Page 10 of His Runaway Duchess

Was it pathetic for a gentleman to admit that his closest friend was his steward? Probably.

“Mrs. Trench can do that, Peter,” Edward answered. “I want a word with you.”

Mrs. Trench inclined her head and left the room silently, closing the door after her. Peter turned to watch her go.

“It’s not Jemimah’s fault,” he said, as soon as the door closed. “Master Alexander was in a strange mood all day, and she only turned her back for a handful of minutes, and?—”

“Yes, Peter, I know. I don’t blame Mrs. Trench. I’m fairly sure you shouldn’t call herJemimah, by the way.”

Peter reddened. “She did say that I could, Your Grace.”

“Did she? Fine, not my business. But really, I’m at my wits’ end with Alex, Pete. Nothing I do works. He hates me.”

Peter bit his lip. “You’re too hard on yourself, Your Grace. And on him, perhaps.”

Edward sighed, raking a hand through his hair. It was a little too long for fashionable society—not that he cared about fashionable society—and lately, he had started discovering the occasional strand of silver hair amongst the black.

I am not doing a good job of keeping my promise.

As always, that thought—the daily reminder of how deeply he had failed Jane—dropped him into a stark black mood.

“I’ll join the search outside,” Edward said, leaping to his feet so suddenly that he made poor Peter jump. “I would like you to make arrangements to have the schoolroom moved to one of the higher floors. I won’t have my son jumping out in the middle ofhis lessons. Once he goes to Eton, he won’t be able to pull that nonsense.”

“Yes, Your Grace. Where are you going to search?”

“I don’t know,” Edward muttered.

“Should I inform the Dowager Duchess?”

“No!” Edward answered, a little too quickly.

Peter blinked, not entirely surprised.

Edward sighed, glancing away. “There is no sense in bothering my stepmother. She’s retired to the dower house for the night. I don’t want her disturbed. This is not her concern.”

Peter scratched his temple. “Are you sure that she will see it that way, Your Grace?”

Edward didn’t bother to reply. He picked up a waxed jacket from his coat hook by the door, pulled it on, and hurried out into the dark hallways.

The country house was very old, of course, and decorated in a style several decades out of fashion. Occasionally, his stepmother would make noises about changing some things,but he never seemed to get around to it. Edward couldn’t quite say what had kept him from making the house look more like his own, but it probably had something to do with his father’s mocking, amused voice in the back of his head.

“You can’t possibly think that all of this is yours, can you, Edward?”

The wave of cold air when he stepped outside washed away the thoughts, jerking him out of his reverie. It was late afternoon, and darkness was already crowding in, filling the garden with gloom and shadows. As it often did, the mist had rolled in from the fields, a greenish-white carpet creeping through the grounds. He could see distant, bobbing lanterns and a few candles carried by various servants combing the gardens. They were all calling for Alex, all sounding faintly concerned.

Alex was popular with the servants. He was a precocious boy, according to Mrs. Trench, with a thirst for knowledge and a maturity beyond his years.

Perhaps if the boy were less mature, lesssensitive, he wouldn’t take to running off every time his father spoke sharply to him.

My father said things a thousand times worse to me.And I never ran off. I wouldn’t have dared.

On second thought, perhaps moving the schoolroom up a few floors was a bad idea. It might simply add a few layers of danger to Alex’s future escapes.

Sighing, Edward snatched up a lantern and strode around the side of the house, towards the hills and distant treeline. Alex often liked to take walks up there—accompanied by his trusty governess, of course. He had stopped asking Edward to walk with him.

That should have been good news—Edward was always too busy to come, anyway—but for some reason, not being asked sent a pang through his chest.

I’m trying, Jane.

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