Chapter 22
“Your Grace? Have I chosen an unfortunate morning to call?”
Alexander did not turn at once, though the dry amusement in Mr. Hargreaves’ voice cut cleanly through the restless thrum in his mind, and for a moment he merely stood with his hands clasped behind his back, staring out over the pale stretch of the garden as if the winter light might offer him order, or at the very least silence.
The memories were returning in fragments—sharp, disjointed impressions that settled uneasily beneath his skin, each one carrying the distinct, unsettling sense of belonging to a man he did not fully recognize.
A colder man. A harder one. And yet, with each passing day, it became increasingly difficult to tell where that man ended and he began.
“Please, report,” Alexander said shortly.
Hargreaves inclined his head, unruffled. “I have begun inquiries as you requested. Discreet ones. There are always those who resent a man in your position, but thus far nothing presents itself as immediate or… personal.”
Alexander’s jaw tightened, the word lingering in the air between them with more weight than it ought to have carried.
“Not immediate,” he repeated. “And yet I was struck down in an alley like a common debtor.”
“Yes,” Hargreaves said quietly, watching him with that same careful sharpness that missed very little. “Which suggests desperation.”
Alexander’s fingers flexed behind his back.
The word settled deep, stirring something that had been scratching at the edges of his mind for days now, like a shadow that remained just beyond reach no matter how he turned toward it.
He moved to the desk, more to ground himself than out of any real need, and poured a measure of brandy though it was scarcely past morning, then set the decanter down with more force than necessary.
“What of the accounts?” he asked, forcing his thoughts toward something solid he could control. “The northern investments. The shipping routes.”
Hargreaves obliged, launching into figures and ledgers with efficient precision, and for a time, Alexander allowed himself to be drawn into it, to let numbers and contracts occupy the part of his mind that would otherwise drift toward far more dangerous territory.
This was familiar. This was safe. And yet—
“…a slight delay in the Liverpool shipment, though nothing that cannot be corrected within the fortnight,” Hargreaves concluded, then paused, his gaze lingering on Alexander with quiet scrutiny. “You are not listening.”
Alexander stilled, the brandy glass halfway to his lips.
“I am,” he said.
“No,” Hargreaves returned calmly. “You are hearing. There is a difference.”
The words struck sharper than they ought to have, echoing what Diana herself had said the previous day, and Alexander’s grip tightened around the glass as irritation flared inside him.
“I did not summon you to assess my attentiveness.”
“And yet it is difficult not to notice when a man appears as though he is wrestling with himself.”
Alexander set the glass down with deliberate care. “What I wrestle is none of your concern.”
“On the contrary,” Hargreaves said, entirely unbothered, “if it affects your judgment, it becomes my concern precisely.”
Silence stretched between them, taut and edged, and for a moment, Alexander considered dismissing him outright, if only to avoid the uncomfortable precision of the man’s observations.
“You wished to know whether you had enemies,” Hargreaves added, softer now. “It is difficult to identify them if you are not honest about what may have provoked them.”
Alexander exhaled slowly.
“I have remembered,” he said at last, the admission pulled from him with more reluctance than he cared to acknowledge. “Almost everything.”
Hargreaves’ brows lifted, though his expression remained composed. “Almost.”
“The night of the accident remains… unclear.”
“Fragments?”
“Nothing of use,” Alexander muttered, though even as he spoke, he heard the echo of a voice just beyond comprehension.
Hargreaves studied him for a moment longer, then nodded once. “Then we proceed as planned. We examine your dealings. Your rivals. Anyone who might benefit from your absence.”
Alexander inclined his head, though his thoughts had already begun to drift again, slipping away from ledgers and into far more treacherous terrain.
Because it was Diana who truly disturbed him.
Sleep did not come.
It had not come the night before, nor the night before that, and by the time the house had long since fallen into silence, Alexander had abandoned the attempt entirely, retreating instead to his study where the decanter now sat half-empty, and the fire burned low, casting restless shadows along the walls.
He leaned back in his chair, glass in hand, the amber liquid catching the light as he turned it idly, though there was nothing idle in the way his mind refused to settle.
The nightmare had come again, in jagged fragments. It was enough to leave him restless.
And beneath it all, threaded through the unease with a clarity that made the rest feel distant by comparison, there had been her.
Diana.
The memory of her rose with far more certainty than anything the nightmare had offered, vivid and immediate in a way that made his grip tighten around the glass in his hand.
He could recall the breathless sound she had made beneath his mouth, the way her body had responded despite herself, arching toward him with surrender.
He could recall, too, the moment it had shifted, the way her voice had caught.
His jaw clenched. He lifted the glass to his lips, letting the burn of the whiskey ground him, if only for a moment.
The door creaked softly behind him.
“Why are you drinking this late?”
Alexander stilled. He did not turn immediately, though his heart leapt at the sound of her voice. He took a few breaths to regain his composure.
When he finally looked over his shoulder, he found her standing in the doorway, wrapped in a robe, her hair loose and falling over her shoulders in a way that made his stomach clench at how beautiful she looked.
“You should be asleep,” he said.
“So should you.”
Her gaze flicked briefly to the decanter, then back to him, and without waiting for an invitation, she stepped inside and closed the door behind her.
“I heard you,” she added. “You woke rather… abruptly.”
Alexander exhaled slowly, nodding once.
“A dream,” he said.
She hesitated, then crossed the room, her steps quiet against the carpet as she approached the desk, her eyes lingering on the glass in his hand. “What is it?”
“Whiskey.”
She wrinkled her nose slightly. “That explains the smell.”
Despite himself, the hardness in him eased, just a fraction. “Would you like some?”
She hesitated.
Then, with a small lift of her chin that carried more determination than sense, she said, “Yes.”
Alexander poured her a measure, watching with open interest as she took the glass, lifted it cautiously to her lips, and then—
Coughed. Violently.
He huffed a quiet laugh, unable to stop it as she set the glass down with a soft thud, her eyes watering.
“That is vile,” she declared, pressing the back of her hand briefly to her lips, her nose wrinkling in undisguised displeasure as she pushed the glass a fraction away from her.
“It is not meant to be consumed like lemonade,” Alexander replied, one brow lifting as he leaned back slightly in his chair, watching her over the rim of his own glass with quiet amusement that he did not bother to conceal.
“Well, I am not accustomed to drinking something that feels as though it intends to set me ablaze from the inside,” she said, her voice still faintly hoarse from the burn, her fingers curling lightly around the stem of the glass as though she did not quite trust it not to attack her again.
“You grow accustomed to it,” he murmured, swirling the whiskey idly before taking another measured sip, his gaze lingering on her a moment longer than necessary.
“I should hope not,” she returned, lifting her chin with a small huff, though the corners of her mouth betrayed her, threatening to curve despite her best efforts.
He smiled.
It came without calculation or restraint, settling across his features with a natural ease that caught him off guard even as it lingered, and the realization of it carried a strange kind of weight.
“You are laughing at me,” she accused, narrowing her eyes at him, though there was no real heat in it, only a flicker of reluctant amusement as she shifted slightly in her seat.
“I am,” he admitted easily, his tone unrepentant as he set his glass down and regarded her more directly.
“How unkind,” she said, though her lips curved now, the protest lacking conviction as she folded her hands loosely in her lap.
“And yet you persist in staying,” he replied, his voice lowering just slightly, his gaze holding hers with quiet intent as he leaned forward a fraction, as though drawn in despite himself.
She met his gaze then, and for a moment neither of them spoke, the air between them shifting in a way that felt… intimate.
“You were very unlikeable before,” she said suddenly.
Alexander stilled. “Oh?”
“Yes,” she continued, settling more fully into the chair opposite him, the movement unhurried though her fingers tightened briefly at the edge of her robe as she drew it closer around herself. “Cold. Distant. Entirely insufferable.”
“That is quite the assessment,” Alexander replied, one brow lifting as he leaned back slightly, though his gaze remained fixed on her, intent and searching.
“It is an accurate one,” she returned, lifting her chin a fraction, her tone steady despite the faint tension that lingered in the set of her shoulders.
“And now?” he asked, the question softer, as he tilted his head just slightly, watching her with an attentiveness that left little room for evasion.
She hesitated.
It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but he saw it in the way her gaze dropped briefly to her hands, in the way her fingers loosened their grip on the fabric of her robe before curling again.