Chapter 35
Oscar squeezed the bridge of his nose until the pain radiated through his skull and his vision pulsed white at the corners. It did nothing to clear his mind. The study was quiet, but the kind of quiet that seethed.
He’d replayed the argument a dozen times.
Nancy’s voice echoing off the study shelves, her hands—clenched, then splayed, then clenched again—white-knuckled as she drove each accusation into him with precision.
The letter, damning and scented, its pinkness now a punchline in the grotesque farce of their marriage.
He was, by all rights, ruined.
Oscar let out a slow breath and looked around his study, as if the battered desk or the rows of ledgers might explain where he’d gone wrong.
They did not. Nothing did. The only certainty was the shape of Nancy’s back as she’d walked away from him, rigid as a column, her anger so complete it filled the doorway even after she’d vanished.
Something was wrong.
Not just the letters—though those were odd, he had to admit, and increasingly so the longer he considered them—but the whole narrative.
The way events had unfolded, the logic of the thing. Nancy, for all her chaos and defiance, had always been stubbornly, even irritatingly, honest. She would not deceive him about a lover; she would simply tell him to his face and offer no apology.
Likewise, he doubted she could muster the effort to feign outrage. That anger had been real, and it had been for him.
Which meant the only liar in the room had been the paper. And the paper did not write itself.
Oscar stood, circled the desk, and considered the possibilities.
If the letter to him was a forgery, then it must be the work of someone in the house.
The handwriting—he searched his mind, conjuring the image—was round, almost childish, but with a practiced touch.
The perfume was thick, but not quite the right blend for any of the women he’d kept company with in years.
He ran through the names, faces, scents. All wrong.
If the letter to Nancy was also false—well, that was a different beast entirely.
The pressed rose, the Wordsworth, the verse.
The implication was not just infidelity, but romance.
Seduction. Someone wanted Nancy to believe herself beloved, or at least, to believe that Oscar believed her capable of being so.
He paced. Listened for the familiar creak of the floorboards, the distant clatter in the kitchens. The household was asleep, or pretending to be.
He pulled the desk drawer open and examined the pile of correspondence. Letters from his solicitor, invitations to Parliament, the usual missives from country friends, and ancient aunts. Nothing stood out.
He tapped the desktop, then reached for the decanter. The brandy was harsh, but it cleared his throat. He took a second swallow, then set the glass aside.
Oscar then considered, for a wild moment, bursting into her chambers and demanding to know the truth. But that would be the action of a brute, not a husband. She needed time to cool. He needed time to think. Besides, he doubted she would even allow him over the threshold.
Pouring a second glass, he sighed. He wanted to believe she would forgive him, once she knew the truth. But forgiveness was a luxury he did not expect. Not from her.
He finished the drink in one swallow, set the glass down, and braced his hands on the back of the chair.
“Scarfield,” he said aloud, “you are a damned fool.”
Oscar straightened, rubbed at his face, and made a list of everything he needed to do before dawn.
Visit the stationer in the morning to compare the handwriting.
Interview the servants with care. Inquire discreetly about Miss Mercer’s references.
Order a report from his solicitor about the comings and goings at White’s and the clubs, to see if Adrian had been there.
He would solve this because he had to. If he didn’t, the entire world would become a farce, and he would be left alone, and worse, with the certainty that he had let the only real thing in his life slip away because of a poorly forged letter and his own monumental stupidity.
Oscar did not sleep. Instead, he sat at the window, watching the city shift from bruised twilight into the ash and gold of morning. The house below him was silent, but by the time the first bell sounded, he was dressed, starched, and on the warpath.
He cornered Mrs. Tullock in the servants’ hallway just as she was launching her inspection of the footmen’s uniforms. She startled—never a woman to rattle, but today, she rattled.
“Mrs. Tullock,” Oscar said, crisp as a new banknote. “Where is the Duchess?”
The housekeeper straightened. “Not in her chambers, Your Grace. I looked in on her, per instruction. The room was in order, but the Duchess was gone.”
Oscar’s pulse did a slow, ugly lap. “And the twins?”
She swallowed. “Gone as well, sir. Their beds made, their trunks gone from the nursery. Miss Mercer and the children’s maid are also absent.”
He stared at her, willing the universe to make sense for once in its miserable history.
“Is there a note?”
“None,” she said. “The only sign was a breakfast tray set for four, half-eaten, and a footman who claims he saw the Duchess departing at dawn.”
Oscar processed this. “So she left of her own accord.”
“It would seem so,” Mrs. Tullock said, voice softening just a hair. “If I may say, sir, the Duchess was in high spirits last night when she left the dinner table. If she had a change of heart—”
“She had no change of heart,” Oscar cut in. “She was never at home here, and now she’s gone. Thank you, Mrs. Tullock.”
The housekeeper withdrew, eyes lingering on him with a pity that made him want to smash something.
He stood a long moment, weighing his next move. Nancy’s options were limited: She would not go to her parents—her pride would not allow it. Her friends, perhaps, but even then, she would wish to avoid the humiliation of being found.
He thought of the hilltop house. The one she’d spent two months badgering architects about, the one she insisted be outfitted with every possible comfort for the twins. It was not officially ready, but that had never stopped her from claiming anything she wanted.
He strode to the main hall, pulling on his gloves. “Wilks!” he shouted, and the old butler appeared, unruffled as always.
“Summon the carriage. We leave at once.”
“For the city, Your Grace?”
Oscar paused, then shook his head. “For Elms Hill. The new house.”
Wilks bowed. “It will be ready in ten minutes.”
Oscar stalked the foyer, fingers drumming on his palm. He imagined Nancy—hair unbound, lips set in a line of grim satisfaction—bundling the twins into the carriage before dawn, a victory parade of her own design. He tried to be angry, but all he felt was the deep, slow twist of guilt.
He had failed her. Again.
A footman entered, bearing a card. “A caller, sir. Your solicitor—Harvey. He insists on speaking with you before you depart.”
Oscar glanced at the clock. It was indecently early for a visit, but Harvey was not a man given to flights of etiquette.
“Send him in,” Oscar said and moved to the library.
Harvey entered in a blur of black wool and ink-stained fingers. He bowed, but only out of reflex; his eyes were already on Oscar, glittering with urgency.
“My apologies, Your Grace,” Harvey began, “but I thought it best to come at once. It is about Lord Eastmere.”
Oscar went cold. “What about him?”
Harvey set a folder on the desk, spreading it like a general laying out a siege plan. “You requested that I investigate his movements. There was a rumor he left the city, but the truth is otherwise.”
“Go on,” Oscar said.
“He never left London,” Harvey said. “In fact, he has been a fixture at White’s and at the Covent Garden gaming houses for the last week.
He is seen almost nightly, usually with a new companion.
” He paused. “But it is the daytime that concerns me. He has made frequent visits to a house on Rose Lane, in the company of a woman I believe to be Miss Mercer.”
Oscar absorbed this. “Miss Mercer—the children’s governess?”
“The same. I verified her identity with the agency that placed her. Her references are genuine, but her recent activity is not. She has had contact with Eastmere on at least four occasions in the last fortnight, always in the company of a courier who appears to be in the Duke’s livery—your livery.”
Oscar felt his jaw lock. “You believe she is spying for Eastmere.”
Harvey nodded. “Or at the very least, acting as a conduit for information. I do not wish to alarm you, but several of your servants were recruited in the last month, all by the same agency. It is possible your household has been compromised.”
Oscar’s mind ran through the events of the last weeks—the letters, the gifts, the persistent sense of being watched.
“Why,” he said, “would Eastmere go to such lengths?”
Harvey did not answer at once. He looked away, as if weighing whether to speak the next words.
“Out with it,” Oscar said.
Harvey spread his hands. “There are rumors, Your Grace. Eastmere has been observed boasting of a ‘coup’ against Scarfield, something that would ‘unseat the great man’ and ‘ruin his so-called wife’. He is working with an unknown accomplice, possibly Miss Mercer, but also with someone in Parliament. The aim seems to be the public humiliation of yourself, and more pointedly, the Duchess.”
Oscar pressed his thumb and forefinger into his brow. “He wants to destroy her.”
“Yes,” Harvey said.
“And he is doing it by making me believe she has a lover, and by making her believe the same of me.”
“It would seem so,” Harvey said. “He is also spreading rumors of your own infidelity—complete with falsified evidence.”
Oscar laughed, but it was not a nice sound. “He always did have a taste for drama.”
Harvey hesitated. “There is more. I had a man follow the courier—your courier. The trail leads to a printing office on Lime Street, where they are preparing a pamphlet detailing your supposed scandal with an actress named S—” he glanced at the folder, “—Sarah Fortenay.”
Oscar shut his eyes. “I’ve never met the woman.”
“I know, Your Grace. But the pamphlet includes forged correspondence, and—”
“—and a public accusation against the Duchess,” Oscar finished. “Of course it does.”
Harvey nodded. “It is set for distribution within the week. If you wish, I can try to suppress it.”
Oscar shook his head. “No. I want you to gather every scrap of evidence that Eastmere or his agents have planted. Names, dates, deliveries. I want a list of every servant hired in the last two months, and I want you to vet them personally.”
Harvey made notes, quick and sharp. “And the Duchess?”
Oscar’s throat tightened. “She’s gone. She left this morning.”
“Then you must go to her, sir. At once.”
Oscar’s mouth twisted. “Not yet. Not until I have proof.”
Harvey’s brows rose.
Oscar stood, shoulders set, the tension drawing his frame upright. “I will not face her until I have the truth in hand. I owe her that, at least.”
Harvey bowed. “Of course, Your Grace. I’ll begin at once.”
Oscar watched as the man left, then turned to the window. The city was awake now, the streets a thrum of possibility and betrayal.
He would go after Nancy. But this time, he would not go as the cold, empty shell of a duke. He would go as himself, whatever that was, and he would bring the evidence of his devotion—not just in words, but in action.
He left the library, found Wilks waiting, and said, “Change of plans. I need a list of every servant in the house, and I want you to accompany me to the city.”
Wilks bowed, the faintest flicker of approval in his eyes. “Very good, Your Grace.”
“And Wilks,” Oscar added, “no one is to leave the grounds today. No one.”
Wilks’s lips tightened. “Understood.”
Oscar allowed himself a single, reckless hope: That when he found Nancy, she would listen. That it would not be too late.