Meredith looked out the door and relief rushed through her at the sight of the elegant black coach, drawn by four matching grays. The coachman halted the carriage in the cathedral’s curved drive, and a liveried footman hopped down and trotted up the steps.

“Your grace,” the young man said, “I have a message for Lord Greybourne.” He held out a wax-sealed envelope. “Lady Sarah instructed me to deliver it just before the ceremony was to begin.”

“Lady Sarah instructed you?” The duke looked over the footman’s shoulder toward the coach. “Where is Lady Sarah?”

The footman’s eyes rounded. “Is she not here? She departed for St. Paul’s only moments after you left, your grace.”

“But if you have the carriage, what did she travel in?” the duke asked, his voice tight.

“Baron Weycroft called, your grace,” the footman reported, “Lady Sarah, along with her abigail, departed with him in his coach.”

The duke’s expression turned to one of confusion. “Weycroft, you say? I’ve not seen him, either. Well, at least she is not alone, although it’s deuced odd that they’ve not arrived. Ye gods, I hope they haven’t broken a wheel or some such.”

“We did not pass them on the road here, your grace,” the footman said, his countenance as confused and concerned as the duke’s.

“The note,” Meredith said, nodding toward the vellum, and pushing down her rising sense of dread. “Let us deliver it to Lord Greybourne at once. Surely it will offer the answers we seek.”

A knock sounded at the door and Philip and his father exchanged a glance. Unease slithered through Philip. Had Lady Sarah arrived? “Come in,” he said.