Page 62 of Disciplined by the Duke
Harding continued. “The housekeeper and the upper servants kept to the story that she had been a trusted employee for two years. But over a pint with some of the lads who work in the stable, I found out the truth. She was never in service to the earl, leastways not as a maid.”
Montague ground his teeth together so hard his jaw ached. “Do you suggest she was in his service in a different manner?” Liz had never been any man’s mistress, and the insinuation made him want to tear Harding’s head from his body.
“Well, one of the lads who worked in the kitchen says he saw a woman of her description coming and going a couple of times.” The spy scratched at a scab on his nose. “Always used a side door. Always at night. There aren’t many reasons for an unrelated female to do that.”
No, there weren’t. If Marcus eliminated the obvious, which after last night he bloody well could, that left only—He shot up, the chair tipping over behind him. “Stay here!” he barked at Harding. Reaching the door in three strides, Marcus bolted from his study and ran for his chambers. He would find her still resting in his bed. She would have an explanation.
He skidded to a stop outside his door, and bent his head to the smooth wood, trying to control his breathing. It was madness to think otherwise.
Dread coiled in his stomach as he depressed the latch. The anteroom was silent, empty. Of course it was. She was in his bed. He walked through the room as though walking through water. He passed through his changing room and into the quiet bedroom.
A lump behind the bed’s curtains calmed the panic that had been clawing at his insides. She was still there, curled up under the covers. With each step closer, his brain understood what his heart didn’t want to accept. It wasn’t a person in his bed, only a twisted pile of sheets.
She was gone.
Of course she might be back in her own rooms. It was possible she remained his sweet Liz. But even his heart didn’t believe that optimistic tripe any longer. He stalked back to the anteroom, to the settee where he had tossed his coat the night before. Knowing what he would find, but going through the motions regardless, he reached into the inside pocket and pulled out a small bundle.
The paper was different, cheaper than it should have been. The lack of a seal told him the rest. He unfolded the pages and stared at blank white sheets.
The anger started in his chest, a ball of rage and heat that shot to his extremities. He crushed the papers into a ball and hurled it at the wall.
Goddamn her straight to hell.
His strides were even, controlled, as he made his way back downstairs. But his face must have told a different story. Every servant who saw him hastily backed away from his approach.
As he passed his steward’s office, Marcus bellowed, “Todd! My study. Now.”
The man was hot on his heels when Marcus entered the room. Harding was in the chair he’d left him in, cleaning his nails with one of the duke’s letter openers. He tossed the letter opener down on the desk casually, as though the Duke of Montague hadn’t just been yelling to bring the building down.
“Todd, I want you to send out men to search for Miss Smith again. Send as many men as we have horses. I want her found.”
The steward nodded, and started to back away.
“And bring me Mr. Pike,” Marcus said. “He’s supposed to be her relation, but I think we’ll find that’s a lie, too.” He frowned at the older man’s paunchy frame, graying hair. “Take a couple of footmen with you. Pike might not want to see me.”
One of Todd’s eyebrows twitched, but he didn’t ask any questions. “Yes, Your Grace,” he said, and rushed from the room.
Marcus turned to Harding. The other man got to his feet. “Same orders for me? Find Miss Smith?”
“No.” Marcus walked to the bay window and watched as a small boy raced across the lawn to the stable. “I’ll take care of that. I want you to focus on finding evidence of Westmore’s treason. Go through his communiqués. Search his rooms and his office at Parliament. Have him watched twenty-four-seven. Have his associates watched. I don’t care how many men you need to put on this.” Opening the bottom drawer to his desk, he removed a cloth bag. Its contents clinked softly when he handed it to Harding. “I don’t care what it costs.”
The bag disappeared into the man’s oversized coat. “Got it, Your Grace. If there’s evidence to be found I’ll get it.”
“We’d better.” Marcus turned back to the window. The view that had only an hour ago appeared so cheerful now brought bile to the back of his mouth. He’d only known Liz, if that was even her name, for a couple of weeks. He had no right to feel so betrayed. “You may go.” It came out as little more than a whisper, the words hard to force past the lump in his throat.
He stood at the window and watched as his stable emptied, men riding in all directions to hunt her down. He stood there until he saw Harding also climb his mount and gallop away. Only when he saw his groom marching towards Hartsworth, surrounded by three footmen and Mr. Todd, did he leave his post. His hands clenched and unclenched as he sat behind his desk, and waited for the coming interrogation.
Marcus couldn’t ever remember feeling so enraged. Someone would have to bear the brunt of it. A grim smile stretched his face. And Mr. Pike happened to be the lucky man.
* * *
Liz stood before the entrance to Newgate Prison, her legs so tired they barely held her upright. After taking one of Marcus’s horses, she’d ridden furiously for London. It had taken her six long hours, her only stops brief rests for her mount. The thoroughbred had the stamina befitting a horse belonging to a duke, but Liz couldn’t help but think it had rolled its eyes in relief when she’d finally dismounted outside the stable at Montague’s London home. Leaving the beast tied to the window, Liz had snuck away on shaking legs.
She knocked on the heavy wood door at the side of the prison. Men laughed inside, and Liz knocked harder, scraping her knuckles. Good. That minor pain could distract her from all the various aches that afflicted her, and not just from her wild ride to London.
Her face warmed when she thought of how sore she’d been when she’d rolled out of Marcus’s bed this morning. Pleasantly sore. Until she’d had to ride that blasted horse.
The small door swung inward with a screech of rusty hinges. A man with a bushy black beard stared at her. “What do you want?”