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She drew herself up. “Then what do you suggest that I do?”

“Send a loyal servant to him on horseback, with a letter." He grimaced. "And assume that even a private message may be intercepted. Perhaps invent some urgent family matter—something serious enough to recall him to London before the soldiers reach Shropshire.”

“I see.” Why did the idea feel so wrong? She tried to brush the feeling aside. She was perfectly capable of writing such a note. After all, she was an authoress. “Thank you. I will see to it at once.”

Sir Anthony bowed. “Thank you, your grace. And let us pray that the duke will soon be out of harm's way.”

Pomona went upstairs, sat down at her desk, pulled a fresh sheet of paper in front of her, dipped her quill into the inkwell... and then sat staring into space.

Of course, she could invent some story that would persuade West to return to London. The celebrated authoress of The Specter of Venice ought to be able to do that easily enough. But what would happen then? If West began the journey back to London, the moment he left Townley might very well set the soldiers on his tenants in an attempt to draw him back to Castle March. Townley wouldn’t care if people were killed or injured. But West would. He'd never forgive himself.

If she lied to him, she would be depriving him of the chance to look at the facts and decide for himself what to do. And yet, if she told him the plain truth, she didn't doubt that if one of Townley's operatives were to get his hands on the letter, it would never reach West.

The blank sheet of paper sat before her. This was no time to have writer's block. But she could see no solution to the dilemma before her.

There was a knock at the study door. “I beg your pardon, your grace." It was Mrs. Raines, the housekeeper. "Lady Alford has been asking us every day about this. I thought that you ought to be told immediately." She handed Pomona a heavy object cradled in a soft cloth.

It was a large cast bronze bear, standing on its hind legs, its front paws outspread menacingly and its tongue lolling from its mouth. “Why—it is the door knocker!”

“Yes, your grace. Lady Alford seemed to be convinced that it had been stolen. But the roofers found it at the back of one of the attics, only an hour ago."

The style of the bear was unexpectedly whimsical. Though its sharp claws and teeth were meant to look fierce, it seemed to have a gleam in its eye, and with its lolling tongue it looked almost as though it was laughing at danger… or its enemies. She gazed at it. Why did she have the feeling that its reappearance was a good omen? “Well, let us have it put back up.”

“Yes, your grace. It will certainly look well with the black new paint. And there is something else. When I went into the scrap bag for a rag to polish it with, I found these. I believe that the duke was looking for them."

She handed her a peculiar little crumpled object. Pomona turned it over in her hands. What first appeared to be dead leaves or a ball of paper was... a ruined pair of gloves. They must have been soaked and left crumpled in a ball as they dried. They were now a lump of stiff leather.

Her heart began to pound. “I—I do not understand.”

“They were cleared from the duke’s dressing room by accident, when we were throwing out the old duke's clothes. His grace was most upset when he realized that they were gone. He ran downstairs and out into the mews, chasing after the dustman’s cart. I did feel badly for him. We all did.”

Pomona stared at them. These had been her gloves. She’d dropped into a puddle in an inn yard where they’d been changing horses as she and West had been running away to Gretna Green to be married. He’d bent to retrieve them at almost the exact moment that her brother Charles had appeared--bearing the message that Lord and Lady Alford had relented, and would permit their marriage if only Pomona would get into the carriage and come back to London with him.

Pomona had doubted that it was true. West had said that she was worrying over nothing. He’d squeezed her shoulders, looked into her eyes, and said, “Now we shall be married at St. James.”

And those had been the last words that he'd spoken to her until the night in Lady Beaufort’s library. Because after that, he'd disappeared to France without even saying goodbye.

Had he kept her gloves on purpose? He must have, if he'd been upset when he’d discovered that they were gone.

“I do not think that they can be restored, your grace. The leather is too brittle. Indeed, they look as though they have shrunk, and likely will not fit his grace at all. But if you think it best, I shall put them away for him in his dressing table—for when he gets back.” Mrs. Raines hesitated. “Your grace?”

“Oh. Yes. Thank you, Mrs. Raines.” She felt as though she’d just come back into herself from a long way away. “How long would it take for the carriage to be made ready for a journey?”

Mrs. Raines started. “Your grace?”

“I wish to leave as soon as possible. I am going to Castle March.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

The carriage was nearly ready when Lady Alford appeared. “What is happening? Why have you not chosen the upholstery for the drawing room?”

Pomona looked up from the floor of her bedroom, where she was sorting through clothes as her maid hurriedly packed a trunk. “Good afternoon, ma’am. I am going to the country.”

“But you cannot leave! Did we not discuss this? Where is Monsieur Mazarine?”

Pomona nodded to her maid, who retreated to the dressing room. “Of course I may leave. And I am leaving.”

Lady Alford threw up her hands. “Oh! Is that so? May I remind you that I am the one who secured Monsieur Mazarine’s services? You cannot simply leave while all this work is going on.”