Bound To Bea

Chapter Thirty Seven

Noah did not wish to be away from Bea. A few hours without her was beyond dreadful, and a day seemed much more than he could bear. Three days would be hell; he knew that much, but he was left without a choice. He needed to journey to London, and he needed to journey alone; it was a small price to pay to ensure the safety of his wife.

Indeed, Noah did not believe he could go another day knowing there was someone out there who posed an active threat to Bea's life. The first time Bea was attacked, he had been powerless to do anything about it, for at the time, she hadn't been his wife. But the second time...

It had been his fault. He carried the guilt of that evening around for several weeks, and now that he had the chance to confront the vile man who had attacked his wife, he wasn't going to let his emotions get in the way.

Reluctantly, he turned from Bea and made his way out the front door. He hurried down the front porch and into the parked carriage, leaning heavily against the cushioned seat. His mind and heart remained with Bea through the tedious trip to London, and once the carriage pulled to halt before his house in the middle of the night, he was ushered into the building by the butler.

"You didn't have to stay up all evening for me," he said, guilt filling him as he handed the butler his coat.

"It was no trouble, my lord," he said. "Mrs Bricks has also prepared a light dinner."

Nodding in response to his words, Noah made his way to the dinner table, where he endured a bowl of soup and some bread. He retired to his bedchamber soon after, just as the sun made an appearance in the gray clouds.

Exhausted, he slept until noon, only waking up when the sound of his door opening drifted to him.

"Forgive me, your lordship, I didn't mean to wake you up," his valet said, his brown locks falling to his forehead as he bowed slightly.

Noah frowned, squinting as he turned to stare at the sun rays that pierced the curtains. "What time is it?"

"Five minutes past one, my lord."

Remembering his meeting with the private investigator, he swore and shoved the blanket aside. He was thirty minutes late. "Of course! Mr. Goodwin is downstairs, is he not?" The valet nodded. "Let him know I shall be with him shortly."

Shoving his fatigue aside, he scrambled to get dressed and hurried down to his study. Mr. Goodwin, a bald man with a prominent crooked nose, rose to his feet as Noah approached.

"Please, sit," he said, and waited until he was seated before settling on the seat behind his desk. "Forgive my tardiness; the journey here was nothing short of horrendous given the snow."

"Of course," warm brown eyes stared back at Noah, "I understand. Like I said in my letter..."

"You have news." He leaned forward in his seat. "You found Mr. Hobbs?"

Mr. Goodwin nodded. "He kept a low profile all these weeks. I heard it was because he was being treated for an injury—"

"And now?" Noah did not care for the wellbeing of Beatrice's father. "Where is he?"

"Down at the Royal Head pub, no doubt fishing for his next victim. I heard he's quite the con artist. If it wasn't for his drinking problem, he'd have made a fortune by now."

Noah was aware of Mr. Hobbs' antics; he had carried out his investigations after he first met Beatrice. At the time, he had drawn his conclusions about Beatrice from the rumors he heard about her, and her father's soiled reputation only aided his false beliefs. There was also the fact that Mr. Hobbs had tricked Oliver into marrying Beatrice—a plot that cost Oliver his life.