My Fake Rake

“I don’t.” Which was true.

“I must take your word for it.” He gave a small smile. “Expeditions are marvelous things. You’ll learn less about the land and fauna you’re studying, and more about yourself.”

“Looking forward to it.” Again, she spoke the truth. “Might I . . . be alone for a bit? This is my first time away from home and I need a few moments to myself.”

“Understandable.” He bowed and walked away.

As the sailors went about their tasks to get the voyage underway, Grace went to the railing. Her family and the Argyles waved to her from the dock. She waved back, and blew them each a kiss.

It did not take long for the gangplank to be raised, and the anchor followed suit. In a matter of minutes, the ship pulled away from the dock. The deck pitched slightly beneath her, but she adjusted her stance to move easily with the motion of the ship. Despite her deadened emotions, a tiny spark of anticipation flared to life within her. She was truly going on an expedition. Granted, the conditions were not ideal—they were, in fact, terrible—but she’d find some way to make the best of it.

She was a natural philosopher. She would do her duty to her discipline, to the rare privilege of representing her gender in the field.

And try her best to live with the heartbreak she’d caused.

It didn’t matter how much time he’d spent away from London, and from Grace. She was with him, in his thoughts and echoing in his body.

Still, he made himself slog through the countryside until the date of her departure for Greenland loomed. When he was reasonably certain that their paths wouldn’t cross, he took a mail coach back to the city.

On the day of his return to London, he did not go directly home. The thought of trudging up his stairs to reach his empty rooms was a bleak one and made his stomach pitch. Instead of walking or taking a cab back to Howland Street, he hired a hack to bring him to Rotherby’s Mayfair house. There was every possibility that his friend was still in the country, but on the chance that Rotherby was, in fact, at home, Seb hoped to share a glass of whiskey and sit in companionable silence beside the fire as he tried not to picture Grace’s ship sailing down the Thames.

At his knock, the butler opened the front door and looked at him for almost a full minute, as if trying to place him.

Only then did Seb realize how much his appearance had altered.

“It’s Holloway,” he supplied.

“Ah, yes, Mr. Holloway. His Grace returned only yesterday, so your timing is fortuitous. He was searching for you. Rather urgently.”

Seb frowned. “Do you know why?”

“He did not confide the reason to me, but you will find him dressing in his bedchamber. Do go up.”

Another realization—it was far earlier in the day than Seb had figured. The mail coach had arrived shortly after dawn, but he’d been too exhausted to pay attention to the lightening sky.

After handing his now quite shabby pack to the butler, Seb mounted the stairs leading up to Rotherby’s bedroom.

The door stood ajar, and Beale’s voice carried out into the hallway, “The buff breeches with a brown waistcoat? Really, Your Grace?”

Despite his weariness, Seb couldn’t help but chuckle. Some things had not changed.

He rapped on the door. “Shelter for a weary traveler?”

“Holloway?” There came the sound of heavy footfalls approaching and then Rotherby wrenched the door open the rest of the way. He was halfway garbed, his shirt untucked and his neckcloth hanging loosely.

Rotherby gaped at Seb. “The hell? Have you been living in a hermitage? You surely look like it.”

Seb opened his mouth to speak, but Rotherby held up his hand.

“No,” Rotherby said. “Wait. Before you utter a syllable, listen.” He grasped Seb’s shoulders. “I’ve been looking for you for ages. Since I found out.”

Disquiet tightened Seb’s muscles. “Found out what?”

“Lady Grace. She—”

“What about her?” Seb demanded.

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, buffoon! She’s going on the expedition to Greenland—but not as Fredericks’s wife.”

The floor shuddered beneath Seb’s feet. “I don’t understand.”