Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Gabriel watched Sibyl’s carriage pull down the street until it disappeared around the corner.
His chest felt too tight, and he clenched his hands into fists, but he was numb. Utterly numb.
He shouldn’t have let his wife leave like that.
For the first time in his life, Gabriel truly felt nothing. Not from a lack of care, but that numbness that weighed his bones. It grew and grew the longer he stood at the window, but he couldn’t bring himself to move. Not when it meant walking around an equally empty house.
The silence in the wake of Sibyl’s departure was too heavy. She had been wrong when she told him that her absence wouldn’t make a difference. It made all the difference; Gabriel could already not stand it.
Eventually, he moved away from the window.
Has this hunt been worth losing her?
Everything he had done to make sure he never lost her, only to push her away.
By the time evening came around and he sat at an empty table, barely touching his dinner, he had turned Sibyl’s absence into a motivator. It was the only way he could handle it.
He told himself he would be freer to hunt, now that she was away from the city, safe in the countryside, even if it hurt him that he couldn’t be there to protect her.
“But I do not want a protector. I want my husband.”
His fist came down on the table before he shoved to his feet and walked away, his appetite long gone. He stalked to his study and began piecing together the next part of his investigation.
There was something he was missing, and it was agonizing not to know what it was.
More days passed. He did not know how long Sibyl planned to stay at her sister’s, but he couldn’t stop listening out for the clatter of carriages outside. He even missed Rosie’s cries and often found himself wandering into the empty nursery.
His clothes were still stained from the fight he had gotten into the night before at another pub, one similar to the King’s Hound. He had not meant to get into it, and he had lost anyway.
He stared down at the statements he had received from various people who had witnessed the accident. There was always a pair of eyes or two watching in London; at least he could rely on that.
The words blurred as he read over the first statement.
He was a wiry man with a shock of red hair; I’d recognize him if I saw him again. Very small, easy to slip between carriages undetected, I suppose. I saw him go into Hollins right after he had passed by Her Grace’s carriage. He seemed familiar with the place.
Gabriel cursed violently. How could he have missed that detail? The statement had come in a couple of days ago, and he had not been sleeping a lot, nor eating much, and the words had blurred more times than they had been clear, but he should not have missed such an important detail.
He shot out of his chair, uncaring that he ought to bathe or make himself look presentable. His father would be ashamed, but without Sibyl, Gabriel cared for very little.
He tore through London’s streets, focused solely on getting to Hollins, a tavern where fairly respectable people often dined.
It was not a place where he thought a criminal would go, but perhaps that was the point. Plenty of lords dealt in crime, their hands far from clean.
He slammed the tavern door open, his eyes searching the faces.
“I am looking for a man,” he announced to the small room. “Red hair, short and thin, might frequent this place often.”
As soon as he spoke, a chair scraped back, the person rising from it moving so fast that he knocked it over. Gabriel’s eyes caught sight of the red-haired man right as he sprinted out of the dining area and made for the bar.
Gabriel shot after him, a familiar emotion rising in his chest: pure anger.
He followed the man beyond the bar, then to a door that led out into the street. The man was fast, but Gabriel was angrier and faster. He caught up to him, grasping his collar and slamming him against the nearest wall.
The man whimpered when Gabriel snarled in his face. “Who are you?”
Another whimper came, and Gabriel shoved him harder against the wall.
“I-I am Lord Samuel, Your Grace. Th-The younger brother of—”
“I do not care about that,” Gabriel hissed. “You were seen tampering with the Duchess of Stonehelm’s carriage. Why?”
Lord Samuel’s eyes widened.
Gabriel slammed him against the wall again, the man’s head hitting the brick with a satisfying thud.
“I was friends with Edmund, and I do not like how quickly Her Grace discarded his memory. I wanted vengeance for Edmund’s debts, for how you worked with her to write my friend off.
I do not believe that what happened was fair.
Edmund was a good viscount, a good man. I do not care about being caught.
If you think you can intimidate me with that, you cannot. ”
“You ran rather fast for a man who does not care,” Gabriel drawled.
Still, something niggled at him.
The fear in Samuel’s voice was real. But if he wasn’t afraid of being taken to the authorities for attempting to harm a duchess, then what was he afraid of?
It was only when Gabriel handed him over to the authorities and returned home, trying to feel a glimmer of triumph for finally catching the culprit, that he realized something.
Samuel claimed to be Edmund’s friend, yet he had called him a viscount.
Gabriel poured himself a drink, unable to ignore the feeling that something was not right. The numbness eventually took over, and he fell into it, wondering why this victory did not feel as good as it should have.
“Let us drink, Cousin!”
Gabriel looked up from his desk right as Preston walked into the study. He realized that he had once again slept in the same clothes, although he felt restless as ever.
Preston paused, raising an eyebrow. “Heavens, you don’t seem to be doing very well. You have worn yourself out searching for the culprit.”
“And I found him.” Gabriel’s words were confident, contrasting with the numbness in his chest.
“As the entirety of London is finding out in today’s papers. Which is why I have brought champagne. We shall drink to your victory. It looks as though you desperately need it.”
Gabriel glared at him. “I am not in the mood to deal with you or your cheer.”
Preston frowned, lowering the champagne bottle. “I thought you would be happy, since the man who hurt your wife is now rotting in a cell. Speaking of, where is Her Grace?”
Gabriel swallowed. “She is staying with her sister in the countryside for a while, so I could investigate.”
It was far enough from the truth that he was uncomfortable saying it, but he was not about to admit to his pretentious cousin that Sibyl had walked away from him.
“Ah, a smart move. Well then, do write to her with the good news and tell her to come home. In fact, I will once again extend an invitation to celebrate—”
“No.”
“No?”
“No, Preston.”
“Gabriel, what is going on with you? I have never seen you look so… lost.”
Gabriel despised that Preston could see that on his face, but he didn’t have the energy to mask it.
Eventually, he sighed, standing up from his desk.
“There was something about the man’s confession.
I have not read his official statement, but when I questioned him, something seemed off about him.
He claimed to have been friends with Edmund, and that was why he went after Sibyl, but he called Edmund a viscount and a good man.
Surely a friend would get a title right. ”
Preston’s expression shifted at once. He went from smiling broadly in the hope of a celebration to frowning with concern.
Gabriel did not like how quickly his cousin could do that; it felt too insincere. All he wanted was to be left alone.
“Gabriel.” Preston’s voice lowered with sympathy. “Then we can speak with him again, yes? I am sure it was just a slip of the tongue, too many drinks confusing his mind. Perhaps you should forget about him and focus on something else. I recall how you liked investigating Le—”
“Do not say her name,” Gabriel snapped. “You were not very present during her life, except at balls. You do not get to act like we are close, Preston, because we are not.”
“All right.” Preston nodded slowly. “I will leave the champagne with you, though, and let you wallow alone. It really is a pity that your wife is not at your side. I would have liked to say hello again.”
Gabriel only grunted in acknowledgement, and moments later, his cousin left.
More time passed, much more than Gabriel wanted to admit. It seemed that Sibyl was content to stay away from him.
A week after Lord Samuel had been apprehended and imprisoned, more news emerged in the papers.
Gabriel read it over a cup of coffee in his study.
He could not bear to go into the breakfast room anymore, not when Sibyl’s empty chair taunted him every day, making him wonder if he would ever see her again.
It had been almost two weeks, and he considered writing to her, telling her that he had been stupid, that he was sick with self-hatred, but he refrained. Leaving meant she did not want to see or hear from him, and no matter how much it hurt, he needed to respect that.
He had begun reading the morning paper again to distract his thoughts from Sibyl, for she was always there. But as his eyes landed on the headline, he froze.
Lord Samuel Found Dead in Prison.
Gabriel leaned forward, his fingers curling into the paper. He frowned before reading the rest, making sure not to miss a single detail.
The writer speculated that it had been the work of another prisoner, one who respected the Duchess and disliked that she had been put in harm’s way, but not before questioning whether Lord Samuel had done it to himself, wracked with guilt.
Gabriel did not believe any of it.