Page 71 of Forgotten No More

Ruby turned to leave.

“I guess I should not have expected anything different from you.” The hurt in Ellie’s tone was like a dagger to her heart.

“I will return.” Ruby didn’t face her sister when she said the words, but that did not make them any less true. “I must handle something. I will give you time to grieve.”

Ellington laughed, the sound high and forced. “You think I need to grieve?” The bed creaked and her sister climbed off it. “It is more like a time of celebration.”

The girl was as much a mystery now as she’d been since they met. She’d sat there with tears streaming down her face, clutching his hand, yet now she claimed the time to celebrate was upon them.

“I understand if you do not wish to see me again.”

“I said I will be back, Ellie.”

And Ruby fled the room, leaving behind her broken sister and a lifeless father beyond redemption—and the kid gloves she’d set upon the side table.

Chapter 29

Harold didn’t want to contemplate what had upset Ruby and sent her fleeing from the ballroom. One moment he’d been watching her laugh and converse with a group of young ladies, the next she’d hastily departed the room and taken a note from Alex. Harold hadn’t the chance to reach her side before she’d fled. She hadn’t retrieved her shawl or called for the Haversham carriage to be brought round.

By the time he’d exited the front door, Ruby had already clambered into a hack and they were off, traversing the dark London streets. How she’d managed her hasty departure so quickly in her evening gown, Harold would never know.

Thankfully, the Haversham carriage sat to the left of the drive with the coachman still nearby. After commanding Brock’s driver to ‘follow that hack,’ they also sped into the night. It only took a block to catch the vehicle, and pursuing it through town proved easy at this time of night. When the hack stopped outside Drake’s house, Ruby had jumped down unassisted and rushed into the house, not bothering to knock.

Harold had waited outside for what seemed an eternity—then he waited a bit longer, yet he sensed it was only that the minutes dragged by. Every second was like hours, though it hadn’t been more than an hour, at most.

The time alone gave Harold the time to think, dwelling not only on his life but on Ruby’s. It was then the pieces began to fall into place: her time spent with Ellie, how familiar the young girl seemed, and Ruby’s mad dash tonight.

Ruby had found the man she’d risked so much to discover.

The Marquis of Drake.

As the evening drew on, Harold knew he had to either collect her from the house and go back to their evening’s entertainment, return to the party alone, or have the driver drop him at the townhouse and return for Brock and Lady Haversham. None of these options suited him. He would appear the brute if he charged the door and demanded her departure, especially if now was a time she needed privacy. Time to work through—with Drake and Ellie—their family connection. If he returned to the party, he’d likely worry all evening about her safety. And if he returned home, well, he would retrieve a horse from the stables and return to Drake’s house and his vigil outside.

Harold calculated the time it would take to arrive back at Brock’s house, saddle a horse, and return. No more than thirty minutes at this time of night—and if he didn’t waste time with a saddle, he could shave at least five minutes from that estimate. Not having the carriage back to Brock would cast a spotlight on himself that could carry over to Ruby and her whereabouts.

Ruby’s secrets were not his to expose—or even question, according to her. It was one thing for him to make sure she was not in harm’s way; it was another to bring Lady Haversham into the situation. He had no doubt that when Ruby was ready, she’d confide in her best friend.

With that in mind, Harold jumped down from the Haversham carriage at the townhouse and took the front steps as quickly as possible. With any luck, he’d slip into the stable, select a horse, and be back on his way again within minutes. Buttons swung the door open before Harold could turn the knob.

“Good evening, Mr. Jakeston,” the butler said. “Your father awaits you in the front parlor.”

Harold stopped, almost tripping over his own feet. “Excuse me?”

He cleared his throat. “Um, Vicar Jakeston has been expecting your attendance in the parlor for a few hours. I told him you were out for the evening, but he insisted on awaiting your return.”

“Please, inform him I will attend him momentarily.” Ignoring his father’s continued correspondence obviously had not deterred the man from his mission, as his letters had become threatening and volatile of late. In recent days he’d received two and three a day, outlining Harold’s shortcomings and his penchant for continued disobedience, as if he were still a child in short pants and not the man he was.

Harold needed a drink if he was going to make it through this night. He should be returning to Drake’s house to ensure Ruby made it back to the ball or home in one piece. Instead, he made his way to Brock’s study and straight to the sidebar that held several decanters of spirits ranging in color from clear to dark amber.

He selected the first one, a clear liquid. It did not matter its contents, because he planned to down the drink and get this meeting over with.

“I wondered what kept you from attending me upon your arrival.” His father’s impatient voice echoed in the room. “I should have known the sins of city life would be your downfall.”

“Father, how lovely to see you.” He greeted the man who’d belittled him his entire life; made sure he knew his older brothers made their father proud, while Harold had failed every test given to him. Challenges that Harold hadn’t even known he faced, yet his father found him lacking. He’d never said his prayers with enough sincerity, never completed his chores quickly enough, nor spent enough of his resources to benefit his family.

He didn’t turn, but brought the tumbler to his mouth, thinking only of extricating himself and returning to watch over Ruby.

“But please, finish your drink. I am sure there is not a thing more important than the spirits in your hand.” The words, cold and emotionless, sent a chill down his spine. “Your mother will be so proud to learn her youngest son is a drunkard.”