Page 7 of His Unforgettable Bride
Dobbin’s brow rose as he stood. “Are you fine, Henry?”
Of course not. How could he be? “I desire to step outside. Perhaps it shall clear my head.”
“I’ll join you.” Dobbin moved to the door, his hand on the latch.
As much as Henry wanted—needed—to be alone, it would be a royal sin, or at least dangerous, for him to wander by himself. At home, a bodyguard or a soldier always accompanied him. But during the trip, he had grown somewhat sloppy about the protection because most people he met did not know his identity as a prince, which was precisely what Henry wanted. The royal ship was unmarked for a reason.
His security would intensify with the announcement of his new royal status. A dreadful thought.
Dobbin’s kind eyes radiated with sympathy. “We both know my mother would box my ears if I failed to care for you properly.”
Henry forced a smile, picturing the cook, a small yet formidable woman with a penchant for correcting her son. Despite her firm hand, Henry held a soft spot for the cook who had given birth to Dobbin on the same day as Henry was born on the same property. Except one birth had occurred in the palace and the other in the head gardener’s cottage.
While Henry studied history at Oxford, Dobbin learned at the knee of Sutton’s valet. Balancing the dual roles of servant and closest confidant had sometimes proven difficult for Dobbin. But they had made strides since leaving Bascandy in May, followed by Henry’s best six months of life.
He donned his evening coat and top hat, pulling the brim low as Dobbin opened the dark-paneled door. They entered the empty, dimly lit hallway and closed the door in their wake. Soon, they descended the staircase. Wall sconces lit the thick banister and the rich, dark mahogany woodwork prevalent in the hotel.
A few guests milled in the lavish lobby, which boasted decorative pillars, groupings of plush chairs, and a shiny wooden floor. Avoiding eye contact with anyone, Henry quietly moved toward the exit and strode outside.
On the cusp of dusk, Henry led the way toward the shoreline to reach a sandy path, leading away from Victoria. Dobbin dutifully followed behind in silence. Patches of heavy, misty clouds shrouded the water, waves rolling in the wind. Nearby but hidden, a seagull cried into the night.
A stand of fir trees and the ocean lined their walkway with waves crashing against the shore. The fresh air and intermittent raindrops soothed his still-warm face as he stepped over a dead fish in their path. The sharp scent of seaweed was unmissable as they wandered farther from the city.
A sense of loneliness stirred inside him for the first time in a long while. Yet, the scattered fog held a soothing quality. “I desire a couple of minutes alone. Perhaps I shall sit on that flat stone overcropping the water and reread Mother’s letter.”
Dobbin bowed. “I’ll wait here until you’re ready to depart.”
Henry tugged Mother’s letter from his pocket and advanced toward his destination. Had he missed anything in the first pass? He climbed onto the hip-high stone and sat before unfolding the stationery and squinting at the words.
The wind gusted, slapping the waves against the shore, the spray inching closer. He read the message twice, then ran his thumb over the scar on his wrist. Minutes seeped away, and his thoughts jumbled until his fingers slowly curled around the letter, crumpling it into a ball. He squeezed with all his strength, then hurled the clump into the ocean. Almost immediately, the paper disappeared, and regret stabbed his chest.
The epistle connected him to home and his family, and he had carelessly tossed the link aside, much like his relationship with Sutton. With his chin raised, he asked, “Why, God? Why did You take my brother?”
“He ain’t going to answer if that’s what you think.”
The scratchy voice wasn’t Dobbin’s. Henry glanced over his shoulder to find two strangers cloaked in the fog and the fading evening.
Henry slid off the rock to the sandy beach. “May I help you?”
“You certainly can.” The man garbed in darker clothing lifted one notable accessory—a long-barreled weapon—and pointed it at Henry’s head.
Dobbin, a keen shot, always kept a revolver with him. Henry glanced toward his friend and winced. Dobbin was lying face down in the grass amongst the weeds.
Had the two men attacked his valet? Possibly killed him? Please, no.
His pulse spurted forward with dread, and he started toward his friend.
He made it only two steps before the man with the weapon thrust the barrel of the gun into Henry’s side. “Stop!”
Drawing a steadying breath, Henry turned slowly back around. “What do you want with me?”
The one without the gun, missing his front teeth, held a deadly glint in his eyes. “Our sister works at the Royal Hotel and says mail had piled up for Prince Henry Graighton. We believe he is you.”
Unbelievable, or at least unacceptable, behavior for a hotel employee. But then the welcoming committee before him—two men and at least one gun—were also highly objectionable.
“You see,” the toothless man continued, “a few of us been waiting on you for days, hatching a plan. You were to arrive before now. Then we heard your ship docked and tracked you to the fancy hotel. It was our lucky day when you slipped outside.”
Henry scanned the shoreline for an escape route. Could he outrun the duo? Could he hide in the fog or jump into the ocean and swim to safety?
