Page 80 of Her Lion of a Duke
Leonard remembered how Beatrice was when they had first met. She was gentle, soft-spoken, and kind, and he could not imagine her snapping at a friend the way she had.
“People change,” Morgan commented. “Perhaps some time alone is exactly what she needed. If she has found her voice, then we cannot begrudge her that.”
“I said that to my wife, but she disagreed. She said that Lady Beatrice was not herself. Seeing how well they know one another, I am inclined to believe her. Something is wrong, and though there is nothing we can do, I would like to know more about it.”
“I can recommend a private investigator,” Leonard offered grimly.
He had to meet with Mr. Livingston and explain that he had discovered the identity of Felix Gray. He would still compensate the man, for he had done everything he could, but it stung to know that he was paying a man for his help in finding proof of something his wife had done.
He was surprisingly steady on his feet when he left the gentlemen’s club, and he soon found himself in Mr. Livingston’s office. As he revealed the truth, the man’s eyes widened in disbelief.
Leonard, meanwhile, was tired of telling the same story over and over. He did not want any of it to be true, and he hated that he had to remind himself that it was.
“I cannot believe it.” Mr. Livingston gaped at him. “I knew it had to be someone, but I never would have thought it could be her.”
“Nor would I. Believe me, I am as surprised.”
“I did not look into her as closely as I should have,” Mr. Livingston admitted. “When you told me about her, I assumed that she was the sort of lady who speaks her mind with no regard for who she offended. That made her less of a suspect.”
“We both made mistakes. Regardless, we now know the truth, and I will have to act accordingly.”
“An annulment?” Mr. Livingston asked tentatively.
Leonard blinked at him.
He was angry, yes, but walking away from his marriage? Even a separation seemed too much, for he did not want to lose Cecilia. He wanted to forgive her, but he did not know how to do it.
“She may ask for that,” he said. “I do not want her to continue her work, so she has every right to choose it over me. I know her; she cares deeply for everything she does.”
“More than she cares for your marriage? I would not have thought that.”
“No,” Leonard sighed, handing the man a pouch of coins. “Neither did I.”
He returned home, but when the carriage rolled to a halt, he did not climb out. He did not want to go inside, nor did he want to face his wife. It was time for dinner, and he could not face a silent meal with her.
Even so, he was hungry. So he took a deep breath, climbed out of the carriage, and made for the house. It was quiet, too quiet, but he chalked it down to the fact that the servants were aware of their dispute.
He took his seat at the dining table. His gaze kept straying to Cecilia’s empty seat despite himself. He wondered where she was, but he decided that she had either eaten or was not hungry. He ate in silence, grateful that Henry did not appear, and then retired to his study.
Something was wrong; he could feel it. But there was not very much that he could do. Even if he wanted to reconcile with his wife, he did not want to disturb her. He would have to wait until she was ready to speak with him, and knowing Cecilia, that could take a long time.
And so he went to bed late that night, tossing and turning until he awoke the following morning. He listened for noise, footsteps, or voices, but nothing came. There was only the awful silence he had to endure the night before, and he was tired of it.
He dressed and left to find his wife.
Cecilia was a stubborn lady, but he did not care. He did not want to live alone in his house. Even if they did not reconcile, he wanted her to roam freely around his home—herhome. If she did not, that would make him a bad husband, which he was determined not to be.
He looked in the breakfast room first, but he did not find her there. He grabbed some bread and cheese and walked away, not having the time to sit down when he wanted to know what she was doing.
He checked the drawing room next, then the parlor, but both were empty. It was as though she had disappeared without a trace, and it infuriated him.
Fortunately, he knew exactly whom to ask about her whereabouts.
He found Mrs. Herrington in the garden, and when she saw him, she paled. He knew instantly that she knew something he did not.
“Where is she?” he demanded. “I have not seen her since two nights ago.”
“I-I do not know, Your Grace.”
