Vernon’s heart had not been broken, although it had been bruised. It was his pride that had been battered.
He loved Leo and he loved his nephews and his niece but he had to admit he still found it hard to find his own place in the world. They ran many businesses in partnership—the estates, their horse-breeding enterprises, the mining interests in Cornwall and the coal mines in the north-east—but, with Leo being the older of the two, as well as the Duke, Vernon was outranked for ever.
He did not want to walk away from the mystery of Daniel Markham’s disappearance. He wanted to be involved, to take action, to help.
‘There is still the question of why your brother wrote to mine,’ he said. ‘You cannot expect me to leave without finding out how my Cousin Henry is involved and it is both senseless and unnecessary for you to risk either your reputation or your safety when I am better able to make the necessary enquiries. So, Miss Markham, I shall be your flagbearer: I shall visit the Nag’s Head and make enquiries on your behalf. And—’ he raised his voice as she opened her mouth...to argue, no doubt ‘—I urge you to remember that other men will tell me things they would not say in front of you.’
‘What sort of things?’
He wagged his head at her, stifling another grin at her clear frustration. ‘You cannot possibly expect me to divulge such secrets, Miss Markham. Suffice it to say that I have a better chance of prising information from them than you.’
The tiniest wobble of her lower lip reminded Vernon that, however brave the face she presented, beneath it, she must be devastated.
‘Do not despair, Miss Markham. I shall find Daniel.’
Hope lit her eyes and, having raised it, he was not about to dash it by voicing aloud the thought that followed: Alive or dead, I shall find him.
Footsteps clacked along the hall outside, getting nearer, and then the door behind Vernon opened. Miss Markham’s expression blanked and she tensed.
‘Dorothea.’ A woman’s voice. ‘There you—oh!’
Vernon looked around. A middle-aged woman, her greying hair bundled into a cap, had entered the room.
‘I beg your pardon,’ she said to Vernon. ‘I was not informed we had visitors.’ Annoyance lent an edge to her tone and the look she cast Miss Markham—Dorothea—was...bitter.
Dorothea, meanwhile, had hurried around the desk, but halted before she got too close to the other woman. To Vernon’s eyes, she appeared to stand at attention, her hands clasped at her waist, her fingers twisting together.
‘Mama! There was no need to inform you of L... Mr Beauchamp’s visit. He called in on a matter of business and is about to leave. I am sorry. Did you have need of me?’
This was her mother? Vernon looked from one to the other, wondering at those noticeable cracks in their relationship.
Mrs Markham gave a tight smile, but ignored her daughter’s question.
‘I trust my daughter was able to satisfactorily answer your queries, Mr Beauchamp? It is unfortunate my son should happen to be away from home at present. He is on urgent business, but Dorothea is familiar with every aspect of the manufactory.’
‘She has proved most satisfactory, ma’am.’
‘Good. Good.’ He was clearly of little interest to the woman, for she turned her full attention to her daughter. ‘Your father feels well enough to sit in his chair today, Dorothea, so I shall stay with him. Have a small repast sent up around noon, if you please. Now—’ she flicked a glance at Vernon ‘—I must return to my husband, Mr Beauchamp. I am sure you will excuse me?’
Vernon bowed again as Dorothea walked with her mother to the door. There was no further exchange of words between mother and daughter. Mrs Markham left and Dorothea shut the door, muffling the tip-tap of her mother’s rapidly departing footsteps. She turned to face Vernon.
‘Mr Beauchamp?’ He raised his brows. ‘Might I ask why?’
‘I do not want my parents to wonder why a lord is calling upon Daniel. I cannot allow them to be worried; they have enough to cope with. They believe Daniel is in Birmingham on business—that is another reason I asked the grooms not to spread the news that Daniel is missing, for it would be sure to reach the house servants’ ears and they would tell my mother.’
‘What is wrong with your father?’
‘He had a stroke. Six years ago.’ Her face twisted: grief, guilt. ‘He cannot walk or talk properly. Mama devotes herself to him.’
‘He must require a lot of care. Your parents are fortunate to have you here to help.’
‘M-Mama says my visits agitate Papa; she d-discourages me from attending him.’ For the flash of a second, a bewildered child stared out of those huge hazel orbs. Then it seemed as though a shutter closed and the brisk, efficient Dorothea Markham returned. ‘Daniel took over the running of the business when Papa...when it happened. I help as much as I can, but now Daniel is missing and, somehow, your cousin is involved, and I—Mannington!’
Her voice suddenly rang with excitement and she captured Vernon’s gaze, her eyes sparkling, sending a jolt of heat sizzling through his veins. He could barely concentrate on her words, so taken aback was he by his unexpected physical response.
‘I recall... I am sure I have seen...’
She ran past Vernon to the desk, leaving a trail of floral scent wafting in her wake.
Roses. A summer garden. Quintessentially feminine.
She snatched up a handful of papers from the pile he had noticed before and began to leaf through them. After a few minutes she exclaimed in triumph, extracted a sheet of notepaper, and waved it in the air. ‘It did not resonate with me at first, but then... I remembered.’
‘May I see?’ Vernon reached for the sheet of paper.
Her gaze flicked to his outstretched hand, but she made no move to hand it to him. ‘I thought it was the name of a place,’ she continued. ‘It never occurred to me that Mannington was a person. At last, I have a definite clue.’
Vernon did not retract his outstretched hand, merely waited until she capitulated and handed him the paper.
‘Thank you.’ He scanned the sheet. It took no time at all, for there were only two words, separated by a pair of initials.
Mannington—R.H.—Willingdale?
Vernon frowned. ‘What...or where...is Willingdale? And who, do you suppose, is R.H?’
‘I have no idea.’
Silence reigned. A glance revealed Dorothea seemingly deep in thought as she leaned back against the edge of the desk, her arms folded as she gazed unseeingly past Vernon, a vertical groove between her brows.
Vernon reread the words written on the paper.
Willingdale... A village? An estate? The name of a person?
He was torn from his thoughts by a muffled whimper.
Thea tried so hard to hold back her tears, but she simply could not. She dropped her chin into her chest, hand pressed against her lips as her sight blurred. To her horror a single tear plopped on to her bodice, leaving a damp splodge as the fabric absorbed it. Then another tear fell, and another. A large handkerchief was pressed into her hands. She dabbed at her eyes and forced herself to look up. The sympathy in Vernon’s green eyes almost set her off again, but she gritted her teeth and cleared her throat.
‘I am sorry. I was just thinking...if only I had paid more attention...’
‘You