Page 48 of The Duke and the Wrong Bride

It was all happening so quickly. Weeks spent searching, no idea at all where Beatrice might have gotten to, and then suddenly, the answer was found, and Charlotte and Henry were on their way to see her.

“I can’t help but think we should have sent word to your parents,” Henry mused suddenly.

“We’ve been over this.” Charlotte sighed. “If Oliver has found her, there is a good reason. For all we know, Beatrice knows that we’re coming, and if she knows that, then she’s likely to run again. Which she better not do,” she muttered.

Henry chuckled. “Perhaps we should have sent word to this friend of hers, this dowager? Had her tie Beatrice down for us.”

Charlotte laughed softly. Not because she found it funny but because she felt she needed to, to defuse the tension still sitting firm in her stomach. “I still can’t believe I didn’t think of it. Of course, she is staying with Harriet.”

“Dowager Meadow?” Henry confirmed.

“That’s her,” Charlotte said. “She’s known Beatrice her entire life just about. The two were as good as sisters until Harriet married at eighteen. Although I haven’t heard from her since her husband’s death, which I suppose is why it didn’t cross my mind—I had no idea she and Beatrice kept in touch.”

“And she lives out here? On her own?” Henry looked out the carriage window, taking note of the vastness of the landscape—nothing but rolling meadows in all directions.

“I suppose so.” Charlotte shrugged. “Her husband died less than a year after they married, and she probably wished to remove herself to somewhere free of gossip and rumor, where she wouldn’t have to listen to the awful things people were saying about her. Personally, I can’t say I blame her.”

Henry chuckled at that but chose to speak no further. Charlotte was still feeling tense, she presumed her husband could see it, and thankfully he was happy to sit back in silence and let her deal with it her own way—that being by fretting.

Their carriage reached the estate not long after midday. As expected, it was a simple home, almost a farmhouse for how quaint it was when compared to a typical manor. No lush gardens surrounding the home. No winding drives and elaborate pathways leading up to the front doors. There weren’t even two stories.

So isolated was the house that they saw it from miles away, sitting flush in the middle of open pastures, nothing but rolling green fields like an ocean stretching in every direction. It was for this reason that their arrival couldn’t possibly be as clandestine as Charlotte might have hoped, and indeed, long before they reached the homestead, the Dowager appeared at the front door.

She watched them closely as they arrived, staying put as if to guard the entrance to her home. And even when the carriage came to a gentle stop, she remained where she was, eyes narrowed and wary.

Henry was the first out of the carriage. His smile was big and friendly, and his bow was low. “Lady Meadow, I presume.”

“Who are you?” she snapped at him.

Henry was about to respond when Charlotte alighted from the carriage. As she did, the Dowager caught sight of her, leaned back a little in surprise, frowned to herself, and scrunched her brow as if unsure of what she was seeing. As if she knew who it was but was certain it was a mistake.

“Charlotte?” the Dowager asked, still sounding unsure.

“Good day, Harriet.” Charlotte smiled at her old friend. She and Harriet had never been close like she was with Beatrice, but she’d grown up with the woman, and more than once she had provided a listening ear for Harriet to complain about her sister. “It’s been a long time.”

Harriet looked just as Charlotte remembered. The same curly, raven black hair that fell down her shoulders. The same sharp features that had always made her come across as colder than she was. Those same dark eyes like hollow pits, again making her appear frigid and unwelcoming when she was anything but. Older, sure, but the same Harriet she knew.

“W-what are you doing here?” Harriet stammered. Her eyes flicked to Henry. “And who’s this?”

“Ah, sorry about that.” Henry stepped forward and bowed again. “I am the Duke of Hayward, Charlotte’s husband.”

Harriet’s eyes widened with shock. “His Grace!” She hurried to bob a curtsey. “I’m so sorry, I had no idea.”

“It’s quite all right. We’re the ones who turned up here unannounced.”

“And husband?” Harriet continued, her frown turning into a smile. “That’s surprising.”

“And why is that?” Charlotte said simply. “Did Beatrice tell you otherwise?”

“I—” Harriet stammered and looked away. “Beatrice? Why would you… I haven’t seen her in years.”

“Harriet, we know that she is here.” Charlotte kept her tone soft as she approached.

“You’re mistaken.” Harriet stepped in front of the door to guard it. “I haven’t heard from Beatrice since… since my husband—it’s been years now. If she ran away, she wouldn’t come here.”

“Who said anything about running away?”

She opened her mouth to respond, but then she seemed to realize what she said. “Ah… I just assumed.”

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