Page 7 of Beth: A Regency Romance Novell

“But, Madam, I…” Marcus began.

Mrs. Grayshott’s face flushed beneath her purple turban. She held up an imperious hand. “A footman brought a note from Miss Harrismith, explaining she had left the ballroom to meet a gentleman in the gardens, by the fountain. Well, of course I could not allow that! The Duke would be so angry! I rushed straight off. Didn’t I, Phillida?”

“Yes, Mama.” Her daughter, Phillida sank onto the seat beside her an expression of annoyance on her face. “Shall I send for smelling salts?”

She flapped a hand at her daughter. “We must find Miss Harrismith before this becomes a frightful scandal, which will undoubtedly fall upon me!”

“The dance took Miss Harrismith and me to the far end of the room. It was some time before we found our way back to her seat. You were absent, however. You did not think to search for us on the floor, Mrs. Grayshott?”

“Of course,” she said indignantly. “But the countess’ balls are always a crush.” She cast him a suspicious glance. “The note stated clearly that Elizabeth was in the garden!” Did the lady believe he’d been the rake who whisked Miss Harrismith outside?

“Where have you looked for her?” Marcus urged as an inexplicable sense of unease tightened his shoulders.

“Everywhere! The garden paths are poorly lit. Such false economy! A servant accompanied us with a lantern. But even so I was afraid I would fall and break an ankle.” She drew in a shuddering breath. “It took us an hour! There are several water features!”

“And you found no sign of Miss Harrismith?”

“No! Nor was she in the ladies withdrawing room, the other reception rooms, the cardroom, or the supper room.” She made a grab for his sleeve again, but Marcus, fearing for the cloth, anticipated it, and moved slightly out of reach.

“Ah, here is the footman with the Madeira,” he said, wondering what the hell had happened to Miss Harrismith. He too, had failed in his duty it seemed.

Mrs. Grayshott drank half a glass, which appeared to calm her. She gestured to a footman who waited patiently for a chance to speak. “This servant assures me that Miss Harrismith is not in the house!”

Marcus’ gaze flickered over his face. “Has every room been searched?”

“Yes, sir,” the footman said. “The lady could not be found.”

“And you did not see Miss Harrismith leave the house?”

“I was not on duty at the door, sir,” the footman said. “That would be the butler, or the footman, Charles, but they have been called upstairs.”

Perhaps she had been overlooked in some corner engaged in conversation. That the note was meant to send Beth’s chaperone on a fool’s errand, was of great concern to him. “But Miss Harrismith would have no reason to leave the ball so early in the evening,” Marcus said. “Did she not give you a clue to her feelings?”

“Of course not!” Mrs. Grayshott glared up at him. She thrust the empty glass at the footman and stood. “Miss Harrismith would hardly take me into her confidence!” She whirled around. “Countess Wallington must be told of this.”

“I believe the duke would appreciate your discretion in this matter, Mrs. Grayshott,” Marcus said gravely.

“Eh?” She paled. “Yes, perhaps you are right, sir. But what if we can’t find Miss Harrismith?”

“Miss Harrismith must be here somewhere. Please leave the matter in my hands, Mrs. Grayshott. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll send a footman to search the rooms again, and speak to the grooms. They will certainly know if Miss Harrismith has departed in a carriage. The footman who brought you the note must be questioned. Which one was he, do you remember?”

“Goodness me, no,” Mrs. Grayshott said irritably. “They all look the same to me. But I shall do nothing and leave it entirely in your hands, sir.”

With a bow, Marcus left her pleased that his warning had subdued her, at least for now.

Had Beth succumbed to a rake’s flirtation? He strode outside, liking this less and less. Not just because Andrew had asked him to keep an eye on Beth, but because he’d been drawn to her. He’d looked forward to dancing with her again and taking her into supper. She was the epitome of a fresh-faced young debutant, but she didn’t simper or blush. He had spied a gleam of humor and intelligence in her lovely eyes and when a smile curled her lips, she was utterly beguiling. While he couldn’t be certain on such a brief acquaintance, he found it impossible to believe she’d run off with a lover. Surely if that was her intention she would have made some excuse to leave him before he returned her to her seat after the dance?

Word would soon spread, and the gossips would be out in force. This would ruin Miss Harrismith’s chances for a decent marriage. But it was her safety more than her reputation that worried him most. Whoever had persuaded her to leave the ballroom with him could not be a decent fellow seeking to claim her hand.

Outside, a liveried groom assisted a lady and gentleman into their carriage. Marcus waited filled with impatience. Andrew would have this man’s hide when he learned who he was, but Marcus would like to get his hands on the fellow first. Soften him up a bit. A muscle ticked in his jaw. As soon as the groom was free Marcus beckoned him to his side.

Beth sat stiffly on the squabs as the carriage left the Mayfair streets behind. Lord Ramsey urged her not to worry, that he was sure she would find her sister already restored to health. His words failed to reassure her. Beth couldn’t respond beyond a nod. Rendered silent, she clutched her hands in her lap, her breathing rapid, her stomach tied in knots.

Soon, the coach left London and traveled on toward Richmond in tense silence. It seemed ages before they passed through Richmond village. The coach rattled over a stone bridge on the River Thames where moonlight cut a brilliant swathe across the black waters. They traveled on through Twickenham, passing the ornate gates of fine mansions set back among the trees. Only the fitful moonlight and the swinging carriage lamps showed the way.

Finally, the carriage turned through a pair of wrought-iron gates and rattled along a rutted driveway through an avenue of gnarled aged oaks. Beth sat forward as clouds drifted away from the moon. Ivy was rampant on the trunks of the trees. She put down the window. The gardens ran down to the river where moonlit waters sparkled through the trees. The smells wafting from the dank river and rising from the damp ground and rotted greenery made her slightly nauseous. The waist high grass which had not been scythed in years deepened her fear that they had come to the wrong address. She dragged in breaths of chilly air. “We must have made a mistake,” she said to Lord Ramsey.

He didn’t answer.

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