A Duke in the Night(12)

And before August could assure Miss Hayward that he was no longer that gauche youth, seeking to recapture the advantage that he had so spectacularly lost on a dance floor long ago, Mathias Stilton had appeared. August felt his lip curl. The man was a peacock. An egotistical, foolish peacock who had managed to run the profitable lace factory his father had established into the ground within a year and a half of inheriting it.

August had swiftly and unapologetically bought it and the vast tract of land upon which it sat, and it had been one of his first large acquisitions. The purchase price should have been enough to send Stilton away and keep him in moderate comfort, but for almost a year afterward, August had been forced to endure and reject Stilton’s constant requests and demands for either a loan or partnership to give back to him what he insisted was his birthright. Another reason August now used benign company names for his investments.

Though what Clara Hayward was doing with a man like that was perplexing. Stilton wasn’t intelligent or intrepid. He certainly wasn’t the sort of man August had envisioned her with, and a startling animosity had risen fast and fierce. Stilton simply wasn’t…good enough for her.

And you are?

The voice in his head came with the reminder that he’d already had his chance and squandered it. Frustration, disappointment, and something far more unsettling rose in his gut. As if he’d once held something valuable in his hand and discarded it, recognizing its worth far too late. Perhaps that was what chafed, because he prided himself on recognizing worth where others did not. It was what he had built his fortune on.

August straightened, pushing himself out of his chair and to his feet. Brooding was pointless. Regret was pointless. He needed to keep his eye on the prize here, and that prize was not Clara Hayward, no matter how beautiful and intelligent and gracious she might be. If he wanted a chance to acquire Strathmore Shipping, he needed a new plan.

Starting, it would seem, in Dover.

“Your Grace?” Duncan stuck his head around the door.

“Perfect timing,” August grumbled. “I’d appreciate your assistance.”

Duncan sidled in. “Your Grace—”

“We’re going to need to make some sort of arrangements to—”

“Your Grace.” It was said with greater volume.

“Is there a problem, Mr. Down?” For the first time, August took a good look at his man of business and noted the deep crease in his forehead and the worried expression behind his spectacles. He also realized that Down wasn’t alone, and that he was, in fact, accompanied by a young maid. Anne’s lady’s maid, specifically.

And the woman looked as if she was going to cast up her accounts.

“Mr. Down?” August left that hanging ominously. He didn’t have time to deal with domestic problems at the moment.

“It’s Lady Anne, Your Grace,” the woman wobbled.

Apprehension streaked through him. “What about my sister? Is she ill? Has something happened?” All manner of catastrophes flitted through his mind, each worse than the one before.

The maid now looked as if she was on the verge of tears. “She’s not…not…not here, Your Grace.”

“I beg your pardon?” It came out far harsher than he’d intended, but he couldn’t stand vacillation.

Duncan cleared his throat. “It seems, Your Grace, that Lady Anne has left.”

“Left?” August’s patience was hanging by a thread. “When did she leave?” he demanded. “Perhaps she’s gone visiting or shopping or to—”

“Yesterday, Your Grace.”

August blinked in incomprehension. “Yesterday?”

“She told me that she didn’t need me yesterday or last night,” the maid explained tremulously. “Told me to take the time to visit my ma. So I did.” She was wringing her hands. “But then, this morning when I came back and went up to her rooms, I realized that she hadn’t slept in her bed.”

“Perhaps the chambermaids made it before you got there.” It sounded more like an order than a question. As if he could will it so.

She shook her head. “I asked, and they didn’t. Tidy the room, that is. And some of her things are missing. Clothes and—”

“Goddammit.”

The maid flinched, and Duncan frowned. August forced himself to take a breath. He recalled his last tense encounter with his sister and clenched his hands. Though he was having a very difficult time believing that Anne would run away because she was angry with him. Anne did not run away from conflict. “Did she leave a note? A message? Anything?”

“She did.” It was Duncan who spoke. He held out a folded paper.

“What does it say?” August snapped.

“I thought you might wish to read it—”

“What. Does. It. Say?” August growled.

Duncan cleared his throat again. “She has left to attend and take part in the Haverhall School for Young Ladies’ summer term. You are not to worry, nor are you to follow her or, ah, interfere in any way. She will return in six weeks.”

August stared at Duncan. Duncan stared back. Very slowly, August turned to the maid. “Go. And speak of this to no one, if you value your job.”

His man of business frowned again at his rudeness, but August was past the point of caring. The young maid almost fell over herself in her haste to leave, and the door banged shut behind her.