Page 90 of The Earl's Bluestocking Bride
“Yes, that’s right.”
“She left the house a little while ago. Perhaps twenty minutes or so.”
Double damn. He’d missed his opportunity to speak with her before she started her day.
“I don’t suppose she left word as to where she was going?” Unlikely, but it was worth a chance.
But Mrs. Smythe shook her head. “No, my lord. She took Margaret with her, though.”
At least that was something. Not that he was concerned for her safety, but she might be upset, and if that was the case, it was reassuring to know she wasn’t alone.
“Thank you. I’ll be visiting the Regent this morning. Can you let me know if she returns before I do?”
“Of course.” Her forehead furrowed. “Is everything all right?”
“Just fine.” His tone was so falsely jovial, he doubted she believed him, but she just nodded as he left.
He sent for a carriage, then grabbed his coat and hat and headed out to meet it.
“To the Regent,” he told his driver, climbing on board the carriage without waiting for the footman to assist him, although he heard a thud as he leapt aboard.
He gazed out the window. The sky was depressingly gray this morning, much like his mood. He curled his fingers into his palms to warm them and settled into his seat until the carriage stopped and the footman knocked to signal that they’d arrived.
For a few seconds, he sat still, steeling himself. He knew he needed to ask around about Florence and find out exactly what she was up to, but raising the matter would be blasted uncomfortable.
“My lord?”
With a sigh, he called for the footman to open up. He got out of the carriage and greeted the doorman, who bowed low and opened the main entrance for him.
The Regent was quiet at this time of day. Many late-night revelers would still be at home, nursing tender heads. The gentlemen who’d ventured out this morning were those more like Ashford. Or at least, he hoped that would prove the case. He rarely came here before noon himself.
“Are there any card games afoot?” he asked one of the servants.
“Down the corridor, third door on the left,” the man replied.
“Thank you.”
He removed his coat and hat and handed them over, then made his way down the corridor to the open doorway the servant had mentioned. A group of men sat around a table, playing a game of what looked to be whist. Andrew grimaced when he spotted Mr. Falvey among their number. He’d assumed it would be too early for the other man.
“Longley,” Falvey called. “Join us.”
Andrew pulled over a chair. “Deal me in the next time it’s convenient.”
“Of course, of course.”
He looked around the other faces at the table. Mr. Chautner, a degenerate gambler who very well might have been here all night, judging by his bloodshot eyes and drooping head. Mr. Daniels, a smart fellow who’d likely only stopped in for a short bout of socialization before spending the rest of the day in his library. Baron Winthrop, a dapper gentleman with a sharp tongue. And lastly, Mr. Thompson, the third son of a viscount.
“Who’s winning this morning?” he asked, wondering how best to raise the subject of Florence.
Mr. Falvey laughed. “Based on the events of last night, I’d hazard a guess that you’ve gotten luckier than any of us. How come you’re here instead of with the lovely Miss Giles?”
Andrew stiffened. “What do you mean?”
Mr. Falvey took his turn before answering. “Your wife left the Winston ball early yesterday, and you were seen in quite an intense exchange with Miss Giles. I can only assume you’ve taken back up with her, and I can’t blame you. She’s a beauty, all right. I tried to tempt her with a little fun, but she told me firmly she wasn’t done with you yet. Lucky sod.”
Andrew groaned. It was even worse than he’d thought. Obviously, the gossips had been busy. There was every chance that Amelia would discover the truth, if she hadn’t already.
“You’re stepping out on your new wife already, Longley?” Where Mr. Falvey’s voice had been full of admiration, Mr. Daniels’s was disapproving. “The ink isn’t even dry on your marriage certificate.”
