Wicked in Your Arms (Forgotten Princesses #1)(44)

A commotion at the French doors leading into the solarium drew her attention. She winced at the sight of Lady Libbie’s red-faced father, having a fairly good idea why he appeared so apoplectic.

He squared off in front of the table, his stout, barrel chest swelling to such a degree she feared one of the buttons of his waistcoat would fly free and strike someone. He reminded her of a bull, ready to charge at the first moving target.

“Have any of you seen my Libbie?”

Everyone exchanged glances, murmuring denials, their expressions avid with curiosity, hounds smelling for blood.

“Where’s the prince?” Persia murmured in a singsong voice, clearly under the same misapprehension Grier had labored under the night before. “They seemed cozy the other afternoon.”

The earl waved a hand. “I’ve already spoken to His Highness. He’s in the stables, just returning from a ride.” He fixed his stare on each of them at the table in slow turn, as if trying to see the truth within, as if one of them hid his daughter away somewhere—or at least possessed the knowledge of her whereabouts. Grier tucked her hands in her lap and struggled for an innocent expression.

A maid approached then, wringing her hands and looking generally fearful. “Her maid is gone, too. I’ve looked everywhere.”

“Hannah, too?” The earl’s voice rose shrilly.

“They’ve run away! Oh dear!” Persia pressed her hands to her cheeks.

“Well, they haven’t been abducted,” the earl spit out. “Someone has to know something . . . has to have seen something!”

Grier’s foot tapped uneasily under the table. She was not about to interfere and bring undue notice to herself. Lady Libbie was no child. If she wished to marry someone else, then the decision was hers.

One of the dowager’s grooms arrived then, as if Grier’s thoughts had conjured him. He approached hesitantly, lightly clearing his throat. “Um, my lord—”

The earl whirled on him. “What, man? Speak up!” he barked. “Have you news of my Libbie?”

“Well, I’ve some news, my lord, that might shed light—”

“Out with it.”

Everyone at the table leaned forward, heaving a collective breath of anticipation.

“Your groom, John, is missing.” At the earl’s blank expression, he added, “He didn’t sleep in his bed, either.”

“John,” he echoed, his brow wrinkling in confusion.

Instantly Grier understood, vaguely recalling the handsome young groom. Holding her breath, she waited for the moment of understanding to dawn on the earl. She did not have long to wait.

Color flooded his face anew. “That bloody bastard!”

The viscount lurched to his feet from the table. “Contain yourself, my lord. There are ladies present!”

The earl ignored the viscount. Blustering and cursing, he raced from the solarium, calling for his carriage.

Everyone sat in stunned silence for a moment until Persia suddenly rose in a rustle of lavender skirts. “Well, that was much too exciting for so early an hour as this. I think I’ll seek the dowager’s calming company . . . see if she’s up for a stroll.” Her gaze lingered on the viscount for a moment, clearly waiting for him to rise and accompany her.

The viscount looked from her to Grier, clearly weighing what he should do with what he wanted to do. As tempting as he found Persia, she clearly did not possess the requisite dowry. With a faintly apologetic smile for Persia, he settled back in his chair, evidently committed to his duty. “Enjoy your stroll, Miss Thrumgoodie,” he murmured in strained tones.

Grier stifled a sigh, in that moment wishing he would simply do as he wished to do.

Hurt flickered across Persia’s features before she managed to mask it. With a quick inhalation that lifted the charming swell of bosom modestly displayed within the confines of her morning gown, she started from the table with short, quick steps, her eagerness to spread the latest on dit apparently returning.

A smile quirked Grier’s lips. The girl was no doubt anxious to be the first to share this latest gossip with the highest lady of rank in residence.

Marielle rose. “I believe I might check in on Grandfather and see about venturing home today. He was looking a bit peaked last night. Too much country air usually gives him the sniffles. I’m afraid country living is not for those of delicate constitutions.” Marielle chafed a hand over one plump arm as though to imply she was affected as well. Grier resisted the impulse to roll her eyes. The girl was the picture of bountiful health. “I don’t know how the dowager can abide to spend so much time here. Perhaps I can convince her of the wisdom of returning to Town. I so fret for her in this winter clime. It’s much warmer in Town.”

Grier could no longer fight her smirk. They couldn’t stand it. One of London’s wealthiest heiresses had run away with her father’s groom. A moment wasn’t to be wasted sitting on such a juicy tidbit as that. The dowager’s house party, it seemed, had come to a swift end.

It was far too important to be one of the first to impart news of the scandal to Society. Grier watched in bemusement as Marielle’s plump figure fled the solarium, obviously eager to reach the dowager before Persia shared all the news.

“Well,” Cleo announced airily after some moments, “appears we’ll be returning to Town earlier than expected.”