Victor sat in a deep leather armchair by the fire, a glass of untouched brandy in his hand. The house was quiet. The other guests had retired, but Victor's mind was racing. He kept replaying the scene in the Okehaven drawing room.
He had handled it terribly. He had charged in like an invading force, completely blind to the fragile ecosystem of abuse and survival she lived in. By confronting her aunt, he hadn't protected Florence. He had abandoned her to the fallout.
A sharp knock at the library door shattered the silence. Victor frowned. Come in. The door opened to reveal Harrington's head butler, looking deeply apologetic and slightly rumpled, as if he had dressed in a hurry.
Forgive the intrusion, your grace. There is a young boy at the kitchen door. He works as a groundskeeper at the Okehaven estate. He walked the three miles in the dark.
He insists he must speak with you. I tried to turn him away, but he is fiercely persistent. Victor set the brandy glass down with a sharp clack. Bring him in.
Here, your grace. In the library? Now, man, do it. A moment later, a boy of no more than 12 was shoved into the room.
He was shivering, covered in mud up to his knees, clutching a ragged wool cap in his hands. He looked terrified. You asked for me? Victor said, keeping his voice gentle.
The boy swallowed hard. You're the Duke? The one who fixed the fence with Miss Florence? I am.
It's Miss Florence, sir. The boy's voice cracked. The old bat, Mrs. Hawley, I mean, she went completely mad after you left. Screaming and throwing things.
She locked Miss Florence in her room. And now The boy wiped his nose on his sleeve. Now she's sending her away. Victor stood up.
His chest tightened. Where? York, sir. To be a servant for some awful relative.
The mail coach comes through the village at midnight. Mrs. Hawley made me load Miss Florence's trunk into the wheelbarrow. I'm supposed to take it down to the Boar and Whistle, but Miss Florence, she's always been good to me. She sneaks me bread when the cook isn't looking.
I didn't know what to do. I heard the kitchen maid say you gave the old bat a dressing down, so I ran here. Victor looked at the clock. It was quarter past 11.
York, a life of indentured misery. A slow, grinding erasure of the proud, fierce woman he had met in the rain. And it was his fault. His arrogant, careless intrusion had triggered the final trapdoor beneath her feet.
Where is she now? Victor asked, his voice sharp like cracking ice. Walking to the village, sir. Alone in the dark.
The coach stops at midnight. Victor didn't say another word. He bypassed the boy, strode past the bewildered butler, and went straight out the front doors of the estate. He didn't wait for a groom.
He didn't bother with a coat. He ran to the stables, threw a saddle over his massive black gelding himself, yanked the girth tight, and swung up. The horse protested the rough handling, dancing sideways, but Victor dug his heels in. They tore out of the stable yard, the horse's hooves churning the gravel.
Victor turned toward the village of Okehaven, the cold night air biting into his chest through his thin linen shirt. The moon was hidden behind a thick bank of clouds. The road was a treacherous ribbon of black mud and deep ruts. A sensible rider would have taken it at a slow trot.
Victor pushed the gelding into a full, reckless gallop. The wind roared in his ears. Trees whipped past like ghosts. The horse slipped twice, stumbling in the deep clay, but Victor held him up with sheer force of will, driving him forward.
"No gentleman will want you." The words Lady Harrington had gossiped at dinner echoed in his mind. "Penniless, unmarriageable, a dreadful temper." They were all fools, every single one of them. They couldn't see the fire for the smoke. Florence possessed more courage, more raw, unvarnished integrity in her muddy boots than every glittering aristocrat in London combined.
She was not a charity case. She was not a novelty. She was an equal. And she was about to vanish into the dark because he hadn't known how to tell her that.
The lights of the village finally appeared in the distance, a few dim yellow squares against the blackness. Victor urged the sweating, lathered horse faster, leaping a low stone wall to cut across a frozen pasture, shaving precious minutes off the ride. He hit the main street of the village just as the massive, heavy wheels of the Royal Mail Coach rumbled to a halt outside the Boar and Whistle. The driver was already shouting down to the innkeeper.
Through the gloom, illuminated by the swinging lanterns of the inn, Victor saw her. Florence stood by the side of the coach. She was wearing the same shapeless gray cloak, holding a small battered satchel. Her face was completely hidden in the shadows of her hood.
She looked tiny against the massive bulk of the stagecoach. She looked defeated. Victor pulled hard on the reins. The massive black horse reared, its iron-shod hooves striking sparks off the cobblestones, letting out a piercing whinny that shattered the quiet of the village.
Florence turned. The stagecoach driver swore. The innkeeper froze. Victor didn't bother finding the stirrup.
He vaulted off the horse before it had fully settled, his boots hitting the ground with a heavy thud. He tossed the reins toward the stunned innkeeper and walked straight toward the coach. Straight toward her. The driver of the Royal Mail coach was a man who respected a schedule more than he respected God.
He leaned over the box, his face red with the biting wind, and glared at the man who had just nearly caused a pileup in the middle of a muddy village street. Here now! The driver bellowed, his voice cutting through the snorting of the lathered black gelding. Move that beast.
We have 5 minutes to make the change and we are already running late from Gloucester. Victor ignored him. He didn't even look up at the box. His eyes were locked entirely on the woman standing on the cobblestones.