Page 24 of The Duke’s Caught Bride

Kenneth ducked beneath the lintel, removed his hat, and scanned the room with narrowed eyes.

The Bow Street runner sat at the corner table, exactly as arranged. He was a compact man with a weathered face and the settled patience of someone who made his living by waiting. He rose when Kenneth approached, offering a nod that conveyed respect without subservience.

“Your Grace.” He gestured to the chair opposite. “Prompt as always.”

Kenneth sat. “I appreciate your time, Albert.”

A serving girl appeared with two tankards before either man had spoken again. The runner waited until she had withdrawn before leaning forward, his elbows on the scarred wood.

“What can I help you with, Your Grace?”

“I am looking for someone,” Kenneth started, then hesitated.

The man looked eager. “Someone who did you wrong?”

Kenneth sighed. “You could say that. It’s… a woman.”

“A woman, Your Grace? A thief?”

“No. She… We were meant to marry. She disappeared.”

The man’s eyes widened, and Kenneth shifted. It was, he had to admit to himself, still humiliating to admit this.

“Her name is Rachel Haraway. Two-and-twenty years of age. She was last seen at Peltbury House on the morning of…” He hesitated. “The fifteenth of April. Our wedding day. She disappeared without a trace. She is blonde and slender. An attractive lady.”

The man made notes, nodding to himself. “And do you believe that someone took her, Your Grace?”

Kenneth shook his head. “That was not the impression I had.”

“She jilted you, Your Grace?” The man’s eyes were wide.

“That is correct.” Kenneth sipped his ale. The bitterness cut through the dust of the road.

“You’ve no notion where she might have gone? No letters? No friends or relations she might have confided in?”

“No.” The word emerged more sharply than Kenneth had intended. He moderated his tone. “Her father has been searching. Or at least, he claimed that he planned to. Nothing has surfaced.”

The runner’s pencil moved with efficient strokes across the page. “These situations are rarely simple, Your Grace. Young women of good family don’t vanish without cause, and they don’t stay vanished without help. Someone knows where she is.”

“Find that someone.” Kenneth reached into his coat and produced a purse. He set it on the table between them with a clink that spoke of its contents. “This should cover your initial inquiries. I want regular reports. Direct to me. No one else.”

The runner pocketed the purse without examining it. The gesture conveyed both discretion and professional assurance. “Any specific areas you’d like me to concentrate on? London? The coast? Certain families or connections?”

Kenneth considered the question with the careful attention he brought to all estate matters. “Perhaps you could try her mother’s family. With her father also looking for her, I assume he is covering his side of the family.”

Another note. Then the pencil paused. “I’ll start tomorrow. You’ll hear from me within the week.”

The man stood without another word, disappearing into the shadows.

Kenneth returned his gaze to his ale. He was not quite ready to return to the castle yet.

He had almost finished his drink when the tavern door swung open with considerably more flourish than the runner had managed and Jonathan sauntered inside.

“Bearmoor.” Jonathan removed his hat and surveyed the room easily. His gaze settled on Kenneth with undisguised satisfaction. “Fancy meeting you here. I was on my way to visit, and they told me you’d ridden out. Something about urgent business in the village.” His eyes narrowed. “You don’t have urgent business in the village.”

Kenneth signaled for another round. “You do not know all there is to know about me, despite your apparent belief that you do.”

Jonathan dropped into the chair recently vacated by the runner and accepted the fresh tankard with a nod of thanks. “Estate matters, I assume. The eternal struggle of ducal responsibility. The weight of the title. The crushing burden of being one of the richest men in England.” He raised his drink.