He wanted her for her.

He would begin by telling her that. That was his plan. Except she was gone.

She and her maid and all of their belongings were gone.

She had to have left very early this morning as no servant had seen them depart. As far as he knew, she didn’t know anybody in Town.

She had to be leaving for home, returning to Brambledon.

That meant she had gone to the train station. Hopefully, she was still there, waiting on a train. If he hurried, he could stop her. He moved for the stairs at a run, skipping steps as he descended.

“Constantine,” the duke called out to him, spotting him as he passed quickly through the foyer.

“Sorry,” he called out with a distracted wave, not even slowing his pace. “No time to talk. Bit of a rush.”

“Ho! Hold there!” The duke wasn’t to be deterred. He moved faster than Constantine had ever observed, cutting in front of him and blocking him from passing through the front door. “Where are you off to in such haste?”

Constantine exhaled with exasperation, disinclined to reveal his purpose to the man. For one thing, it would require time he did not wish to waste.

“I will return soon and we can talk then, Your Grace.”

He sidestepped around the man in his anxiousness, stopping abruptly, however, at the duke’s next words. “You’re going after the Langley chit.”

It was not a question. It was a statement. Birchwood knew. He knew she was gone.

Constantine turned slowly to face the old man. “How do you know that?”

Birchwood shrugged. “I was standing at my bedchamber window early this morning. I saw her and her maid sneak off like two thieves in the night with their luggage.” He sniffed in disapproval.

Constantine took a hard step toward him and then stopped, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “You didn’t try to stop her?”

“Why would I do that?”

Constantine stared at the man for a long moment, letting that question take route before he finally answered with a truth that was not difficult for him to acknowledge. “Because I’m in love with her.”

He scoffed. “What does that matter?”

“It matters because I want to marry her.”

The duke laughed harshly then. “You’ve always been soft. Just like that father of yours, marrying a woman so beneath his station.”

“Careful,” Constantine warned.

Birchwood continued as though he had not spoken. “She was Greek, you know. Your mother’s family. Your grandmother did not even speak the Queen’s English.” He shook his head in disdain. “Your father was a fool.”

Constantine glared at him, seeing the man more clearly than he ever had. For months now, the man had been schooling him, training him, showing him how to be a duke, showing him the way in all matters . . . showing him how to be like him.