“We were not fighting.”
“What do you call it then?”
“Arguing.”
“They are one and the same.”
Guilt stabbing him, Drew raked a hand roughly though his hair. He had indeed instigated a fight with Roslyn. He’d acted the worst sort of fool, giving in to his sudden, irrepressible rage of jealousy, and then he’d taken his fear out on her. And Roslyn was pale and trembling now because of it. He could see the tears glittering in her eyes.
When one slid down her cheek, he wanted to brush it away, but he forced himself to keep his hands by his sides. She wouldn’t like him touching her just now, he suspected. He wanted to hold her, to offer comfort, but she wouldn’t accept his comfort.
“I am sorry,” he murmured, knowing he had some serious groveling to do. “I never should have shouted at you, or made such unwarranted accusations. I reacted in the heat of the moment, out of jealousy. I know you have more honor than to tryst with Haviland behind my back.”
Her delicate jaw was clenched, as if she was struggling for composure. Finally Roslyn seemed to steel herself and sat up.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, determinedly dashing the tears from her eyes. “Regardless of what you meant, our betrothal is at an end.”
Not believing what he’d heard, Drew fixed his gaze intently on her face. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am utterly serious,” she replied, her voice low and without inflection.
“You mean to break our betrothal simply because I raised my voice to you?”
“Yes, Drew. I do. I endured such battles for much of my childhood, and I won’t suffer them in my own marriage.”
Frustration built inside him. “You are overreacting, sweeting…blowing our altercation out of proportion.”
“I don’t believe so. I have known all along a union between us would never work. We don’t want the same things out of marriage. And if we’re fighting now, what kind of future does it portend?”
Drew felt his jaw hardening against his control. “You are using this contretemps to justify turning to Haviland. You still want him.”
Roslyn locked gazes with him. “Whether I want Haviland or not is beside the point. I don’t want to marry you, Drew. I don’t want you for my husband.”
He stared at her, a knife edge of alarm twisting inside him.
At his silence, Roslyn forced a bleak smile. “You yourself said that once the first flush of lust has worn off, a couple is left with boredom or worse. It seems clear that the lust has worn off between us. But you should feel relieved that you won’t have to wed me. I certainly am.”
“Roslyn-” Drew began before she cut him off: “I don’t wish to discuss it further.”
She had withdrawn completely from him; he could see it in her emotionless expression, in her rigid posture. It was as if Roslyn had erected an impenetrable wall between them.
Frustration filled him, along with a feeling of panic deep in his gut.
Her voice was almost cold when she broke the silence again. “Why did you come here, Drew?”
At her abrupt change in subject, he let out a harsh breath, struggling to remember his reason for calling. “Crupp discovered the identity of Sir Rupert’s private solicitor,” Drew finally said. “A man by the name of Farnaby. I called on him this afternoon to inquire about Sir Rupert’s former mistress. He knew of her, of course. Her name is Constance Baines. But he claims he lost touch with her four years ago, after his client died. Sir Rupert had maintained a small house on the outskirts of London for Constance and her children, but reportedly the house was sold and they no longer live there.”
Roslyn winced at that last revelation. “Children? There is more than one child?”
“There are three. A boy and two younger girls.”
Her mouth turned down in sorrow. “Winifred will be heartbroken,” Roslyn murmured. “So where are they now?”
“I am endeavoring to find out.” Drew paused. “Farnaby seemed extremely nervous about discussing the Baines woman and refused at first even to divulge the address of the house. Frankly, it wouldn’t surprise me if he misappropriated the late Sir Rupert’s funds four years ago.”
“You think Farnaby stole from the estate?”
“It’s possible. I think he would have been more forthcoming otherwise. I had to resort to veiled threats to persuade him to cooperate. For now, I’ve charged Bow Street with locating Constance Baines. They’ll interview the house’s current occupants as well as her former neighbors about where she and her children might have gone. It may be a dead end, but I hope to know something in the next day or two. If I do discover her whereabouts-and if she is still in London-I thought you might like to accompany me.”