Was it of no consequence that I loved him with all my heart and soul-that I would have died for him and would die for him still?
But what does love matter now, I suppose, when I am to be dragged to the altar to marry another? In one hour, my father will come for me, and I will leave this dirty London inn for the church.
And what of Jess? Is he even alive? Two days ago, my brothers beat him before my eyes and took him away. Where, oh where, did they take him?
Please, dear God, I will do anything if you can spare his life. I will marry this man and repent my wicked desires, if only you will let my darling Jess go on living.
Rebecca slammed the diary shut and wondered if she should deliver the book to Devon and mark the next page, for there were so many similarities to her own situation. If only her husband could believe that love like that truly existed. If only….
But she was not going to take the book to him, because, for one thing, she was not supposed to leave her room. More importantly, she did not want to see him. She was far too angry. He had treated her like the criminal in all of this, when she was the one being threatened and mistreated.
If anyone deserved her husband's wrath, it was Mr. Rushton, for he was seeking to break up a marriage for his own selfish ambitions, while Rebecca could do nothing but worry about her father and live with the possibility that her entire life had been a lie-that she had sacrificed her happiness all these years for a killer.
But no, that could not be true. She could not believe it. She could not even bear to think of it.
Was her husband incapable of pity? Could he not see past his own skepticism and understand that she was in agony right now?
She supposed he could not, and he had proven tonight that he was not so very different from Mr. Rushton. To him, she was a possession, and he had been overbearing and controlling because his power and authority had been threatened. He had told her she could not leave the palace, so it seemed she was indeed his prisoner.
Devon woke at dawn the next morning, still uncertain about what to do. He lay in bed staring up at the ceiling. He supposed he could simply do nothing and let Rebecca's father be exposed. Rebecca might not agree with that plan, but if her father was guilty of something heinous, it was only fair that he face justice.
On the other hand, if he is innocent, the truth would prevail. There would be a scandal, yes, but at least Rushton would no longer hold any power over them, and Rebecca would be able to distance herself from it, here at Pembroke Palace.
Devon looked toward the window. The sky was growing brighter. There were raindrops on the panes, more evidence of the wretched family curse, which his father would no doubt take to heart.
At least Dr. Thomas had been helpful the day before. He had spent an hour with the duke and had spoken to Mother about it afterward, shedding new light on the duke's fears and agitations.
The doctor noted an intense fixation with the past, his own childhood, and a delusional view of history, going as far back as the Dissolution of the Monasteries. As far as Dr. Thomas could ascertain, the duke believed the curse originated with one of the monks of Pembroke Abbey, and that that monk was still haunting the corridors.
The doctor promised to return again in a few days for further analysis. He told the duchess that if the family desired it, he could recommend that the duke's new will be rendered invalid on the basis of their father's insanity. That would, however, require an official declaration that their father had gone mad.
Devon and the rest of the family would have to take some time to consider the broader ramifications of such a course of action, and they had yet to receive word from Garrett.
But that was not Devon's first concern this morning. His first thought was to speak to Rebecca again and decide what must be done.
He rose from bed and dressed without calling for his valet, then left his bedchamber and walked through the quiet palace. He passed a maid with a feather duster who seemed startled to see him at such an early hour. She quickly backed up against the wall as he passed.
He turned the corner and spotted a footman pacing in front of Rebecca's door. The young man stopped when he spotted Devon.
"Good morning," Devon said.
"Good morning, my lord."
Devon knocked on the door. There was no reply, so he knocked again, louder the second time.
Still no answer came, so he turned to the footman. "No one has come or gone since I left?"
"I was posted here only an hour ago, my lord, but I understand it was a quiet night."
Devon turned the knob, but the door was locked. He knocked louder and more insistently, and his heart began to beat faster as a sense of panic cut through to his bones. She wouldn't have done anything foolish, would she? She wouldn't have used the passageways to leave him…
He turned to the footman. "Go and get a key from Mrs. Callahan."
"Yes, my lord." The young man ran down the corridor toward the stairs, while Devon waited impatiently. A moment later, the housekeeper appeared with the footman.
Mrs. Callahan fumbled with her keys. "Good morning, Lord Hawthorne," she said, as if nothing were amiss, but she was quick to insert the key into the lock and open the door.
Devon entered Rebecca's bedchamber and found it empty, though the covers were in disarray. At least the bed had been slept in. He went to the dressing room and peered inside, but there was no one about. He looked at the portrait on the wall, slightly ajar.
Where had she gone, he wondered? If she had left the palace, he would have a hard time finding her, and pray God she didn't leave to confront Rushton alone or surrender to his demands. If she did, Devon would have only himself to blame. He had offered her no help or support. He had made her feel like a prisoner.
He turned from the room and met the footman and housekeeper waiting in the corridor. "If you would be so kind," he said, "as to help me locate my wife. If you find her before I do, tell her I wish to speak with her in my study."
"Of course, Lord Hawthorne."
He strode off and went from room to room. He searched the library, the gallery, the breakfast room, the saloon, each of the drawing rooms, but she was nowhere to be found.
With growing panic, he went back upstairs to his study, hoping the housekeeper had already brought her there, but the room was empty like all the others. Bloody hell, had she left? Had he been that much of a brute the night before? Oh, he knew he had. That was without question. But surely she would not have been so foolish and impulsive to actually leave without telling anyone…
What if she had? What if he had lost her?
He ran back down the stairs again to find the housekeeper, but passed a footman carrying a pot of coffee. "Where are you going with that?" he asked.
"To the breakfast room, my lord."
"Someone is up at this hour?"
"Yes-"
Devon turned and ran in that direction, and burst through the door. Lo and behold, there she was-his precious, lovely wife-sitting at the white-clothed table with a book, dressed for the day and looking completely at ease in a sunny yellow gown with lace around the collar.
He had never been so relieved to see anyone at breakfast in his life. If anything had happened to her…If he had lost her…
What? he asked himself with a frown. What would he have done? How would he have felt?
It was pointless to deny it. Despite all his worthy efforts to avoid falling hopelessly and desperately in love with his wife, despite his intentions to focus on his duties, not his heart, his heart was in pieces in her pretty lap.
"Where have you been?" he asked, struggling to recover from the panic still searing his brain. "I've been looking everywhere for you."