Page 35 of The Wallflower and the Duke
“Please,” he said, his voice snapping. “Please, don’t leave me here.”
“I’m going,” she whispered, her voice breaking. She wiped away the tears on her cheeks. “Be sure to answer my letters this time.”
He pushed himself away from the carriage door and slammed it shut, stuffing his hands into his pockets as she took off. She glanced behind her through the small rear window as Alfie grew smaller in the drive, never moving.
She had been the biggest coward for running away, when she hoped leaving would be the right answer.
And reclaiming what was stolen from her.
CHAPTER 10
Marjorie spun, her arms akimbo on her waist, and glanced over her room, which now looked like a ravaged wasteland—papers strewn about, closet doors open, dresses scattered here and there.
She couldn’t find anything. Nothing helpful, anyhow. She had found a mask from that first evening when Percy had attempted to kiss her, and she revealed her secret. But what would it prove? She needed something irrefutable.
“Where is it? Where is it?” she muttered to herself. Hearing something in the hallway, she poked her head out.
Her mother, all tall elegance and easy charm, spun around as her cherished spaniel danced around her feet. “Oh, I didn’t know you had returned. I’m glad I caught you.” She adjusted her bonnet, revealing beautifully lush chestnut hair and large, amber eyes. “Your father and I are leaving. We’ll be spending a few months in Scotland. We will return for Christmastide and see you and your sister then.”
Marjorie forced a smile, closing the door tighter behind her so her mother couldn’t see the mess inside. “Lovely.”
“And your plans?” her mother asked after a moment of silence. Regina Merryweather, charismatic, flighty, and clueless about her daughters.
“I’ve returned for a literary event,” Marjorie said, which wasn’t a complete lie. “But I promised Emily I’d return to the country soon.”
“Very well.” Her mother clucked at the dog tripping over her skirts, before bending down and scooping the poor beast into her arms. “Keep out of trouble. Don’t forget to bring your lady’s maid with you wherever you go. Your father and I have agreed to a new production in the spring. It wouldn’t do to have a scandal.”
“Right, of course,” Marjorie said. “We understand the rules, Re—Mother.”
Marjorie winced, nearly slipping. Emily preferred to call her by her Christian name instead of something familiar like Mother.
“Goodbye, darling.”
She waited as the older woman slowly strolled down the hallway. Once her mother was out of sight, Marjorie dove back into her room, slammed the door shut, and fell to her knees to try to stuff herself under her bed to see if something had fallen underneath.
In all her years of writing, there had always been proof of her drafts, notes, and scribbled pages. She had saved everything, which was why she had had that manuscript to begin with. It needed at least another pass of revisions, and she had put it aside, not ready to work on it yet. Her current project had held her interest far more. But the basket where she had stored the draft was empty.
She worried he had also obtained her notes somehow.
She crawled out from under the bed, sat on the floor, crossing her knees, and blew out a deep breath. For the one hundredth time that day, Alfie crossed her mind, but she couldn’t afford to think of him now.
Her hands fell against her lips as she remembered him kissing her—soft and searching. Their time together had been so brief. She hated driving away, watching him remain there, stuck, but she had been furious with him too. He hadn’t said a word to his mother, keeping her instead as a secret just as Percy had done. She hated feeling as though she didn’t belong.
She stood up and slowly righted her room, searching through the stacks of papers for one book and another, furious she couldn’t find any notes. She had searched everywhere. Within an hour, her room was somewhat more presentable, but she was no closer to proving Percy had stolen her work.
What was she to do? Break into his home and try to find the original manuscript herself? No, that was ridiculous, and she didn’t have time. She had to think.
She drummed her fingers on her lips and studied her room before a rush of excitement coursed through her. There was one other place. She stormed toward her bed and lifted the mattress, but it was too heavy. It collapsed before she could get a peek of what was underneath. Determined, she shoved against it, pushing it off the base to reveal a collection of notebooks—journals she had kept growing up, filled with scribbles and poetry.
She collected the notebooks and sat on the floor, slowly going through each until finally, at last, she stumbled upon notes for that manuscript. This would bring her justice, would bring about the end of Percy claiming her work as his. He couldn’t deny it. She had proof.
The mattress was too heavy, so she left it as it was, stored the notebooks in a basket in the back of her wardrobe, and carried the one with the notes with her to a carriage outside.
Almost an hour later, the carriage arrived in front of his publisher’s office.
Notebook in hand, she approached the small building, its windows wavy and dark. Marjorie attempted to open the door but realized it was locked. She knocked on the door next, but there was no answer. She leaned closer, cupping her hand over her eyes and leaning in until she could see the dark interior of the shop.
Strange, no one was there.
