Page 89 of Claiming his Cursed Duchess
He ripped at the cravat around his throat, walked to the door of the study, and stalked to the stairs, ringing the bell as soon as he was in his bedchamber for his valet to attend him.
There was not a moment to lose.
The carriage ride to the Claridge townhouse was strangely calming, as Adam looked out of the window at the mist curling through the London streets.
The sun had failed to penetrate the peasouper of a fog that they were experiencing, but it would have burned off by midday.
Adam checked his fob watch. Twelve hours since Rosaline had walked out of the door. If he were honest with himself, he could probably count the minutes too.
Damn the woman to hell.
The carriage jolted violently to the side as it went over something discarded in the road. Rosaline hated any jostling of the carriage—her entire body would become tense.
He hated to see it, wishing there were a way for him to protect her from her past so that she was never troubled by it again.
He drummed his fingers on the bench as finally the driver called out that they had arrived.
Adam had taken time to dress and sober up, so it was now almost nine o’clock. It was still an unreasonably early hour to call upon a man of the ton, many of whom did not rise until midday.
No matter—it was not as though he owed Claridge anypolitenessanyway.
He walked up the steps, giving his card to a rather startled butler. After a brief hesitation, the man showed him into a parlor room off the main entrance hall.
“Shall I have the fire lit, Your Grace?” the butler asked.
“Yes. Thank you,” Adam muttered as the man withdrew.
The room itself was very cold, as though it had not been used for many weeks. Adam didn’t want the distraction of a crackling flame.
Crack, crack, crack. The last sound that David heard before he perished.
Adam couldn’t let that take over his mind, not with Claridge there. He had to be alert.
Yet the parlor was too cold, and it would seem peculiar for him not to request some warmth from the footman.
A fire now burned merrily beside him and although it warmed away the ache in his leg where he sat a few feet away from it, the sound was crisp. Too crisp.
Focus, Oldstone.
Now was not the time for weakness.
It was a full half hour before he heard rapid footsteps approaching.
Adam had considered skulking around the house in the intervening time to give Claridge’s study another once over, but when he had opened the door to do so it was to find the butler standing guard outside.
Adam remained seated as he heard Claridge’s footsteps approach as he opened the door.
“Your Grace,” Claridge said, none too warmly, his eyes glancing over Adam in confusion. “This is an unexpected pleasure.”
The man had a cut on his jaw where his valet must have nicked him—my, my, they were in haste this morning.
“Lord Claridge,” Adam said lazily. “I felt it was important for me to come in person so that we could discuss the business of your letters.”
Claridge’s eyes flicked about the room rather nervously.
He smoothed his hands down his jacket, fingers fidgeting. He was more agitated than Adam had seen him, all the faux confidence evaporating in a moment.
“Very well,” Claridge stammered. “Coffee will be brought in shortly.”
