Page 104

Thirty-Three

By morning, Marina had stopped listening for Ambrose’s footsteps.

She had spent the hours after the ball in Emma’s nursery, with Luna curled upon the rug and the little girl sleeping peacefully in her cradle. Every creak of the house had made her lift her head. Every murmur in the corridor had sent her heart racing. But Ambrose had not come.

At first she had been angry with him. Then frightened for him. And now, as morning light spread over the snowy grounds of Griffin, she was simply exhausted.

“I should like to know how you manage it,” she whispered to Emma. “How you sleep so soundly when the rest of us are losing our minds.”

Emma made a small sound, stretched one hand above her head and settled again.

Marina smiled despite herself.

“There. You see? You have already answered me. You are quite determined to be happy.”

Luna rose, stretched her black paws and jumped into Marina’s lap. Marina stroked the cat’s fur, grateful for the familiar weight of her.

A knock sounded.

“Come in.”

Mrs. Dalton entered with a breakfast tray, followed by Celeste carrying fresh water.

“Your Grace,” the housekeeper said gently, “you must eat something.”

“I am not hungry.”

“That is what you said when I sent supper up last night. And again when I brought tea before dawn.”

“Then you see how consistent I am.”

Mrs. Dalton did not smile. “His Grace would not wish you to make yourself ill.”

At the mention of her husband, Marina looked toward the door.

“Have you heard from him?”

“No, Your Grace. Mr. Ernest says His Grace went out during the night. He gave instructions that you and Lady Emma were not to be disturbed.”

“He gave instructions for everyone except his wife, it seems.”

Mrs. Dalton’s expression softened. “I believe he is trying to put matters right.”

“He might have begun by telling me where he was going.”

The housekeeper had no answer to that. She set down the tray, checked that the fire was well supplied and withdrew with Celeste.

Marina forced herself to eat a little toast. She had barely finished it when her mother arrived.

Lady Dashwood took one look at her and sighed.

“My darling. Have you slept at all?”

“A little.”

“That is a lie.”

“It is Christmas. Perhaps you might allow me one.”