Page 72 of The Curious Story of the Missing Lady
“What is it that you are implying? I went out every night in search of you.”
She fought against her tears. “I was so alone, so hopeless ...” She put her hands to her face, trying desperately to compose herself. She took a cleansing breath and looked at him. “I’m sorry, Oliver. I know not what I say.”
“Has your father commented on my not being able to find you? Is that what has you attracted to me yet? My incompetence?”
“Oh, do not treat me like some lady of unsound mind. I had merely remarked playfully on our union. That is all. If you cannot abide that, I’m sorry, Oliver.”
She turned to the building, listening to the music. The glorious notes of Bach fell dead on the air, and darkness descended around her. She spun around quickly.
“Take me home, Lord Oliver.”
“Madeline, I—”
“I wish to be home,” she said sternly.
He stared at her as if trying to see through stained glass. “As you wish, Lady Madeline.”
Chapter 52
Lord Ambrose sat alone in his library, a glass of sherry on his knee. Things were going well, for all intents and purposes. His sweet Madeline had been returned to him. She was going to be happy after all. And though it was true that he did not entirely approve of her choice, he had come to admire Lord Oliver more and more these recent days, and felt he could one day even come to love the man as his son.
He stared into the crackling fire, noticing the smile on his own face that he hadn’t realised was there. This was what true contentment was like, he thought: not noticing the smile on one’s face that has bloomed like a sprout, nourished by thought alone.
There came a soft knock, and Foster entered the room.
“M’Lord,” he said in a tone suited to the hour, “Constable Herrick is here to see you. May I show him in?”
“Please so, Foster,” said Ambrose, feeling the all-too familiar tinge of nerves at the mere mention of the constable’s name.
He’d not heard any mention of Herrick since the arrest of Lady Elizabeth a fortnight ago. The man, like all work-for-hire constables, had taken his final pay from Lord Ambrose and bid his farewell without so much as a look back.
A moment later, the man entered, a look of determination on his face.
“My dear Herrick,” Ambrose said, rising to greet him.
“M’Lord,” the man said, stiffening. “I’m terribly sorry to disturb you at such an hour as this, but I’m afraid I bring you some news that may not be agreeable.”
“Give it to me straight, man.”
“Lady Elizabeth has been found not guilty by the judge and has been set free.”
Ambrose felt his heart grow cold. “What?”
“Yes, M’Lord.”
“But ... how? I thought they would have waited for my testimony. Does my standing in the village of Stamford mean nothing?”
The constable licked his lips uncomfortably. “There was a matter of a letter, M’Lord.”
“A letter?”
“Yes, M’Lord. The letter that you yourself, sir, penned to the magistrate. It has apparently had great influence on his decision.”
“I wrote no letter!”
The man stiffened more. “I thought as much, M’Lord. I’m afraid we may have another case of forgery on our hands.”
The nerves in Ambrose’s gut transformed into rage, and he threw his glass into the fireplace, swearing as he did so.
