Claimed By the Icy Duke (Brides of Scandal #3)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

“Well, well. If it isn’t the Countess of Kerrington, all alone.” The burlier man cocked his head. “Perfect, lads, no?”

Four men had flooded into the hallway of Kerrington House, dressed in all black, the bottoms of their faces covered with silk cloths. Only their narrowed eyes were visible, and all five pairs were fixed on Sibyl Lynden, formerly Sibyl Dennis, standing alone in the corridor.

Sibyl’s heart lurched, her feet guiding her a pace back. Behind her, the railing of the staircase hit her back, and she reached behind her to grasp it.

It was no weapon—not that she would know what to do with one—but it grounded her.

He glanced behind at his companions, and Sibyl’s eyes swept them all, trying to remember details—remember them.

Remember that the one on the far right has brown eyes, but the one next to him has blue eyes—I can’t see anything else notable. I must remember details and—and—and—

Her breath came fast, recalling how she had once needed to report to the authorities about a lord who had assaulted her in a garden maze several years ago.

Her fists clenched harder around the railing, recalling the dank office, the questions, the surely you can recall more about Lord Grenford and his assault, Lady Sibyl?

It would help us apprehend him quicker. The endless pressure, the grief, the distress—all of it balled into one, awful weight in her chest.

Now, she forced herself to remember these men as best as she could, pushing herself through her terror.

“L-Leave,” she ordered, trying to put more steel into her voice the way she had heard her siblings do. But she was not her siblings, and even though years had passed since she had been dubbed the delicate Wickleby flower, she had never quite learned how to assert her authority. “Leave now!”

Her feeble orders fell on deaf ears, only earning her a wave of laughter from the men.

She took another step back, only to realize it gave them more space to push further into the entrance hall and the corridor where she hovered.

Do not come closer, she begged inwardly. Please, please do not enter—

But they did enter fully, closing the door behind them, and Sibyl felt her heart beat in her throat.

“We will not be leaving, Lady Kerrington,” the first man drawled, cocking his head. When he smiled at her, she saw only menace and threat.

The brass railing dug into her palm, not quite grounding anymore.

“My name is Mr. Gilroy Vance, and my men and I are from the Gilded Key. We will not be leaving until we get the information we want.”

The Gilded Key.

Why was the name so familiar?

She tried to distract herself from her fear by racking her brain for why she recognized it—and then it hit.

A gaming hell in London, known for its cheating-handed players, men who bet more than they could afford, and nightly fights that ran amok because the guards were more likely to join in than stop them.

Mr. Vance smirked. “You recognize my establishment.”

“I am a lady,” she insisted. “Of course I do not.”

“Every lady has a darker side to her. Hidden away. Shown only to her husband, perhaps…” His eyes flashed.

Sibyl’s eyes flitted around the hall, noting how each man looked around as if already assessing her home. The hem of a maid’s skirt disappeared around a corner to her right, skittering away.

She could only hope the maid would send for the constables.

However, she could already hear hurried footsteps coming from the corridor that led to the kitchen. She had dismissed her butler when she retired to the parlor, and now she hoped he had followed that order, that he wouldn’t put himself in danger.

One of the other men stepped forward. “Lord Kerrington,” he began. “Where is he?”

“My husband?” Sibyl frowned, shaking her head.

Terror seized her, making her words strained. If she could not give the men what they wanted, then what means would they resort to?

“I… I cannot help you. I have not seen my husband for four days. His whereabouts are just as unknown to me as they are to you.”

“See, I don’t entirely believe you,” the man said, sliding his hands into his pockets.

He glanced to the side, addressing the others.

“Search the parlor. Seize anything that can lead us to Kerrington.” He paused, his smile turning more sinister.

“Take anything of value, too. We’re not here for information only, after all. ”

His eyes met Sibyl’s.

“No!” she cried. “No, please, you cannot—”

The footsteps she had heard finally reached her, and her butler rushed in front of her. She could sense he was trying to shield her by pretending to do his job of stopping the guests from going where they shouldn’t.

“Banwick,” she said, drawing his attention, “please return to your quarters. You do not need to be here.” Her voice was kind, pleading, but firm.

She had to protect those who protected her, too. She had learned that by witnessing Hermia’s kindness towards her servants.

“I heard the noise and voices,” Mr. Banwick muttered, looking at her with a frown. “I must—”

“You must stay safe,” she whispered. “Please, let these men take what they need.” Her voice shook, for she had no idea what sort of information they were seeking or what they would even find.

She had lived in Kerrington House for just over a year, and she had never come across anything amiss.

“Lady Kerrington—”

“Please, Banwick,” she insisted, aware that the intruders were watching her.

“Yes, Banwick,” Mr. Vance echoed, his tone mocking. “Do as your mistress says now.”

It took another few seconds of the old butler looking at Sibyl with so much concern it hurt her to see, but she nodded, hoping her plea was visible enough in her eyes.

“Then I will not be far, should you need anything,” he promised, before retreating.

He glanced over his shoulder before disappearing around the far corner.

As he did, four men branched out towards the parlor, and Sibyl was torn between following them and keeping her eyes on Mr. Vance, who simply stood there, his arms folded over his chest. His eyes didn’t move away from her.

“Please… please be quiet,” she begged. “My servants—”

“Your servants are not our concern,” he interrupted. “Let my men do what I need them to do. Your lack of cooperation will not be well-received.”

The threat had Sibyl shutting her mouth. She had been on the receiving end of enough threats, had seen Isabella go through similar things, and could only curl her fingers into her palms, forming useless fists that a lady would never use.

Still, the nervous habit kept her distracted as she listened to the carpet being turned over, furniture hitting the wall, and frames knocked to the floor.

With each crash and thud, she didn’t dare wander into the parlor.

She flinched, listening to the destruction of one of her favorite rooms in the townhouse.

For too long, she stood there, facing Mr. Vance, thinking of her husband’s disappearance, thinking of why the Gilded Key would have an issue with him.

She wanted to pace, suddenly feeling like a caged animal, blindfolded, uncertain of what was happening, but she didn’t. She felt trapped in her own house.

The feeling was rather familiar, but this time, it came with terror rather than old pressure from her parents.

Eventually, Mr. Vance strode to the parlor, and Sibyl followed.

Her heart clenched at the sight of the wreckage.

The sofa she had been sitting on barely twenty minutes ago was overturned, every drawer in every cabinet yanked out and emptied, and the frames had indeed been torn off the walls, as if they were searching for something hidden behind them.

“This is not necessary,” she said sadly, hating that her servants would have to tidy everything up later. That they must have heard the commotion and must be fearing for themselves, too. “This is not—”

“Search the kitchen,” Mr. Vance ordered.

Without a second’s hesitation, the men all stalked down the hallway, heading for the kitchen. Sibyl raced after them, her pleas falling on deaf ears.

When they entered, the men’s eyes greedily narrowed on the food prepared for dinner, wrapped and plated.

Sibyl often offered the servants what remained of dinner. After all, her husband was not there to enjoy the food. She hated waste.

The men moved towards the generously filled plates, and she flew forward, throwing herself in front of the main wooden table.

“Please do not take the food,” she begged, even as two of the men started emptying the cupboards, the pantry, every shelf. “Please.”

Laughter filled the kitchen, and one man looked back at her as he grabbed a basket of bread and cheese she had asked to be prepared for a walk through the park tomorrow with Phoebe, Hermia’s stepdaughter.

“Your husband should have thought twice about leaving you with such debt,” the man sniggered, tucking the basket under his arm. “Now, you’ll go hungry, Lady Kerrington, and I do hope he will enjoy coming home to an empty house and kitchen, for he certainly does not have the money to replace it.”

Sibyl stood there, stunned, staring as they emptied everything else and piled it on the table. With each thud of food, her heart cracked a little further.

No money to replace it? Her husband had debts?

She had not been made aware, and she should have known that was why debt collectors had turned up on her doorstep, but terror had clouded her reason.

“He… My husband does not have debts,” she said quietly, not wanting to believe it.

“Oh, he does. And they’re quite a bit,” Mr. Vance sneered. “And we intend to get back every penny. By whatever means.”

In front of her, one of the men opened the prepared picnic basket and started eating the cheese right from the block. The sight of the large bitemark in the chunk and the saliva that coated it turned her stomach. She looked away.

It is just cheese. Hermia can replace it, if need be, but these men… Surely they are lying. Surely…