Chapter 3
RESEARCH
The room she had been given was clean, though there was no disguising its long neglect.
The curtains were faded, the wallpaper yellowed at the edges, and the fire grate bore more rust than polish.
Yet someone had seen to her comfort all the same.
The hearth had been lit, the linens freshly changed, and when she woke the next morning, the washbasin had been filled, the pitcher cool and beaded with moisture in the early light.
Sitting up, Rosamund realized she had slept more soundly than she ought to have.
She’d half expected to be disturbed by a ghoulish outburst, as rumors foretold—sleeping under the roof of the so-called Beastly Duke. But there had been nothing. No raised voices. No sudden sounds. Only stillness.
After washing her face and dabbing at her temples with rosewater, she turned—and paused.
Her spare gown, the one she’d packed in her satchel and strapped to Daffodil’s saddle, lay neatly folded across the chair.
Someone must have fetched it—either late the night before or in the early hours of the morning. Considerate. Kind.
The thought lingered.
It said something that his people were so attentive, didn’t it? One might surmise it was done out of fear of being banished, or of punishment.
Rosamund surmised it to be out of loyalty.
Because she’d seen it in his housekeeper. That, and affection.
And upon imagining affection, as she dressed, she resolved to check on her mare, who had carried her faithfully all this way. Even if just to say good morning.
Descending the curving staircase, she encountered Mrs. Wetherby coming up, a ledger clutched in one capable hand.
“Good morning,” Rosamund said, unable to keep the cheer from her voice. “Might you direct me to the stables? I should like to see my horse.”
The housekeeper paused, her gaze sharpening almost cautiously. “You’re leaving before you’ve broken your fast?”
Rosamund blinked, as though the idea had not occurred to her. “Oh—no. Certainly not.” She smiled. “Daffodil is my responsibility. I only wish to bid her good morning, and ensure she’s as content with her accommodations as I am.”
The housekeeper studied her a moment longer.
“Finch will have seen to the mare,” she said. “But the stables are out the rear—use the front entrance and then follow the path around back.”
Rosamund thanked her and went at once.
The stable yard was quiet, the morning cool and bright. Daffodil lifted her head the moment Rosamund stepped inside, ears pricking forward.
The familiarity of her soft nicker was a comfort Rosamund hadn’t realized she needed.
She laughed under her breath and crossed the space quickly, pressing her forehead to the mare’s warm neck.
“Well,” she murmured, rubbing along the familiar curve of muscle. “You look none the worse for wear.”
Satisfied—and genuinely looking forward to whatever the duke’s cook might have prepared—she lingered only long enough to offer a carrot and a whispered promise before returning to the house.
The scent of breakfast led her straight to the morning room, where Mrs. Wetherby was already stationed, supervising the final placement of dishes with watchful precision.
The housekeeper glanced up as Rosamund entered.
“I’ll have Tilly prepare your bag,” she said, her tone pleasant enough. “So your departure won’t be delayed.”
Rosamund smiled as though she’d been offered a kindness rather than a directive. “That’s very thoughtful of you, but it won’t be necessary.”
Mrs. Wetherby’s brow rose a fraction.
“Was Tilly the one who prepared my chamber last night?” Rosamund continued warmly. “I should very much like to thank her. Everything was done so efficiently.” She paused, then added lightly, “I’ll manage my belongings myself. I wouldn’t wish to put anyone to extra trouble.”
A silence followed—brief, assessing.
Mrs. Wetherby turned away from the sideboard. “Breakfast is served.”
The table was set for one. The chair at the head remained conspicuously empty.
Rosamund took up a plate and then, after a moment, she looked up again. “His Grace won’t be joining me this morning?”
“The duke does not entertain guests,” Mrs. Wetherby replied evenly. “Last night was an exception, obviously.”
“I see.”
Rosamund helped herself with deliberate care—spooning out creamy eggs folded with herbs, crisped bacon still glistening with fat, stewed apples scented with cinnamon, and a pot of oat porridge set beside a crock of honey.
Her mouth watered traitorously as she arranged her plate, the simple pleasure of it grounding her far more than it ought.
Mrs. Wetherby hovered nearby, and when Rosamund took her seat, the housekeeper poured tea into her cup. “When you have finished your meal, Miss Belle, Finch will be happy to bring your horse around.”
In other words, you must leave.
Rosamund folded her hands neatly in her lap and looked up again. “Will the duke be down soon, though?”
Mrs. Wetherby set the teapot down before answering. “You think His Grace lies abed all morning? He is not idle like other nobility."
Rosamund glanced up. “What do you mean?”
“It means that he keeps himself busy. Just like his father,” Mrs. Wetherby said shortly, lips pursed. She paused, then added briskly, “Not that it’s any concern of yours.” A faint cough. “As I said, Finch is waiting.”
Rosamund met her gaze over the rim of her cup and smiled. “Thank you, Mrs. Wetherby. I’ll let him know when I’m ready.”
“The bellpull is in the corner.”
“Thank you,” Rosamund said, and with one last disapproving look, Mrs. Wetherby swept out of the room.
In no hurry whatsoever, Rosamund ate with enjoyment, savoring the food, and as she did so, she allowed her mind to run through what she already knew.
Ironwood Manor lay in a neighboring county to Fenmere Park, her father’s estate, but the border between them was narrow, and Hallow’s Bridge—a place where opinions traveled faster than the mail coach–—sat squarely between them.
So of course, there had been rabid gossip when word got out that the sole heir to Bexley intended to go to war.
Some called Julian Cavendish brave; others whispered that it was reckless. Irresponsible.
At first, admiration had carried the day.
But he had not returned as stories preferred their heroes—no triumph, no glory. Only scars and rumors of behavior altered enough to unsettle those who had remained safely behind.
Opinions hardened after that.
And yet the man she had dined with the night before—although abrupt—did not fit the beast they described.
She had pressed him. She knew that. She had done it often enough before, to her father, to her brother—testing an argument until it bent or broke. It was a habit she embraced more than she tried to suppress. Stubbornness, after all, had served her well.
Still, she had seen the moment when something shifted behind his eye. A flush on his cheeks. The way his knuckles blanched white against the table’s edge.
She had half-expected him to lash out. Many men would have.
Instead, he had… withdrawn.
Retreated.
There was more to Julian Cavendish than rumor allowed—she felt it with the same quiet certainty that guided her pen.
With that thought in mind, Rosamund finished her breakfast and mentally adjusted her strategy.
Mrs. Wetherby was unlikely to say more now that Rosamund was clearly expected to leave, but the other servants might be less guarded.
By the time she set her napkin aside, her course was settled.
She did not ring for assistance. Instead, once her plate was cleared, she rose quietly from the table, all but tiptoeing to the door. There, she paused only long enough to glance down the corridor in either direction.
No one appeared.
It did not take long to find the stairs—narrow, worn smooth at the center by the daily conveyance of trays and laundry. The house, she noted, was laid out not unlike her own.
Smiling to herself, Rosamund descended with quiet purpose. In the past, she’d found that the best way to avoid drawing notice was to move as though she belonged.
When she reached the kitchen, she paused just inside the doorway, her gaze immediately noticing how tidy the kitchen was, even so shortly after preparations for a full meal.
“My word,” she said, genuine admiration in her tone. “I’ve never seen copper kept so bright.”
The cook, dusted with flour, gave her a wary look.
Rosamund smiled and ventured a step farther in. “Breakfast was wonderful. Truly.” She lowered her voice a conspiratorial notch. “Those eggs—what did you put in them? I’ve never had finer.”
“Just the usual,” the woman grunted, but her cheeks were now slightly flushed with what might have been pride.
“I’m Rosa,” she added easily, as though it were an afterthought. “I’m here to help His Grace, actually. Or rather—Hallow’s Bridge in general, hopefully.” She waved a hand lightly. “I’m writing a little piece. Nothing official. Just… clearing up a few of the rumors, perhaps.”
She paused, then glanced back at the sideboard. “But, oh, the spread you put out—cooked to perfection. You’ve outdone yourself.”
“Render the bacon slow,” the cook admitted, shoulders easing. “Potatoes like a hot pan and patience—don’t stir ’em till they’ve crusted. Most folk rush it.”
Rosamund winked. And because she was keeping her identity hidden, rather than mention she’d like to share the trick with her fathers’ cook, said, “That explains why mine get so mushy. I haven’t an ounce of patience in the kitchen.”
A few more compliments, a little advice, and only when the rhythm of the room settled again did Rosamund begin to ask her questions.
Just small ones, folded between genuine interest and curiosity, as though they had occurred to her naturally.
And when the matter of her departure inevitably arose, she laughed it off with a shrug.
“Oh, I can’t be leaving until the duke is ready. He’s yet to send me away himself.” Which, technically, was the truth. “So, instead of just sitting around doing nothing, I thought it would be a pleasure to meet the fine people behind the running of such a grand estate.”
“Well, I suppose that’s all right, then…”
Once assured of her good intentions, the servants spoke with surprising ease. With relief, even. As though they had been carrying these observations for some time, waiting for someone who might listen with an open mind.
Rosamund listened.
And the more she listened, the clearer it became that she was not the only one who wished the record set straight.
The kitchen yielded its share of quiet truths—how His Grace had seen to the distribution of meat and bread through the worst of the winter, no name attached, no credit sought.
The footmen proved even more forthcoming.
Once Finch stopped fretting over her imminent departure, he admitted that when his parents’ roof collapsed beneath heavy snow, it was the duke who paid for the repairs—privately, and without expectation.
Wallace spoke last, lowering his voice as he told her about Angus—the great, lumbering hound found half-dead from a beating and nursed back to strength by the duke himself.
Rosamund absorbed it all, then asked simply, “Where is he?”
Before Wallace could answer, a presence filled the space behind her.
The air shifted. Heat raced along her spine.
“Funny, I’ve been meaning to ask the same of you. More specifically—why the devil are you still here?”
A hand closed around her arm—not rough, but firm enough to turn her—and she found herself facing him
The duke loomed over her, somehow even taller than she remembered, and the sight of that black patch, combined with the rigid line of his jaw, struck with unexpected force.
For a fleeting instant, she understood.
It would be easy—too easy—to mistake him for something dangerous. Unable to be contained. Out of control.
His visible eye burned into hers.
He did not look pleased.
Not in the slightest.