupying the sitting area she'd had to cross. They appeared to frown upon having unescorted ladies anywhere on the premises.
Lady Dunbridge tapped her foot against the floor in an impatient staccato, then glanced at the clock on the opposite wall. It was ten minutes past the hour of one. Exactly two minutes since she'd last looked at it.
In his invitation, the Marquess of Shepherdston had requested that she and Sarah be prompt and she'd complied.
He had kept her waiting ten minutes.
Lady Dunbridge lifted her hand, signaled the waiter, and asked for pen and paper.
"I hope you weren't requesting that for me."
Lady Dunbridge looked up and met the Marquess of Shepherdston's brown-eyed gaze.
"As a matter of fact, I was," she replied coolly. "I was about to leave you a note and retire to the comfort of my room. You may not have noticed, Lord Shepherdston, but I am the only unescorted woman in this room and it's a very uncomfortable situation."
Jarrod bowed over her hand. "I'm very sorry my tardiness put you in an uncomfortable situation, Lady Dunbridge, but circumstances prevented me from arriving promptly." The circumstance that had caused his tardiness had been an overturned fruit wagon that had snarled traffic at the top of Park Lane. Jarrod had been forced to go the long way around the park in order to get around it. "I hope I didn't keep you waiting long."
"Ten minutes," Lady Dunbridge replied. "I arrived promptly as requested. You are late."
There was no denying the truth. He was late. Again. And Lady Dunbridge deserved his apologies. "Again, I offer my most sincere apologies." He placed his hand on the back of the chair opposite hers. "May I?"
She hesitated for a moment, then inclined her head in a regal nod. "Please."
Jarrod sat down and signaled the waiter. "Would you care for breakfast?" he asked.
She shook her head. "No, but a pot of tea and a plate of biscuits would be nice."
"Please bring the lady a pot of tea and a plate of biscuits," Jarrod instructed the waiter.
"Anything for you, sir?"
"I've had breakfast," he told the waiter. "But you may bring another cup for the young lady who will be joining us momentarily."
"Sarah won't be joining us momentarily," Lady Dunbridge informed him. "She won't be joining us at all."
"Oh?" Jarrod arched his eyebrow but he couldn't conceal his disappointment in learning that Sarah wouldn't be making an appearance at the ladies' breakfast. "Why not?"
Lady Dunbridge smiled. "She's resting."
"Resting?" he repeated, sitting up straighten "Is she ill?"
"Just tired." Lady Dunbridge met his gaze. "She was out late last evening." She smiled at Jarrod. "Didn't return until dawn."
"I heard the Duchess of Sussex's party lasted well into the wee hours of the morning," he bluffed. "Most of London was in attendance. I hope Miss Eckersley enjoyed herself."
Lady Dunbridge gave him credit for
trying to protect her niece. "I believe you know better than that," she replied. "Since she spent a good part of her evening with you."
"I didn't attend Her Grace's gala," he said.
"Neither did my niece," Lady Dunbridge told him. "As you well know since she was at your house quite early this morning."
"You knew your niece sneaked out of this hotel and came to my house last night?" Jarrod was surprised.
"I knew," Lady Dunbridge told her.
"You knew what she intended and you didn't try to stop her?" Jarrod was shocked.
"I didn't stop her because she didn't tell me about her visit to Park Lane until this morning." Lady Dunbridge paused while the waiter delivered her tea and biscuits, then calmly poured herself a cup as soon as he departed. "And I must admit that I had to commend her for her courage if not her choice."
"You commended her on her courage?"
"Of course." Lady Dunbridge took a sip of her tea, then reached for a biscuit and nibbled on the edge of it. "You can't think it was easy for her to travel from this hotel to your house alone after dark." She gave a delicate shudder, then stared at the young marquess. "Why shouldn't I commend her on her courage? I believe that traveling alone in London at night took a great deal of courage."
"Especially in the rain and wearing what she was wearing," Jarrod added dryly.
Lady Dunbridge leaned forward. "Sarah assured me she wore her black velvet evening cloak for warmth."
"She did," Jarrod rushed to reassure her. "And she kept it on after she arrived even though I had a nice fire burning in the study." He saw no point in telling Lady Dunbridge that Sarah had kept her traveling cloak on right up until the moment she'd tried to tempt him into seducing her by dropping it on the floor of his study to reveal the nightgown she wore beneath it.
"I'm so glad!" Lady Dunbridge heaved a sigh of relief. "It was bad enough for her to pay a call on her own so late at night — even if it was to an old friend who has been like an older brother to her all these years. She is in mourning for her papa, God rest his soul. And I would so hate for her reputation to suffer. It would be so upsetting and such an inconvenience. You see, Lord Shepherdston, we've come to town to find Sarah a husband." She looked at Jarrod. "The magistrate said a guardian would do, but what do magistrates know? What girl wants a guardian instead of a husband?"