Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
A tense silence descended on the carriage. Damian felt his wife’s head on his shoulder. She must have dozed off. Across from them sat a quiet Evan, looking out the window.
He felt guilty about letting her wander the gardens at night in somebody else’s estate. She had already been hurt in Greyvale.
What was he thinking?
He had been too preoccupied with recruiting more allies. He remembered laughing and drinking some whiskey with his peers. It had been a while since that had happened.
A long time.
The last time he was like that was before Montrose invaded his life. Their lives. Even then, there was some bitterness in his life, with his mother’s illness and his father’s steadfast commitment to duty.
Duty, duty, duty.
He had been good at it, at least. He knew who to ally himself with, manage the estate, and handle the finances. But his engagement with happiness might be a lie. His mother was a whirlwind of emotions, soaring up and crashing down. When she crashed down, she crashed down hard .
Damian had lost her. It was why he never had close friends like Mary and Levi. He had let them in when they were all too young, before his mother’s death broke him. Then, he lost them, too. Now that he was unmoored, he was terrified by his reaction to the attempts on Gwendoline’s life.
“It was all my fault,” he whispered.
Evan stared at him from across the carriage. His fists were on his lap, and he seemed like he was barely breathing.
He had always been Damian’s man and friend. The only reason Damian had put some distance between them was that his father didn’t want him to be friends with servants.
Yet, here they were.
Here he was, in a carriage with a friend he could not claim and a woman who had made him vulnerable again.
“Mmm?”
As if on cue, Gwendoline stirred. Did she hear what he had whispered? He knew that Evan did.
“We’re almost home,” he said.
Upon arrival, Damian noticed the strange stillness of the house. It was never a noisy apartment, even though it was located in London, but it did have the usual hum of activity—of servants walking back and forth to attend to their duties. Some would talk a little during this constant shuffling about.
Yes, it was nighttime, but there would still be something. Mrs. Albright might be briefing a young servant about their day. She liked pointing out areas of improvement, as well as giving praise for a job well done. Cook would still be in the kitchen, examining her ingredients by candlelight and complaining to the cleaners about her suspicions—like a mice infestation or someone stealing some slice of meat. They were mostly unfounded, but she was just passionate about what she did. What she cooked.
Cook, Mrs. Albright, and Hannah were the only servants who constantly traveled with them. Gwendoline loved them.
Tonight, though, there was none of that. Damian could only hear the grandfather clock ticking, and it felt ominous. He turned to his companions, and he could see the same unease on their faces.
“Something must have happened, Your Grace,” Evan remarked tensely.
Gwendoline remained silent, biting her lower lip. She seemed to believe the same, her eyes darting left and right with worry.
The door slammed behind them. Damian had let it. It was an announcement of their arrival, although the sound of horses’ hooves and the front door opening should have been enough of an announcement when the house was dead silent.
Soon, Hannah was rushing toward them. Her face was pale and pinched, but her movements were rushed. Urgent.
“Your G-Grace,” she stammered, after curtsying to both Gwendoline and Damian. “There’s been, uh, an incident.”
“An incident? What kind of incident?” Damian boomed.
“Your study, Your Grace,” the maid explained. “It’s been ransacked. Y-Your papers and ledgers are all over the floor. We tried to intervene, but the masked man swung a knife at us. There was a second one, too, who caught everyone by surprise.”
Without another word, Damian marched toward his study. He could barely hear the others following him, but he could hear Gwendoline calling his name. He was not going to stop for anything. He wanted to see what had happened to his study.
And damn, it was quite a sight.
Hannah had given him an idea of what to expect, but it didn’t prepare him for what had actually happened. It was not simply documents strewn all over the floor or open drawers. No. The room was a disaster . It was as if a natural storm had swept over London and focused its full force on the study.
So many papers littered the floor that one could barely see the wood. Shelves had been pulled down, and there were so many holes in the mahogany desk, as if someone had stabbed at it in a fit of rage.
Damian sniffed. He could smell something metallic in the air. He could hear Gwendoline whimpering as she took in the trail of blood that led toward the doorway. It was not completely surprising, given Hannah’s account of the attack.
He felt something inside him trying to explode. His feet were rooted to the floor, and his fists clenched at his sides even though the culprits had most likely fled a long time ago.
But perhaps not that long?
“Did you see who did this?” he asked his servants, even though there was no doubt in his mind who did it.
There was nobody else. Despite his former rakish ways, Damian had no enemies. His former lovers had always known what they were in for—not a lifetime of love but a few stolen moments that would end quickly. He had always chosen the ones who weren’t looking for husbands, but pleasure.
He saw his wife flinch at the tone of his voice. Instead of approaching him to calm him down, she had recoiled from him. She bent at the waist, seemingly studying the trail of blood.
One of his footmen wore a makeshift sling around his arm, and blood stained the gauze. His face was also red and would no doubt become purple come morning.
“Two men, Your Grace. They broke into your study while you were at the ball. They must have left their carriage a distance away and walked the rest of the street. We didn’t hear the sound of hooves or the creaking of the door. Everyone was focused on their work.”
Ah, so that explained the silence. One, it was nighttime. Everyone should have retired or been preparing to retire. Two, the attack had left the servants terrified. Three, they wanted to hear if anyone else was approaching.
Fear.
It was no longer just Damian, Gwendoline, and Evan who felt it. Even the servants were afraid now. Even the ones in Greyvale were aware of the danger after the poisoning attempt and the horse tampering. It was a miracle that both Gwendoline and Daisy had survived with minimal injuries.
“They took things?” Damian asked, his eyes assessing the wreckage.
It looked like Montrose’s men had a hard time finding the documents. Or were they simply trying to wreak as much havoc as possible?
“Documents. Some papers. We thought it strange that they didn’t even bother to check if you have secret passages. They didn’t seem interested in jewelry or paintings,” the footman said. “They seemed to know their way around your study, Your Grace. They opened the drawers and even your secret panels. Look at them.”
True enough, there were some wooden planks on the floor.
If Damian had felt shocked at seeing his study destroyed, now he was certain that Montrose had taken what he needed. They were back to the beginning, when hope seemed lost.
He had lost to Montrose, again.
There was such certainty in the attack. Montrose’s men didn’t go to Greyvale. Instead, they attacked his townhouse right after the incident. It was clear what had just happened.
He slowly turned to face his wife. Judging from her pale face and trembling lips, she did exactly what he thought she did.
“What did you tell him?” he asked, his voice cold.
Gwendoline blinked as if taken aback. His question cut her like a blade. Damian was aware of it, but he didn’t think he needed to apologize.
His wife had directed his enemy to where the important documents were. She didn’t even think to misdirect him. She told him when he asked.
“I-I…” she stammered.
“You told him where the documents were, didn’t you?” he asked, his voice rising.
“Your Grace—” Evan began, lifting his right hand.
“Step aside, Evan. This is between me and my wife. My wife, who could be merely pretending to help us. Remember how she involved herself in this investigation even when I told her not to?”
Bitterness was clouding his judgment, and he knew it, but he couldn’t stop the words from coming out of his mouth. Frustration. It had always been ugly on him.
“Your Grace, she almost died three times,” Evan protested.
“She did not. She was almost hurt or hurt enough, but she was not…” Damian faltered, knowing full well that his words were hurtful—more damaging than the things that had happened to Gwendoline.
So, he wasn’t surprised when she flinched and stepped back from him. Her eyes were full of pain. Guilt. Despair.
“I was trying to protect you!” she shot back. “You didn’t really think that I would do that voluntarily, did you, Your Grace?”
It was Damian’s turn to flinch. She used his title as a way to widen the gap between them. He could feel the gaping void stretching, and he couldn’t stop it.
“You could have screamed.”
Even he knew the ridiculousness of his words. He was floundering, caught between wanting to believe everything she was telling him and protecting himself from her. From himself.
It wasn’t supposed to be anything but a damn-you act to Montrose.
Their marriage was supposed to be for show. It was a means for him to evade the young ladies of the ton so that he could focus on revenge—and the marriage itself was a form of revenge. And yet it had become something more. Hadn’t it?
“You don’t know what you’re saying. He pinned my arm behind my back, and I would not have said anything. Nothing. I would have kept my mouth shut if it was just me he threatened. But he was looking at you through the window. He said that someone was there. He said that his man would hurt you—no, kill you as soon as he gave his signal. Stab you. Poison you. They would have found a way, Damian.”
His name sounded like a plea, and his chest hurt at the thought of Montrose hurting Gwendoline.
“That can’t be true,” he muttered, more to himself than to her.
Evan had already retreated, giving them some space and privacy.
“I’m not lying. I would not do that to you. I care for you, Damian. You may not see it, but I do. If anyone’s going to be hurt, I’d rather it be me, not you.”
“You were supposed to trust me. You were supposed to let me handle it.”
His voice was still frosty. The accusation in his tone might have eased a little, but it remained.
“I was terrified, Damian. I was scared of losing you. Of losing everything?—”
“We lost everything. The evidence we had against Montrose—all gone! My servants are injured. My study is destroyed.”
Gwendoline choked back a sob, her hand flying to her mouth. Damian struggled to keep his composure as he watched her fall apart in front of him. It wasn’t how he had imagined the night would end.
He was angry, but not only at her. Yes, he was annoyed by what she had done—trusting that Montrose would play fair after she revealed the location of the documents. He still hit her on the head! He was furious at Montrose for making several attempts on her life.
Evan was right. There was nothing humorous about the attempts on his wife’s life. Most of all, Damian was angry at himself for letting her get hurt once more.
Still, he hardened himself. Gwendoline confessed to caring for him enough to try to save him, but he couldn’t afford to tell her that he was terrified of losing her.
Something must be done. Something must be said.
“You’re a liability, Duchess,” he said, keeping his voice devoid of any warmth or suggestion that he would listen to whatever she had to say. “Montrose may have suspected it, but now he knows for certain. Now, I do, too.”
Her whimper was louder this time as she staggered further away from him as if he had struck her. Her hand rubbed her chest. Damian could not help but follow the motion with his eyes.
“How can you say that?” she breathed. “After everything I’ve done to help you with your quest for vengeance? After the things I’ve shared with you that I have not dared to share even a bit of with anyone else?”
Damian turned away from her. It would be easier not to look at her face. Not to look at her pain. It would be for their own good. She would be safer. His sanity would remain intact.
“You will leave for Greyvale with Hannah, Cook, and Mrs. Albright first thing in the morning,” he said flatly. His shoulders ached from the tightness. His head throbbed. “It’s the only way to keep you safe.”
He might not see her face, but he could hear her breath hitching.
“You’re sending me away? Are you staying here in London?” The rising panic in her voice was evident.
“It’s for your own good, Gwendoline,” Damian explained. He struggled to keep up the walls he was building between them.
“For my own good or yours?” she asked, anger now lacing her words. “No, do not lie to yourself. You are not doing this for me. You are doing this for yourself because you’re afraid.”
Damian spun around. His eyes narrowed on his wife, who was red in the face at that moment. She was angry. He was angry. It was not a good idea to talk at that moment, but she wasn’t wrong. He was afraid. But perhaps she did not know why and what he was afraid of.
“You don’t know what you are talking about, Gwendoline,” he grunted.
“Oh, don’t I?” Gwendoline challenged. “I hate myself for telling Timothy where you hid the documents. You think he won’t come after me in Greyvale? He already did, remember?”
Damian knew that. He would instruct his trusted men to watch over her in Greyvale. He might even send Evan there. But he and Gwendoline should not stay together. Not now.
Even as her words hung heavily in the air, he said nothing. He clenched his jaw and kept his expression stoic. He wanted to go back to the way he was before he met her.
Unfathomable. With her, he was at risk of being too open. Too easy to read.
So, he left the room, the door slamming shut behind him.
Gwendoline almost cursed. She had never done so in her life, but she was sorely tempted. After all, her husband had just left her in a room for the third time. They all thought that Gwen was the one who often escaped the pain and confusion, but she knew someone who always escaped when things became too difficult to discuss.
Damian.
He was not a coward, no. But there were things that he kept running away from. Still, he had said so many hurtful words that her heart felt battered.
Feeling hopeless, she sank into a chair and tried to savor her last few moments in their London residence. She was being banished by the man whom she thought she had formed an unbreakable bond with.
There were no promises as to what they were, but he had at least shown that he cared for her. Tonight, all that was left in his eyes was a cold determination. His rejection stung, and perhaps she should take it as a sign not to care too much for him.
No matter what, though, she would not let Timothy win. She would have to make this all end. Even if Damian pushed her away in the end, she would not let him push her away now. They needed to present a united front against the man who had made their lives hell.
Wiping her tears, Gwendoline squared her shoulders and watched the fire crackling in the grate. Her body was not cold, but it was her insides that needed warming up. But she would keep on fighting.