Page 102 of A Governess Should Never… Deny a Duke (The Governess Chronicles 2)

A searing rage erupted within Rhys. “This is a nonsense, Elen. Where’s Hugh?”

“Mr Cadwalader received an urgent message, Your Grace,” stated his butler, who appeared rather flustered for once, nose and eyes level with Rhys’ own. “He informed one that he would return this eve but…”

The wind gusted, slamming rain at near horizontal beneath the portico.

“Then I am for Cogran,” Rhys said grimly. He knew not what had occurred but someone here was intent on havoc and he would tear this house apart to find out who.

But first Isabelle.

“Morgan, arrange for a fresh horse. Oberon is exhausted.”

“Already done, Your Grace.”

“Surely it can wait till morn…” Elen trailed off as he scowled.

Fury assailed as he thought of Isabelle, alone in a pitch cramped prison cell, at the mercy of some jug-bitten whoreson of a jailer, and he smacked his eyes shut, grit his jaw. This was his fault: for not–

“Oh, Your Grace,” came a simper. “Thank goodness you have returned. I had an awful shock when I discovered my jewels stol–”

“Shut your harping grub box,” Mari shouted.

Cousin Elen scolded but Rhys held his tongue, refusing to reprimand his niece.

The dumbstruck Lady Bronwen was thrust aside by Gwen who shoved a canvas holdall into his grip.

“A change of clothes for Miss Beaujeu. They only let her have a cloak. I’m sorry, Rhys. The magistrate ignored me. I did all I could.”

“I know you did, Gwen.” He heaved the holdall to his shoulder, kissed Mari’s forehead and swivelled because a snicker of horse had denoted the arrival of… He peered through the deluge.

Flint.

A sturdy native steed of eighteen hands that could cope with this weather, and Rhys strode out into the rainstorm, nodding at Mr Pugh, whose grizzled features were stern.

Seizing the reins, Rhys mounted up once more, but this time for Cogran, the torrent disregarded, the discomfort now a friend that would speed his journey.

The small town lay three miles further north of the Llanedwyn village – not far, but the track from the estate was already turning to a quagmire, trenches of mud that sucked at the hooves of Flint.

He knew Isabelle would have the fortitude to endure a chill night in Cogran Prison but what terror might it rekindle from her past? And he fought against the need to urge Flint faster as he’d be nothing, useless to her, without this steed if it stumbled.

How had it come to this? He’d felt the mood of competitiveness amongst the young ladies but never imagined one would go this far: to accuse a defenceless governess of theft.

Of course he took the blame for raising hope amongst them in the first place, for allowing his regard for Isabelle to show while the house party proceeded, but nevertheless, he was going to raise bloody hell when this was concluded.

The estate’s arched iron gateway appeared through the rain but as he passed beneath, he nigh clattered into a shadowed figure on horseback cantering in the opposite direction.

“Ho!” he yelled, and the other horse reared, hooves flailing, solely the skill of its rider keeping the cloaked figure in the saddle.

“Rhys! What the devil are you doing here?”

Through the gloom, he could make out Hugh’s blond mop beneath a slouched hat. “Where the hell were you?”

“A message came for me but…” A grimace twisted Hugh’s mouth. “I waited and they never showed.”

Which in his vocation either meant they’d been killed or… Had it all been a ruse?

“With me to Cogran then. I’ll explain on the way.”

A nod of slouched hat and the two of them set off hell for leather.

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