‘Of course, it slipped my mind,’ Quinn said. Hades, the woman will have me in an early grave, never mind at the altar at this rate.
He ate with no apparent haste, but rose without taking any port. Gregor got to his feet. ‘The Blue Door?’
‘There is no need for you to come,’ Quinn said. ‘Stay and do what you can to make this seem normal. I do not want talk amongst the servants.’
By the time he had reached The Blue Door he had calmed down a trifle. His arm hurt like the devil, which did not help his temper, but he reminded himself that women set store by things like weddings. He should have consulted Celina first about the venue. But it was not like her to flounce off in a sulk. Perhaps she wanted to do her planning surrounded by women.
‘Good evening, Lord Dreycott.’ Madam Deverill was in the salon, elegant in deep blue satin.
‘Good evening. I wish to speak to Celina.’
‘She is not here. No—’ she raised a hand when he began to turn towards the stairs and gestured him into the office ‘—I give you my word, I do not know where she is just now and I have not seen her since yesterday evening.’ Her fine blue eyes scanned him with the wisdom of one with long experience of studying men. ‘Your duel went well?’
‘It did. I have a flesh wound, but that is all. Celina was not happy about the duel and then I was clumsy over the arrangements for the wedding.’
‘There are several things Celina is unhappy about,’ Madam Deverill remarked. ‘The marriage most of all.’
‘You surely agree with me that it is the best thing for her?’
‘Not if you do not love her. Celina is not a young woman who would ever tie herself to a man for security, or money or title. She has a sweet, affectionate heart and the sense to know what would break it. You would, it seems.’
‘You want me to pretend to love her?’ Quinn demanded, feeling something almost tangible slipping through his mind, just out of reach as he tried to catch at it. His stomach felt as though he had been punched in the gut. He had been so certain she would be here. He would have seduced her back to Clifford Street, seduced her up to bed and made love to her until she was incapable of saying anything but yes.
‘Of course not! Lina wants no lies from you. Her parents’ marriage was based on lies and that ended in tragedy. If you cannot love her, then leave her alone.’
‘Love works two ways,’ Quinn retorted, goaded. ‘I am supposed to love her, but she…’ His voice trailed away. Why did he feel dizzy? It must be the loss of blood. Celina’s aunt just looked at him and said nothing. ‘Where has she gone? I know that you know.’
‘Come here.’ Clara Deverill reached out and, compelled by something in those blue eyes, so like Celina’s, Quinn stepped forwards and put his hands in hers. She drew him close, his nostrils filling with the same subtle and provocative scent that Lina used. She said nothing, simply stood and looked deep into his eyes. ‘I hope she will forgive me if I am wrong,’ she said at last. ‘Do you give me your word that you will not seduce or bully or frighten her into marriage?’
‘Yes. You have my word.’ Then how will I get her back? But he had sworn. Somehow he must manage with this handicap if it was the price he had to pay to find her.
‘She has gone to Norwich on the stage. I believe there was one at noon.’
Quinn looked at the clock. Half past nine. He could not catch her on the road now. ‘When does it get in?’
‘It takes about twelve hours, so she will be there at midnight or thereabouts. I gave her money, Quinn. She will be able to stay at a respectable inn and then find decent lodgings. You will pursue her?”
‘I cannot leave things like this. I must be sure she is safe, end this.’ End what? Not an affaire, not even a friendship, although he wished it were. All he knew was that he missed her, and he worried about her and he wanted her happy, even at the expense of his own happiness.
Quinn went home, packed a bag, summoned a chaise and four with postilions and set out at midnight feeling more uncertain than he had done since he stepped on to French soil ten years before.
It was not until he woke from an uncomfortable doze to find himself in Thetford at half past eight in the morning that it occurred to Quinn to wonder how, exactly, this marriage had become a matter of his own happiness. It was the right thing to do, his duty, and it would certainly not be a burden to be married to Celina. But, happiness?
The nagging feeling that he was probably running a fever pursued him through Wymondham and into Norwich. He was not thinking logically, he could not seem to plan, and his emotions felt painfully raw. Where was she? Was she safe? How unhappy had he made her that she had to flee?
It was almost noon before the chai
se drew into the yard of the Maid’s Head, hard up against the walls surrounding the cathedral close. This, the postilions told him, was where the stage from the Belle Sauvage set down its passengers and it was also a most respectable inn, so with any luck Celina had decided to put up there. Quinn climbed down, favouring his arm, which was giving him hell. He set his teeth and walked towards the door, then had to catch the young woman who hurried out of it into his arms. ‘My lord!’
‘Prudence.’ The realisation that he had found them swamped the pain in his arm and sharpened his voice. ‘And where, might I ask, is Miss Shelley?’
‘Up…upstairs, my lord. Third door on the right, my lord. A private parlour.’
Thank goodness for that. He had feared finding her in some common tap, her pocket picked, at the mercy of every rake and petty criminal in the place.
He flung the door open, all reasonable thoughts forgotten as the anger of relief took over. She sat by the window, looking out on to the busy street below, but she spun round on the chair as the door crashed back against the panelling.
‘Quinn.’ There were tear tracks on her cheeks and that only infuriated him further.