Page 91 of Heartbreaker of the Ton
The furniture had been covered in sheets. The bookshelves were full, save for the bottom shelf where she’d once placed the teapot that Frannie had broken—the teapot he’d helped her to mend. The thin layer of dust was broken by a round mark, where the teapot had once been.
Andrew exited the parlor and brushed past Jimmy, making his way upstairs to Gabriel’s chamber.
The room was empty. Even the cot was no longer there.
His heart rate increasing, he approached the door to the other chamber—her chamber—and turned the handle.
It, too, was abandoned—empty save for a bed and a chair covered in dustsheets.
“Vicar!” Jimmy called from downstairs. Andrew flew down to see the lad standing by the front door, a note in his hand. “I found this on the floor. It’s for you.” He held it out, and Andrew took it, his breath catching as he read the inscription on the front in familiar handwriting.
Mr. Staines.
So formal an address! But what could he expect after the way he’d spoken to her at their last meeting?
His fingers trembling, Andrew tore open the envelope and read the note.
Dear Mr. Staines.
I have returned home, to where I have the greatest chance at finding happiness.
You will not see me again.
Yours etc.
Miss Juliette Howard.
Her words, delivered in such a cold, impersonal manner, did more to strike at his heart than any angry recrimination or accusation. It was as if she no longer cared for him.
Or perhaps she never had.
Juliette Howard had returned to Society—and much good it would do her.
As for Etty—hisEtty…
She no longer existed.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Rosecombe Park, Hertfordshire, October 1817
“There it is,look! My heaven, I’ve never seen anything so large in my life!”
Etty turned to the window and caught her breath as the building came into view.
Rosecombe. The seat of the Duke of Whitcombe—and her sister’s home.
The last time Etty had laid eyes upon the building, she had been beset by jealousy and a determination to make Eleanor suffer for having gained what Etty had considered to beherright.
She clasped her hands together, palms slick, as a ball of guilt tightened deep in her stomach.
What if Papa had been wrong about Eleanor? He had assured Etty that her sister had forgiven her, but surely not even the kindest soul could forgive her for what she had done.
Andrew certainly couldn’t forgive her—he’d made his contempt plain. He’d…
No. Do not think of him.
“Mrs. Ward, are you well?”
