Gillian shook her head. “But I did, Mama. I wrote you a letter explaining our decision to elope to Scotland because Colin was afraid Papa wouldn’t accept him as a suitor because he didn’t possess a title.”
“We never received your letter,” Lady Davies said.
“I know,” Gillian admitted. “And I’m so sorry. You didn’t get my letter because I gave it to Colin. He promised to post it once we reached Scotland.”
“Then he misled you on several accounts.” Lady Davies narrowed her gaze. “And the suggestion that your papa wouldn’t accept your young man as a suitor because he didn’t possess a title is ridiculous! Your papa has the greatest admiration for men who make their own way in the world. Why shouldn’t he? He’s been in trade all his life.”
“But once he became a baron, he made no secret of the fact that he wanted a loftier title for me,” Gillian protested.
“Of course he did,” Lady Davies replied. “In our society, a title is everything. With a title, the world is your oyster. It can open doors that money alone cannot budge. Your father understands that. Nevertheless,” her mother continued, “your papa would have accepted whomever you loved so long as it was clear that the man loved you in return.” She frowned at Gillian. “And you should have trusted your papa enough to know to know that.”
Her mother was right. Gillian should have trusted her father and her mother enough to confide her attraction to Colin Fox. If she had, she wouldn’t have ended up abandoned at the mercy of the innkeepers of the Blue Bottle Inn. Her reputation wouldn’t be hanging by a very thin thread and she wouldn’t have had to hear the harsh truth about her marriage or to remember the look of disdain on Mistress Douglas’s face the morning Gillian left the inn and boarded the coach that would take her home to London.
“He comes here a lot—sometimes by ship and sometimes by land, either through Gretna Green or Berwick,” the innkeeper’s wife had whispered. “There were others, you know. I overheard him boasting in the taproom about how he earns a handsome living at it.”
Surprised by Mistress Douglas’s revelations that her absent husband had been boasting about his business in the taproom of a busy inn, Gillian took the older woman’s bait. “At what?”
“Eloping with well-to-do young ladies. He left one in Selkirk two months ago and another at the Dalkeith Inn last month. You aren’t the first young bride he’s wedded, bedded, and bid farewell to in Scotland.”
Reaching into her coat pocket, Gillian crumpled the letter she’d written to her husband—the letter she’d been about to entrust to the innkeeper’s wife. “I see.” She had held her head high, swallowed the painful lump in her throat, and stilled her tears. “Thank you for telling me, Mistress Douglas.”
“Well,” the innkeeper’s wife had looked uncomfortable, “I thought you should know.”
Mistress Douglas’s words had completed her humiliation. The hot rush of love Gillian had felt for her dashing young husband died a quick, crushing death. She couldn’t love him anymore, but she couldn’t hate him, either. She couldn’t feel anything for him at all. Or for anyone else. She was numb and quite suddenly past all caring.
“But what I believe doesn’t matter,” Lady Davies was saying. “What matters is what you believe. Are you still in love with him? Think about it,” her mother urged. “Ask yourself if you would want to face him if he walked into this room tonight.”
Gillian straightened on her chair and quickly scanned the room, looking for any sign of him. She didn’t love him. But that didn’t mean she was ready to come face-to-face with him. “Has he?”
“No,” Lady Davies told her. “At least, not that I’ve seen. But you need to prepare yourself for whatever answers you find.”
Gillian bit her bottom lip. A sure sign that she was worrying.
“Do you still want answers, or have you changed your mind?”
“I haven’t changed my mind,” Gillian said. “I still want answers.”
“I hope so,” Lady Davies breathed. “Because your father has hired a Bow Street runner to find him.”
Gillian inhaled sharply.
“No need for you to worry, my dear,” Lady Davies said. “Mr. Wickham understands the damage this could do to your reputation and our family name. He’s entirely trustworthy and discreet.”
Gillian wasn’t concerned by her mother’s revelation, but by the sight of a tall man moving through the crowd toward them. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she had trouble breathing, before she realized that the man moving past her bore little resemblance to the man she had married except in the width of the shoulders. And yet...
She wasn’t as numb as she thought. Or quite past all caring.
“Gillian?”
“I’m fine. For a moment, I thought that he”—she pointed her fan in his direction—“was headed this way.”
“Viscount Grantham?” Lady Davies inquired, following her daughter’s gaze toward the row of chairs on either side of her along the wall of Lady Harralson’s grand ballroom to where Viscount Grantham stood visiting with his mother. “You know him?”
Gillian shook her head. “No, but he...for a brief moment, he reminded me of...someone else.”
“He reminded you of him,” her mother guessed quickly. “But as far as I can tell, the only likeness Lord Grantham has to your young man is his height, the breadth of his shoulders, and his Christian name.”
“You know Lord Grantham?”