Chapter 30
Thirty
“You are not fooling anyone, you know.”
Eliza looked up from the path she had been pretending to admire. April stood with her hands on her hips, her expression caught between concern and exasperation. May hovered beside her, gentler but no less observant.
“I have no idea what you mean,” Eliza said, resuming her walking. “I am simply enjoying the fresh air.”
“You have walked past the same bench three times,” May pointed out. “And you nearly collided with that nursemaid and her charges because you were not watching where you were going.”
“I was distracted.”
“Precisely our point.” April looped her arm through Eliza’s and steered her toward a quieter section of the park. “What has happened? And do not tell me nothing because you look as though you have not slept properly in days.”
Eliza wanted to deflect, to maintain the fiction that everything was perfectly fine. But the concern in their faces, the genuine worry in their eyes, undid her carefully constructed composure.
“August and I had a disagreement,” she said finally.
“What sort of disagreement?” May asked.
“The sort that involves wildly inappropriate accusations and slammed doors.”
April and May exchanged a look that suggested they had suspected as much.
“He can be rather pigheaded when he chooses,” April said, “but he usually comes round eventually. Give him time to realize he is being absurd.”
“I am not certain time will help in this instance.”
Before either sister could respond, a familiar voice called out behind them.
“What a delightful coincidence! I was just thinking how dull my walk was becoming, and here you all are to rescue me from my ennui.”
Lady Wilhampton approached and smiled warmly at all three women, but her gaze lingered on Eliza.
“Duchess, you look positively radiant. Marriage clearly agrees with you.”
Eliza managed a polite smile. “You are too kind, Lady Wilhampton.”
“Not at all. I pride myself on observation.” She turned to April and May. “And how are the Duke’s charming sisters? I understand you have been quite busy with your various pursuits.”
April responded with appropriate pleasantries, and May joined in, but Eliza found herself studying the Marchioness more carefully. The way she watched Eliza from the corner of her eye. The subtle curve of her mouth that suggested she knew something Eliza did not.
“I do hope His Grace is well,” Lady Wilhampton said, turning her full attention back to Eliza. “I have not seen him about town lately. He is not ill, I hope?”
“He is perfectly well. Simply occupied with estate matters.”
“Of course, of course. A duke’s responsibilities are never-ending, are they?
Though I do hope he allows himself some leisure.
All work and no play as they say.” She paused, her smile sharpening slightly.
“But then, I suppose he has you to ensure he does not become too serious. A wife’s influence can be so important in these matters. ”
Something cold settled in Eliza’s stomach. The way Lady Wilhampton emphasized certain words. The knowing look in her eyes. The too-perfect timing of her appearance.
Could she be behind the letters?
The thought crystallized with sudden clarity.
Lady Wilhampton had been planting seeds of doubt from the beginning.
The comments about the theater, the insinuations about mistresses, the careful suggestions that August might be seeking comfort elsewhere.
And now, these letters, perfectly designed to make August doubt Eliza.
“I am certain he manages quite well,” Eliza said, keeping her voice level.
“I am certain he does.” Lady Wilhampton glanced at the sky. “Goodness, is that rain approaching? I should return home before I am caught in a downpour. Do enjoy the rest of your walk, ladies.”
She swept away in a rustle of silk, leaving a trail of perfume in her wake.
April waited until she was out of earshot before turning to Eliza. “That woman gives me hives.”
“She is plotting something,” May said. “I can always tell. She gets this particular look, like a cat watching a bird.”
Eliza turned to face them both. “I need to tell you something, but you must promise not to repeat it to anyone.”
They both nodded, and Eliza recounted the entire story. The first letter she had known nothing about. The second letter, more explicit and damning. August’s accusations. The argument that had left them barely speaking.
When she finished, April looked furious. “That absolute scoundrel. How dare he accuse you of such a thing?”
“To be fair, the letter was rather convincing,” Eliza said. “And someone did plant it among my belongings.”
“But to believe it without even asking you first—” April broke off, shaking her head. “I love my brother, but he can be monumentally stupid when he puts his mind to it.”
“The question is who planted the letters,” May said. “And I think we can all guess who has the most to gain from your marriage failing.”
“Lady Wilhampton,” Eliza said.
“Precisely. She was in love with August for years. Or obsessed with him, more accurately. When he married you instead of pursuing her, she must have been livid.” May tapped her finger against her chin.
“But how is she getting access to your things? She cannot simply walk into Wildmoore Hall and leave letters about.”
“Someone must be helping her,” April decided. “One of the servants, perhaps. Someone she has bribed or blackmailed into doing her bidding.”
Eliza felt her resolve harden. “Then I need to find out who.”
“How will you manage that?” May asked.
“I shall gather the household staff and question them. Someone must have seen something, noticed something unusual.” She turned to start back toward her waiting carriage. “Thank you. Both of you. For listening. For believing me.”
April caught her hand. “Of course, we believe you. You are family. And family stands together, even when certain members of said family are being absolute dolts.”
Eliza returned to Wildmoore Hall with new purpose, her mind already working through how to approach the servants. But when Denton opened the door, he looked distinctly uncomfortable.
“Your Grace,” he said, his usual composure cracking slightly, “I should inform you that His Grace has called a household meeting. All the staff are presently gathered outside his study.”
“A household meeting? Whatever for?”
“I believe it would be best if you saw for yourself, Your Grace.”
She removed her bonnet and gloves, handed them to a waiting maid, and made her way toward August’s study. Indeed, the hallway was packed with servants. Footmen, maids, the cook, the stable hands—everyone stood in a nervous cluster, whispering among themselves.
Mrs. Finch stood nearest the study door, her expression carefully neutral.
“Mrs. Finch, what is happening?”
The housekeeper leaned in close. “His Grace is conducting interviews, Your Grace. One by one, we enter, and he asks us questions.”
“What sort of questions?”
“About visitors to the house. About anyone who might have had access to your private rooms. About whether we have noticed anything unusual in recent weeks.” Mrs. Finch’s voice dropped even lower. “He wishes to know who has been leaving letters in your things.”
Eliza’s breath caught. August was investigating. Was questioning the staff, trying to find the person responsible. He was doing exactly what she had planned to do.
“Has anyone confessed to anything?”
“Not as of yet, Your Grace. Though several of the younger maids are quite distressed. They fear they will be blamed for something they did not do.”
“I shall speak with them afterward. Reassure them.”
The study door opened, and a footman emerged, looking relieved. August’s voice called from within, “Send in the next person.”
One by one, the servants filed in and out. Eliza watched, her heart doing complicated things in her chest. August was trying to prove her innocence. Was taking action to find the truth.
Finally, the last servant was questioned. The hallway emptied, and Eliza found herself standing alone outside the study door.
She should leave. Should return to her rooms and let him finish his investigation. But her feet carried her forward, and before she could reconsider, she was pushing open the door.
August sat behind his desk, his head in his hands, papers spread before him in disarray. He looked exhausted. Defeated.
“August.”
His head snapped up, and the moment he saw her, he was on his feet. They stood across the room from each other, the desk between them, and the silence stretched.
“Eliza.” He came around the desk, stopping halfway across the room as though uncertain of his welcome. “I did not know you had returned.”
“Mrs. Finch informed me you were conducting interviews.”
“Yes. I wanted to—I needed to find out who was responsible.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I know you are innocent. I know those letters were planted. And I am going to find out who did it.”
Her throat went tight. “I appreciate your efforts.”
“Appreciate?” He took another step forward.
“Eliza, I owe you far more than efforts. I owe you an apology. A proper one without excuses or justifications.” He drew a breath.
“I should have believed you. Should have trusted you. You have never given me reason to doubt you, and yet I let my own fears and insecurities convince me otherwise.”
“Your fears?”
“Of not being enough. Of failing at yet another thing.” His hands clenched at his sides.
“My father spent his entire life preparing me to be duke, and I still feel as though I am fumbling through it. And you—you are so capable, so strong, so completely yourself. I was afraid that eventually you would realize you had married a man who was merely pretending to be adequate.”
Eliza stared at him. “You think I find you inadequate?”
“I think I find myself inadequate. And I think I sabotaged our marriage because I was terrified that you would leave once you saw through the performance.” He took another step closer. “I was wrong about everything. And I am sorry. So desperately sorry.”
The apology settled over her like a weight. She had wanted to hear it, needed to hear it, but now that she had, she did not know what to do with it. The hurt was still there, sharp and insistent. But beneath it, something else. Something that wanted very much to forgive him.
“I should go,” she said, moving toward the door.
“Eliza, wait.”
She turned back, finding him closer than before. Close enough that she could see the shadows under his eyes and the tension in his jaw.
“Will you walk with me?” he asked.
The tenderness she had been trying so hard to bury surfaced again, blooming in her chest despite all her efforts to suppress it. She should say no.
Eliza should maintain her distance and protect what was left of her heart. But could she?