Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
“ Y ou don’t understand,” Henry’s words slurred, thick with alcohol and emotion. “I see his face, Adam. Every time I close my eyes?—”
Rosaline shouldn’t have been woken by noise downstairs. Instead, she found herself stirring awake on the edge of a restless dream, her senses pricking at the faint sound of raised voices below.
The low rumble of her husband’s deep, measured tone carried through the floorboards, countered by another voice—Henry’s—louder, slurred, and tinged with desperation.
Her pulse quickened, a sharp, instinctive reaction to the familiar tension that always seemed to linger around Adam.
She pushed the quilt aside, the soft fabric slipping off her body, and slid her feet to the cool wooden floor.
Swallowing hard, she brushed the thought aside, her hands steady as they reached for her robe, tying it snugly around her waist. With measured steps, she moved toward the door.
In the darkened hallway, the voices grew clearer.
“Hush now, Henry,” came Adam’s steady reply.
There was a commanding softness in his voice, an attempt at comfort that Rosaline had not heard from him before.
Her hand paused on the bannister as she leaned forward, curiosity curling in her chest. She knew she shouldn’t. Eavesdropping wasn’t proper, but her instincts were too sharp to ignore.
But Henry’s next words were too garbled to make out. Frustration flickered through her. She didn’t have time to debate propriety or puzzle out their words.
With a steadying breath, she descended the staircase, her slippers barely making a sound against the polished wood.
The parlor door was slightly ajar, golden light spilling into the dim hallway. She pushed it open gently, stepping inside.
Adam stood near the fireplace, his tall frame partially silhouetted by the flickering flames. He was in his shirtsleeves, his cravat loosened, his hair slightly tousled as though he had run his hands through it one too many times. His posture was tense but contained, a controlled storm.
In contrast, Henry slumped in an armchair, his face flushed and his eyes glassy.
“What’s going on?” Rosaline’s voice cut through the quiet.
Both men turned to look at her. Adam’s gaze met hers first, dark and intense, assessing. There was something unreadable in his expression that sent a ripple of awareness through her, a quiet but powerful pull that tightened in her stomach.
Henry, on the other hand, barely seemed to register her presence. His intoxicated state left him oblivious to everything but the swirling thoughts in his head.
“Nothing of concern,” Adam said after a beat, his voice measured. “Go back to bed.”
The words were simple, dismissive even, but his tone carried an edge of protectiveness. It was the kind of tone that might have made another woman obediently retreat. But Rosaline had never been one to back down so easily.
“It doesn’t sound like nothing.”
Adam’s jaw tightened ever so slightly, a tiny expression that might have been missed by anyone else. But Rosaline had learned the art of reading him.
He was stubborn, aloof—an immovable object. His body language was always so tightly wound, so carefully controlled, as if the moment he let his guard down, he might unravel.
Before Adam could respond, Henry let out a bitter laugh. “He’s lying to you, my lady,” he slurred. “It’s not nothing. It’s blood and guilt and?—”
“Henry,” Adam interrupted, his voice sharp now, his gaze cutting toward the man.
Rosaline’s brows knitted together as she moved further into the room. Her eyes softened as they landed on Henry, who looked utterly undone. Whatever demons haunted him tonight, they had clearly taken their toll. She could feel the weight of his distress in the air.
“He is drunk,” Adam said, his tone clipped, as though that explained everything.
“Yes, I can see that,” she replied, her voice laced with wry amusement. Her lips twitched into a faint smile before she turned her attention fully to Henry. “Come on, then. Let’s get you to bed.”
Henry blinked at her, his expression muddled with confusion and gratitude.
“You are very kind,” he mumbled, his words barely coherent.
Rosaline moved closer, crouching slightly to his level. Her movements were fluid, deliberate, betraying none of the discomfort she felt at the way Adam’s gaze burned into her from across the room.
“Anything for family,” she said lightly, though her stomach twisted at the way her scars caught the firelight as she reached for Henry’s arm.
Henry staggered as she helped him to his feet, and she winced slightly at the weight of him leaning against her.
Before she could steady them, Adam was there, his large hand reaching out to steady Henry on the other side.
Their fingers brushed briefly in the exchange, the contact sending an unexpected jolt through her. She pulled her hand back quickly, her heart giving an unbidden flutter, a sensation she could neither explain nor ignore.
Adam glanced at her, his dark eyes narrowing slightly, his lips pressing into a thin line.
“You shouldn’t be doing this,” he said quietly, his voice low enough that only she could hear.
His words carried the weight of an unspoken command, a directive she was no stranger to. But something about them felt different this time—less like an order and more like a plea.
She raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a faint, almost teasing smile. “And yet, here I am.”
Something flickered in his expression—amusement? Frustration? It was gone before she could be sure, replaced by his usual composed demeanor.
Together, they managed to guide Henry out of the parlor and up the stairs. It was an awkward, cumbersome process, and by the time they reached Henry’s room, Rosaline’s arms were trembling with the effort of holding him steady.
Adam opened the door, and they maneuvered Henry inside, settling him onto the bed. Rosaline smoothed the blankets over him with practiced care, her movements gentle.
“You didn’t have to help,” Adam said as they stepped back into the hallway, his voice low, but not unkind. It was always this way with him—stoic, distant, as though kindness was an effort he had to force upon himself.
She glanced at him, tilting her head slightly. “And let you handle him alone? That hardly seems fair.”
He studied her for a moment, his gaze intense, unreadable.
“I can never win with you, can I?” he sighed, almost in defeat.
Adam glanced at the latest missive from Claridge, a venomous curl twisting his lips.
The earl’s handwriting, usually elegant and flowing, now scrawled across the page with the manic energy of a caged beast.
Blackmail, threats…Adam scoffed, methodically shredding the note until it was barely more than parchment dust on his desk.
The man thinks himself clever.
The arrogance in Claridge’s words grated against Adam’s nerves, a sharp reminder of the many enemies who seemed to think they could challenge him.
He paced the length of his study, his gaze sweeping across the room, a silent inventory of his possessions.
Claridge dared to threaten him? The thought was ludicrous. Adam, the Duke of Oldstone, was accustomed to getting his way, to bending the world to his will.
Turning sharply, he approached the bell pull.
“Harris,” he called to his butler, his voice low and cold. The servant appeared within moments, bowing respectfully.
“Fetch Silas for me,” Adam ordered. “Tell him I need him immediately.”
The butler hesitated but for a second. “At once, Your Grace.”
As Harris left the room, Adam returned to his pacing, frustration simmering beneath the surface.
He needed answers—and he needed them now. Silas had a knack for gathering information quietly, efficiently, and without fail.
Within minutes, the door opened again, this time to reveal Silas, a man of imposing presence who had been Adam’s most trusted stable hand before being promoted to other, more discreet tasks.
Silas met his gaze and said nothing, waiting for Adam’s instructions.
“Silas,” Adam commanded, his voice low and dangerous, “I need you to find me a letter.”
Silas bowed his head, his expression impassive. “Which letter, Your Grace?”
Adam fixed him with a chilling stare, his eyes narrowed. “It has very sensitive information about Lord Henry. Whatever letter Claridge has that has my brother’s name in it, I need it. And whatever else you can find that could destroy Claridge once and for all.”
Silas remained silent, waiting for further instruction. Adam knew he didn’t need to elaborate. Silas, like all his men, understood the unspoken code. Loyalty above all else.
He dismissed Silas with a curt nod, the image of Claridge’s smug face fueling his resolve. He would find the letter, he would expose the earl, and he would ensure that Claridge paid dearly for his insolence. He would make an example of him, a warning to anyone who dared to cross him.
He reached for a quill and ink, his mind already calculating his next move. He would play a dangerous game, a game of cat and mouse, with the fate of the earl hanging in the balance.
And he would win. He always won.