Free Leopard in Exile by Andre Norton, Rosemary Edghill Page B

abandoning her so completely tonight, but he could see no other choice. Right now
    Rutledge was only a few hours ahead of him, and it was three days to Paris. If he could catch his quarry
    before he went to ground, Wessex might yet repair some of the damage done this night.
    If he did not delay now.
    If the luck was with him.
    With a sigh, Wessex turned Hirondel in the direction of the Dover road.
    Herriard House glittered with light, and the line of carriages waiting to disgorge their guests stretched for
    almost a mile. Tonight all the Polite World celebrated the Prince's wedding, and if the revelry was not
    unmixed with relief, then that was a truth that went unspoken, especially among the Prince's Circle.
    Sarah had viewed Wessex's departure some hours before with a certain wry amusement. She had as little
    taste for these social set-pieces as he did, but fewer duties that would permit her to avoid them.
    Fortunately each of her guests this evening had been willing to believe His Grace to be elsewhere in the
    grand crush, so Sarah had not been forced to admit to his absence. And so as the night passed she
    smiled and danced, and played the proud hostess, and counted the hours until the house would be her
    own again.
    It was comforting to know that her husband's sense of duty was equally strong, and that he would not be
    so derelict unless the need was dire. Unfortunately, when he did return, she would have no good news to
    greet him with. Despite her best efforts, she had learned nothing of what Wessex wanted to know, for no
    one at all had the least thing to say about Baron Warltawk.
    The sun was peeping over the housetops as the last carriage trundled away from her door.
    "Has His Grace returned?" Sarah asked Buckland hopefully.
    "I regret, Your Grace, that he has not." Even Herriard House's formidable butler showed signs of
    exhaustion after the events of the last twenty-four hours.
    Despite herself, Sarah's shoulders slumped. What predicament had Wessex become entangled in now?
    And what could she do about it?
    "Doubtless he is roistering with low company, and will join us in his good time," Sarah said, forcing a
    smile. "Tell the servants to clean up later, and tell Knoyle I will not be needing her tonight. I am sure that
    all of you are as tired as I!"
    Sarah turned away and ascended the stairs to her bedroom. Safe behind her own door, she plucked the
    feathers and jewels from her coif and ran her hands through it until her light brown hair lay free over her
    shoulders. She shook her head, savoring the freedom, and began to undress.
    Damn the man! Where the devil was her husband?
    He'd been one jump behind Rutledge every step of the way, but Wessex did not waver in his belief that
    the Marquess was not the traitor he sought.
    When Hirondel had begun to tire Wessex had stopped to bespeak a fresh mount from among those the
    White Tower kept stabled along the main road. He ordered Hirondel led on to Dover by slow
    stages—for if Wessex returned at all, it would be to that city. He scribbled a hasty—and entirely
    cryptic—note to Sarah that he stared at for a long moment before consigning it to the common-room fire.
    Words were a dangerous thing, when commended to a scrap of paper that might fall into other hands
    than those of its intended recipient.
    Then Wessex was on the road again, riding after a man who seemed simply to have ceased to exist.
    By late morning of the following day Wessex had reached Dover and satisfied himself that Rutledge was
    not here. No English ship openly sailed to a French port in these troubled times, but Spain was still
    neutral, and many times Wessex had sailed to Spain as a preliminary to visiting France. Rutledge, it
    seemed, had not—nor had any man answering his description left Dover in the past three days.
    Wessex gazed about the bustling port with mounting exasperation. He might be dead. In London, on
    the road ... there are a thousand ways for a man to let himself out of life.