Chapter 9 #2
“I have been told you are trustworthy,” he said at last.
A faint smile touched the older man’s mouth. “Those are kind words.”
“It is also why I asked you here.”
Cartwright straightened slightly in his chair, his posture shifting with subtle readiness as though he understood that the conversation had not yet reached its most important point.
“How may I assist you, Your Grace?”
Alexander leaned back slightly, studying the man again for a moment longer while deciding how much to say.
There was always risk in revealing weakness, especially to someone who oversaw such a significant portion of his affairs.
But the simple reality remained that Cartwright already possessed access to the accounts, the contracts, the land agreements that kept the duchy functioning. Better that he heard the truth now.
Alexander’s voice lowered slightly when he spoke again. “I think I was attacked.”
Cartwright’s eyes sharpened immediately. “Attacked?”
“Yes.”
As he said the word, Alexander felt again the faint echo of pain at the back of his skull, a dull sensation that lingered like the shadow of a wound.
The physician had explained the damage in careful terms, speaking of swelling and trauma, of memory disruption and the uncertain path of recovery.
Yet the physical explanation had never fully satisfied him.
Because there was something else that could not be measured in bruised bone or scarred flesh.
“I have no memory of the accident itself,” he said slowly, choosing each word with care. “But there is a feeling that remains whenever I think about that night, a certain uneasiness that refuses to sit comfortably with the idea that what happened to me was the result of mere misfortune.”
He paused briefly, searching for language that would explain the certainty without sounding irrational.
“It is difficult to describe,” he admitted, his tone quiet but steady. “But the more I consider it, the more convinced I become that what happened to me was not an accident at all.”
Cartwright frowned deeply now, his fingers tightening slightly around the curved handle of his cane. “You believe someone struck you intentionally?”
“I believe it is possible.” Alexander leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms against his knees as he fixed the older man with a steady gaze. “And if that is the case, I intend to know why.”
Cartwright studied him for a long moment, the silence stretching between them while the implications of that statement settled fully into place.
“You suspect business rivals,” he said eventually.
Alexander gave a small, humorless breath. “I suspect anyone who might benefit from my death.”
The estate manager nodded slowly, the faintest crease appearing between his brows. “That… is not a short list.”
Alexander’s mouth curved faintly, though there was little real amusement in the expression. “So I am told.”
Cartwright shifted slightly in his seat, resting both hands atop the head of his cane as he considered the matter.
“I will begin reviewing the accounts,” he said at last, his tone measured and practical. “Trade disputes first. Land negotiations. Any partnerships that ended poorly in recent months. Those sorts of matters often leave resentments behind them.”
Alexander watched him closely. “Have I made enemies?”
The question came out more plainly than he had intended, though perhaps there was little reason to disguise the truth of it. Cartwright chuckled softly, though the sound carried more understanding than amusement.
“Your Grace,” he said, lifting his brows slightly, “you are a Duke with substantial holdings, a growing network of commercial investments, and a reputation for negotiating with very little patience for incompetence.”
He tilted his head slightly as he added. “You have made many enemies.”
Alexander felt a faint flicker of grim satisfaction settle somewhere deep in his chest. That sounded like the man he imagined himself to be: competent, decisive, and even unapologetic in pursuit of his interests.
It was strangely reassuring to hear that version of himself described aloud, even if the memories behind it remained absent.
“Most of them,” Cartwright continued thoughtfully, “lack the courage to attempt murder.”
Silence stretched briefly between them again, the quiet room filled only with the faint ticking of the clock on the far wall while Alexander considered the uncomfortable truth that somewhere among the people he had offended stood a man bold enough to attempt removing him permanently.
Then Cartwright spoke again. “You remind me of your father when you say such things.”
The words landed with more force than Alexander had expected.
For a brief moment, something shifted inside him, like a sudden tightening somewhere deep in his chest that his mind could not quite explain.
It was not painful exactly, and yet it carried the unmistakable weight of something unpleasant, something old that seemed to stir beneath the surface of his thoughts without revealing its shape.
A cold, heavy feeling settled over him. Uncomfortable, and somehow far too familiar for a moment that should have meant very little.
Alexander did not see anything. There was no flash of his father’s face, no remembered words spoken aloud.
And yet the mere mention of him stirred something inside him that made his shoulders stiffen almost instinctively.
Like the vague awareness of anger that had existed long before he understood its cause.
The feeling passed quickly, leaving behind nothing but the quiet echo of discomfort and the uneasy awareness that whatever memories remained buried in his mind about his father were unlikely to be pleasant ones.
Alexander’s jaw tightened.
He straightened slowly in his chair, forcing the strange sensation aside with the same controlled discipline he applied to any other unwanted distraction.
“Find out who might wish me dead,” Alexander said calmly.
Cartwright nodded once, his expression already settling into focused composure. “I will begin immediately, Your Grace.”
Alexander rose from his chair, the movement signaling that the meeting had come to its natural end. Cartwright followed suit at once, pushing himself to his feet with the help of his cane and moving toward the door.
He paused and turned back. “I will send word as soon as I learn anything.”
“Do so.”
The door closed quietly behind him.
Alexander remained alone in the study for several moments before moving slowly toward the window. He rested one hand against the cool glass and stared out over the gardens of Rosewood House, where the sun spread across the trimmed hedges and winding gravel paths.