A Rescue by the Rakish Duke (A Game of Rakes #5)

Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

“ T he funds are secured,” Evan Drake told Damian. “Evidence has been handed to the right people. Montrose won’t have time to escape when he finally realizes what has happened.”

Damian had been spending a lot of time in his study. Even with the door unlocked, Gwendoline had stopped passing by. He would’ve liked to say that he felt a deep satisfaction after making it clear to his wife that their marriage would never turn into something more, but he only felt a hollow, dull ache in his chest.

What often made him forget the strange ache was getting back to his plan of revenge.

That afternoon, he sat behind the grand desk in his study. His forehead was creased in concentration, and his fingers were steepled as he listened attentively to Evan Drake, his right-hand man, outline the logistics of their plan.

The fire crackled in the hearth, casting shadows over the room, emphasizing the darkness of the paneling and the study altogether. It also highlighted the darkness within the man who owned it.

Damian’s focus was intense. His jaw was clenched so hard that it hurt to open it. He could only imagine what he looked like. Perhaps he looked like granite.

Ha! He was eager to get his revenge plan underway. It had been months in the making.

A man could not live like this forever.

The thought had come unbidden.

Satisfaction rose in his chest, but somehow, he still felt restless. The rage within him continued to burn and roar, constantly reminding him of why he had a mission in the first place.

His thoughts drifted back to Mary and Levi.

The fire in his chest became an inferno.

Montrose was so cruel that he had shattered those two lives. Two lives that continued to haunt Damian’s dreams, urging him to push through with his plan even as he lost every bit of happiness in his life along with it.

Even though his plan seemed to be coming to fruition, and he was closer to his goal than ever, his thoughts kept returning to Gwendoline. He had not seen her for days. It was what he wanted, and yet?—

“Uh, you seem… distracted, Your Grace.” Evan’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

Everyone around Damian knew how to tread carefully.

His eyes snapped back to Evan, and he could feel his expression hardening. “Focus on the task at hand. You know that we cannot afford to make mistakes.”

“I understand, Your Grace. We are close.”

Damian knew he was the one who was distracted, but he would give up the whole of Greyvale before he admitted that—which would never happen.

Evan tilted his head to the side as he noticed Damian growing more distracted, but he knew better than to question him.

It was why Damian liked dealing with him. They kept things simple.

It seemed that the study had become cloaked in shadow, with the crackling fire the only source of light in the room when Evan unrolled a piece of parchment over the ledger on Damian’s desk.

Damian scanned the document and his records, his face as still as stone.

“Montrose’s funds are as filthy as the man himself,” Evan began, his voice low. “Most of them come from rigging games at Devil’s Draw. His influence there is absolute—enough to keep his hands clean while his men do the dirty work. That, you already know. He’s been taking fortunes from unsuspecting fools. Rumor has it that anyone who questions him vanishes.”

“And Montrose’s ledger? Does it confirm his dealings?”

Evan nodded, after exhaling deeply. He seemed to be trying to keep his emotions in control. “It does. Every bribe, every rigged game, and—would you believe it—every crooked deal… it’s all in there. But he’s clever. It must be hidden well. He knows how much it’s worth.”

“It’s worth his reputation among the ton. It’s worth everything,” Damian said with a grim smile. “Not clever enough, though. He depends too much on one ledger, and once we have it, it’s over for him. His allies will turn against him.”

Evan hesitated, his keen eyes studying him. “There’s something else, Your Grace. Montrose isn’t just rigging games and smuggling goods. He, uh, tried to sell the duchess to one of his associates before you got married.”

“You heard this from where?” Damian asked warily.

“From my reliable sources.”

“So, everything seems to be out in the open,” Damian murmured. “I know about this, Evan. I’ve seen it with my own eyes, but I foolishly believed him when he said it was a family affair, and this particular crime was at least secret among a few of his associates.”

“Montrose is dangerous. You’ve always known that, Your Grace. We need to be methodical if we must take him down. A man like him will not fall easily, and therefore, we can’t afford to make mistakes.”

“Tell me everything,” he demanded in the cold voice he was known for.

Evan leaned forward, his tone shifting into a more professional one. Damian knew that his man had felt the change in him. Distractions had been discarded in favor of revenge.

It felt so close and yet so far.

“The plan is simple,” Evan began. “We sneak into the abandoned estate where the ledger is hidden. It is not heavily guarded, but we still have to tread carefully. We do it after dark. We have a contact in Jimmy’s gang who has provided us with a map of the grounds, but it is best to study it beforehand.”

“And the ledger?”

“It’s hidden in Montrose’s private study,” Evan replied. “We need to search for a secret panel.”

Damian considered this, his mind racing through the plan’s logistics. “Montrose will retaliate,” he concluded after a moment. “Once he realizes that we’ve taken the ledger, he’ll come after us—and after the duchess.”

“Then we don’t give him the chance,” Evan said. “Once we have the ledger, we’ll hand it to the authorities. That way, he’d be too busy saving himself from ruin.”

Damian’s gaze hardened. “He won’t escape. Not this time. I want him ruined, Evan. I want him to feel the desperation and loss that his victims had felt, and I don’t want him to make anyone suffer ever again!”

Evan nodded. “That’s certainly the plan, Your Grace.”

For a moment, neither spoke. They silently mulled over the plan they had decided on. It was not going to be easy. Things could go wrong.

“Two days,” Damian declared, breaking the silence. “We leave in two days. Evan, ensure that everything is in place and that our man will not betray us.”

Evan carefully gathered the parchment. “Everything will be. However, Your Grace, the duchess?—”

“What about her?” Damian asked, sounding too defensive for his own liking.

“In the short time I’ve known her, I can tell that she won’t rest easy until she knows what you are planning. Am I correct, Your Grace?”

Damian furrowed his brow. He was deeply aware that Evan was right. Gwendoline’s curiosity might ruin their plan.

“I’ll handle her,” he snapped.

After further discussion and planning, Damian dismissed his man and leaned back in his chair as soon as he heard the door click shut.

He had intended to rest his eyes for a few minutes before he got back to poring over his ledgers. It was his nighttime routine. Daytime was for exploring, training, and inspecting his property and staff.

It was time for him to breathe. To relax. But even then, thoughts of a blonde spitfire came rushing back to him. He knew that he’d carry those visions into his dreams and beyond.

Gwendoline found ways to occupy herself in the vast estate. She would stroll through the manicured gardens and explore the rolling hills, which delighted her.

“An estate with a large garden also has its wild hill?” she gasped as she explored on her own.

She did enjoy some of the freedom that Damian had insisted that she had.

If it weren’t for what she perceived as her uncertain and precarious position, she would have thought she was living in a fairytale. She had read about them—fairytales—even when she was still living with Timothy. They were a means to forget her reality, since she had never truly believed that she would physically escape her tyrant cousin.

She breathed in the crisp air, squeezing her eyes shut. It felt like a dream, and she had to remind herself that it was real.

She was here. She didn’t have a husband hovering over her, demanding things of her. It should be perfect.

She also explored the halls of the grand mansion, marveling at how her footsteps echoed against the marble floors. She even called out whenever she was alone in a large, empty space and giggled when she heard her voice echo back.

Her eyes feasted on the ornate architecture, and she was intrigued by the various rooms. She knew that each one had a story more interesting than the last.

It was unfair that such a large house was not populated with people, as it should. She thought of her enigmatic husband, who seemed content to isolate himself in his study, filling his thoughts with revenge.

In one of the sitting rooms, she stumbled upon an arresting painting. The house was full of paintings and sculptures. Therefore, it was interesting that this one made her pause.

It was a violent seascape, with the waves rising high even as they crashed against a jagged cliff. The sky was so dark and turbulent that it couldn’t possibly tame the water below. Instead, it urged it to go insane.

Gwendoline inspected the painting and was delighted to see an artist’s signature in the lower right corner. Eric Westback.

Mm .

She wondered what it would be like to be Eric Westback, a man who could be free to reveal his emotions through art. The water felt almost alive. It moved across the canvas, evoking a feeling of helplessness.

“Such raw emotion,” she muttered, her fingers hovering over the canvas but not truly touching it.

The painting must have cost a fortune. For some reason, though, it felt familiar. Where had she seen something like it? Where could she possibly see another Eric Westback painting? She wondered if Mrs. Albright had some answers for her.

Unlike Cook and the other servants, the housekeeper was more open. She spoke more freely, giving her some hope. The others were still distant, though they were always polite.

Gwendoline somehow understood their need to assess her first. Assess her sincerity. Then again, Mrs. Albright might simply be more vocal because it was her job. She was their leader. Their commander.

Gwendoline giggled at the thought of Mrs. Albright in military uniform.

“Do you have any idea how the duke obtained the Eric Westback painting? I feel like I’ve seen it before.”

“That’s not surprising, Your Grace. Eric Westback has become famous. He’s also quite mysterious. Nobody truly knows his identity.”

“Oh,” Gwendoline murmured.

“Rumor has it that the painter is a member of the ton. I would not be surprised if His Grace knows who Eric Westback is. He is a man who can keep secrets,” the housekeeper said.

“He certainly can,” Gwendoline huffed.

Then, she paused. She didn’t want anyone to suspect that they were not the happy newlyweds they pretended to be. That probably needed a slight—er, major—correction.

But Damian didn’t seem interested in pretending. So why bother?

What she believed to be right somehow prevailed.

“I mean, he’s been spending more time in his study than with me,” she complained, jutting her lower lip as if she was hurt that he was not paying her so much attention.

“Oh, I am sorry, Your Grace. Have you tried bringing him some oysters and Turkish Delight when you visit him in his study?” Mrs. Albright suggested, with an innocent and enthusiastic smile.

“Why oysters? Why Turkish Delight?”

Gwendoline wondered if it was something only the wealthy knew.

“Oh, but Your Grace! Oysters are an aphrodisiac. Of course, he never needed them. Pardon me, but I’m assuming you heard about his reputation before you married him. But perhaps he needs a little boost. He’s been tired lately…”

“Oh…” Gwendoline felt her cheeks flush, and she could only assume that the older woman could see the red spots all over her face and chest.

“Pardon me, Your Grace. I sometimes forget that most young ladies of the ton, even when married, are still innocent in so many ways,” Mrs. Albright offered, her hands both up, palms facing Gwendoline.

“It’s quite all right,” Gwendoline reassured her. “And the Turkish Delight?”

“Oh, that one? It’s simply one of his favorite treats since he was a child.”

“I see,” she said, before sighing with relief. “Thank you, Mrs. Albright.”

As days went by, Gwendoline continued her efforts to get better acquainted with the staff.

Accompanied by Mrs. Albright, the various servants were keener to welcome her. Soon, the rest of them had finally warmed to her. It was evident in the enthusiastic greetings she would receive whenever she passed them. Even when she had a terrible day thinking about her fate, she made sure she returned their smiles.

There was one person that she had kept avoiding, though. But he had also kept avoiding her. Sometimes she could swear that she’d seen him lurking in the corners. She’d glimpse his profile sometimes when he strode from one room to another, from one task to the next. Sometimes she caught him coming home sweaty, but he would immediately retreat to his room.

There were no signs of other women, either. For a former rake, he had certainly turned his life around and become a recluse. She wondered how long he would be able to take it. Perhaps he would return to his old ways after getting his revenge.

The thought didn’t make her feel better. There was no relief there. No satisfaction.

That evening, Gwendoline went back to the sitting room where she had found the Eric Westback painting. It had a strange pull, like an enchantment.

She sat in front of it, prepared to spend hours inspecting it. She loved mysteries. That must be why she became the wife of the Duke of Greyvale. He was a mystery that she vowed she would solve one day.

One mystery at a time, though.

“Who are you, Eric Westback?” she whispered, her fingers boldly tracing the signature.

The curving lines didn’t feel like they belonged to an Eric. They felt too feminine.

She laughed to herself. Of course, she was being ridiculous. That was what happened to young women with wild imaginations when they were trapped in large mansions with grumpy dukes.

Suddenly, she heard footsteps, and her body went rigid. She knew that no one would dare ask her what she was doing there. She was the duchess.

Did they hear her laughing to herself? Would they think she had gone mad?

Gwendoline turned to see Damian standing in the doorway.

As always, he had a large, commanding presence. Instead of his glare, there was a soft look in his eyes.

He entered the room in long strides while keeping his eyes on the painting.

Of course, that thoughtful gaze was for the painting, not for her.

Her chest ached for no reason other than perhaps her pride being battered. Then again, she should be used to that.

Then, he turned his attention to her. This time, his eyes were blazing. Not with anger, but with passion. Yes, she was certain it was that. It seemed that the painting had that effect on people. It certainly made her feel many things when she was studying it.

“You like it,” he noted.

It was a statement, not a question, which was typical of him.

She nodded and sighed. The sigh did two things: take away the heavy feeling in her chest while also expressing her contentment.

“It’s breathtaking. There are so many emotions in the brushstrokes. The sea, everything about it… It overwhelms me.”

Damian looked at her. Those eyes could be so intense, so probing, and yet they softened in an instant when his lips quirked into a smile. Then, he sat next to her on the bench. She could feel the heat and energy radiating from him. He was so close—too close—that she couldn’t breathe.

What was going on with her?

“Westback has a gift for capturing untamed energy,” he murmured, glancing at her when he said the last two words. His eyes had become heavy-lidded.

Untamed energy .

There was so much that she wanted to say about that, but she restrained herself, as she always did.

“Do you know the artist?” she asked instead, her breath catching, though her curiosity was certainly piqued.

“Westback is a mysterious figure, and his art attracts those who have been through some very darkest moments,” Damian replied enigmatically.

Normally, Gwendoline would have been disappointed, pressed for more, and felt dissatisfied and frustrated.

However, she only felt peace after the brief exchange with her stranger of a husband.

After their encounter in the sitting room, Damian barely saw his wife sit still. She was going back and forth, engaging in activities she didn’t have to participate in. She had assigned herself responsibilities that would have normally been assigned to the servants. Still, she worked side by side with them.

There were no complaints of tiredness. There were also no declarations of achievement. She simply worked, seemingly not asking for anything in return. But the red hue on her cheeks showed her satisfaction with what she was doing. She was indeed a puzzle. He couldn’t help but feel admiration for her, along with a mix of frustration and desire.

Every time he saw her, she seemed to glow more. Her honey-blonde curls became brighter. Even her cheeks and lips had gained some color. She was no longer losing sleep and had gotten used to her life without him.

“Mrs. Albright, how am I doing? Would I be able to keep my job?” he heard her jesting with the housekeeper one evening.

“Oh, Your Grace! You mustn’t tire yourself. Everyone is waiting for a Redmond baby to walk the halls of Greyvale.”

“Mrs. Albright!”

“It’s high time, Your Grace. You and His Grace will make beautiful babies.”

Damian was not used to this side of his wife, carefree and ready to laugh. It was an unguarded moment, one that she had not shared with him before. Mrs. Albright’s words also made him think of children, not other people’s expectations or the practicality of siring an heir. He considered what it would be like to be a father.

He realized that he had discarded the possibility.

After all, he had warned her that she’d never become anything more.

Not a lover.

Not a friend.

That was the refrain. The rule.

The pain that lanced through him manifested into his clenched fists. He had to force himself to move away from the sound of her laughter.

He reminded himself that he needed to make Montrose pay. The rest of her conversation with Mrs. Albright became a series of muffled sounds that couldn’t hide her delight.

The woman certainly expressed how she felt. She was so unlike him. She laughed when she was happy and bared her soul when something touched her.

It was like that evening when she gazed at the painting with pure curiosity. Other members of the ton would only do so to pretend to be educated, but his wife… She genuinely saw value in Eric Westback’s painting.

His duchess was stirring things in him that he had long buried. He had tried to push her away, but he couldn’t deny that she had quite the effect on him. He needed to push down whatever strange feelings he was developing.

Timothy Landon.

Montrose.

He had one goal in life, and nothing and no one could stop him.