Page 90 of His Forsaken Duchess
And most importantly, would Cedric return unscathed, both in body and in spirit?
Cedric swung down from his horse in Bloomsbury with a dull, deliberate thud. The street was quieter than he’d expected, and he loosened his grip on the reins, passing them to the boy waiting nearby.
Belleville, dismounting beside him, let out a low whistle as he glanced up at the shabby façade of the building. “And here I thought the elusive Lord Rashford would stay in more respectable accommodations. How disappointing.”
Cedric shot him a sharp look, his patience already thin. “Perhaps if you kept your observations to yourself, we might actually accomplish something this morning.”
Belleville raised his hands in mock surrender, though his grin was maddeningly irreverent. “You are positively delightful when you’re frustrated, Haremore. Truly, it’s an honor to accompany you.”
Cedric didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he strode up the uneven steps to the front door and knocked, hard and to the point. The sound echoed through the interior like a judge’s gavel, demanding attention.
Moments later, the door creaked open to reveal an elderly man with the unmistakable air of a butler—or at least a man attempting to present himself as one. He was gaunt, his face lined with age and a life of service, though his faded coat and scuffed shoes betrayed a more modest establishment.
“May I help you, gentlemen?” he asked, his voice thin and wary as his gaze flicked between the two men.
Cedric stepped forward, his frame filling the doorway. “We are here to see Lord Rashford. Is he inside?”
The butler blinked, clearly startled, before shaking his head. “I’m afraid Lord Rashford no longer resides here, Sir.”
“No longer?” Cedric furrowed his brow, his jaw tightening. “You are saying he has moved out?”
“Yes, Sir,” the man replied, his gaze darting nervously toward Cedric’s dark coat and harsh expression. “Lord Rashford left this morning. He took his things and settled his account.”
The news made Cedric vibrate with frustration. He squared his shoulders, his hands flexing briefly at his sides as though eager to strike something.
Damn it.
He forced himself to draw a deep, steadying breath.
“Do you know where he has gone?” he pressed, his voice clipped and measured.
The butler’s expression turned blank. “I am afraid I do not, Sir. Lord Rashford gave no forwarding address.”
Cedric’s eyes narrowed. He studied the man for a long moment, as though searching for any crack in his resolve—a twitch, a shift of his feet—but the butler remained impassive. It was infuriating.
“No forwarding address?” Belleville cut in, his tone light but edged with suspicion. “How very careless of him.”
“Indeed,” Cedric muttered, turning away sharply. “Thank you. That will be all.”
The butler inclined his head and, after a hesitant glance at Belleville, closed the door with the soft finality of a man eager to rid himself of their presence.
Cedric stalked back toward the horses, his long strides betraying the tension coiled tightly in his frame. Belleville followed at a leisurely pace, his hands clasped behind his back as though they’d merely been out for a morning stroll.
“Well,” Belleville drawled as they mounted their horses, “I suppose congratulations are in order. We have now officially been evaded by Lord Rashford.”
Cedric shot him a withering look as he turned his horse around, his movements brusque. “Do you ever tire of hearing yourself talk?”
“Not really.” Belleville urged his horse into motion alongside Cedric’s, the smirk never leaving his face. “What now? Shall we pay a visit to the Rashford family residence? They are, after all, comfortably ensconced in Berkeley Square.”
Cedric considered it, his gloved hands tightening around the reins as they trotted through the fog-damp streets. His mind worked quickly, weighing options, possibilities, and the bitter pang of failure that gnawed at the back of his thoughts.
“No,” he said finally, his voice low and decisive. “Rashford is hiding. If we call on his family, it will spook him further. He’ll leave London entirely, and we may never find him again.”
Belleville tilted his head, giving him a shrewd look. “Hiding in plain sight, then? You think he’s slithering about town rather than fleeing to the countryside?”
Cedric’s jaw worked as he mulled it over. “It’s what I would do,” he admitted. “The man may be a coward, but he is not a fool. Evading detection requires blending into the very places people assume you won’t go—clubs, balls, social gatherings.”
“An interesting strategy,” Belleville mused, brushing a bit of dust from his coat sleeve. “And, I suspect, a perfect excuse for you to put on your best waistcoat and mingle with the very people you loathe.”
