Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The next afternoon brought with it a discomfort that Godric could not shake, no matter how much he willed his mind to focus on the task at hand.
His staff moved through Hadleigh Manor with practiced efficiency, carrying trunks and boxes out to the carriages waiting in front of the house.
The footmen worked quickly, their movements careful and deliberate as they removed all traces of the duke’s presence, thankfully keeping the urgency with which he had given the order in mind.
Godric stood in the entrance hall; his arms folded across his chest as he watched the process with a critical eye. When two footmen emerged carrying a large, sheet – covered frame between them, he tensed.
“Careful with that,” he snapped, his voice sharp enough to make both men freeze mid-step. “If so, much as a scratch appears on that painting, I will have your heads. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” they chorused fearfully, as they adjusted their grip and continued forward with greater caution.
Godric's gaze followed them until they disappeared through the front door, his jaw clenched tight. At last, the painting will be in his home, along with the others from his mother’s collection.
He was thankful about that, at least, but still the weight of what this activity represented lingered heavily.
This was the last step. Once his belongings were removed from Hadleigh Manor, he would be formally severed from the Wightman family. From Cecil. From Nora. The finality of it settled over him like a thick shroud, slightly smothering him in its completeness.
It was strange, how empty his heart felt at the prospect of no longer crossing paths with either of them.
Godric had expected relief. He had anticipated the satisfaction of reclaiming his past independence, of no longer needing to keep up the exhausting pretence of friendship and civility. Instead, there was only a hollow ache that seemed to grow with each box that was carried past him.
Although he had expressed to Nora that his relationship with Cecil was merely a means to an end, he could not deny – not to himself, at least – that he had valued their friendship greatly. More than he had ever intended to.
Cecil had been different from the others.
After his parents' deaths, people had looked upon him with either pity or suspicion.
Most children had refused to speak to him at all, as though the grief he carried were something contagious that might spread if they ventured too close.
Their parents had whispered behind gloved hands, their eyes sliding away whenever he passed.
And the ones who had spoken to him – those who had shown him a little bit of attention were even worse.
“Oh look,” they’d jeer as they pointed at him, their young voices cruel in the way only children could be. “The cursed duke's son. That's why his parents died. He brought it on them.”
Even now, so many years later, Godric could recall the burning shame that had flooded through him at those words. He had bore a secret fear that perhaps they were right. That perhaps he had been the reason for his parents' deaths, that if he had never been born, they would still be alive.
But Cecil had been different.
Cecil Wightman, with his easy smile and his complete disregard for propriety, had walked right up to him during one particularly brutal encounter and declared – loudly enough for everyone to hear – that the other boys had marbles for brains if they thought they could speak so thoughtlessly about matters they knew nothing about.
“Your parents were murdered,” Cecil had said, his young face set with determination. “That makes you a victim, not a curse. And anyone who says otherwise is a damned fool.”
The other boys had backed down, cowed by Cecil's conviction, and Godric had felt something shift inside him.
For the first time since that terrible night, he had been able to breathe properly.
To exist in a space where someone saw him as simply himself, rather than as a tragedy to be pitied or blamed.
Their friendship had grown from that moment, steady and easy in a way that Godric had desperately needed. Cecil had never demanded explanations or forced confidences. He had simply been there, a constant presence that made the world feel slightly less hostile.
And Godric had repaid that loyalty by using him.
The thought sat bitter on his tongue. He had felt reluctant when Luther first suggested leveraging their friendship to gain access to Gregory Wightman.
Some part of him – the part that still remembered what it felt like to be that frightened boy – had recoiled at the idea of turning something genuine into a tool for revenge.
But he had done it anyway. He had accepted the mantle of hatred against Gregory Wightman without thinking twice, without any regard for what it might mean for Cecil. Or for Nora.
Especially for Nora.
“Your Grace?”
Godric blinked, pulled from his thoughts by the hesitant voice of one of the footmen. The young man stood before him; his cap twisted between his hands.
“We are ready for departure, Your Grace. Everything has been loaded.”
“Good,” Godric said, his voice coming out rougher than he intended. “You may go ahead. I will follow shortly.”
The footman bowed and retreated, and after a moment – along with a much-needed deep breath – Godric walked towards the door.
He paused at the threshold, his hand resting against the doorframe as his gaze swept across the familiar space one final time.
How many times had he stood in this very spot, waiting for Nora arrive?
How many seconds had they spent together within these walls, unveiling their hearts to each other – him without meaning to?
Too many. Far too many to count, and yet not nearly enough.
The saddest part was that most of his memories would be trapped within a house he did not own, and was now barred from visiting ever again. And as such, he would not get to reminisce the way he might have preferred.
It would be better this way, he told himself firmly. Once he dealt with Luther – once justice was finally served – he would be gone from their lives forever. They would be safe. They would be free of him and all the destruction he had brought into their world.
Nora deserved better than a man consumed by vengeance. She deserved someone who could love her openly, without the weight of lies and manipulation shadowing his every word, every touch. Someone whose hands were not stained with the dirt of intentions, even if the revenge had been misdirected.
The thought should have brought him comfort. Instead, it only made the emptiness in his chest deepen.
Godric forced himself to turn away, to step through the door and into the afternoon sunlight. His carriage waited at the bottom of the steps, the horses stamping impatiently as the coachman checked the harnesses one final time.
He descended the steps slowly, each one feeling heavier than the last. When he reached the carriage door, he paused, his hand on the handle as he drew in a long breath.
Do not look back. Do not think about her. Do not –
“Ironwell! Stop! Damn it – wait!”
Godric's entire body went rigid at the sound of Cecil's voice. He turned to find his friend – now former friend, he supposed – running down the street toward him, and his face alight with panic.
Something cold settled in Godric's stomach. Cecil was a fit man, but he detested any sort of physical activity that required any exertion. He would not be running like that unless something was terribly wrong.
“What is it?” Godric demanded as Cecil came to a stop before him, breathing hard. “What has happened?”
“It's Nora,” Cecil gasped, his hands bracing against his knees as he tried to catch his breath. “She's – God, Godric, she's nowhere to be found.”
The world seemed to tilt beneath Godric's feet. “What do you mean?”
“I mean she's gone!” Cecil straightened; his eyes wild with fear.
“She's been missing since this morning. I went to ask her to have breakfast with me, but when I arrived at her chambers, her bed was empty. I thought perhaps she had risen early, but none of the servants had seen her. Then one of the maids mentioned something about her visiting an orphanage –”
“An orphanage?” Godric interrupted, his mind already racing through possibilities, each one worse than the last.
“Yes, apparently, she goes there sometimes to read to the children.
But that was hours ago, and she still hasn't returned.” Cecil's voice cracked slightly.
“There are only a few hours left until the sun sets, Godric.
She wouldn't stay away this long without sending word. Something is wrong. I know it is.”
Godric's hands clenched into fists at his sides. His mind was already considering the possibility that perhaps she simply wanted to spend more time with the children.
Only she would not leave her brother in the dark about her whereabouts for so long – especially not when she knew she did not have the same freedom as when he was away.
And then, like ice water down his spine, a terrible suspicion took root.
Luther.
The old warehouse where he had met with Anthony Brown was also on the outskirts of London. Close enough to several orphanages that a young woman traveling alone might be intercepted without drawing attention.
His uncle knew about Nora. Of course, he did – Godric had been staying at Hadleigh Manor for weeks. Luther would have made it his business to know exactly where Godric had been spending his time, and with whom.
If Luther suspected that Godric had discovered the truth, if he thought for even a moment that his carefully constructed lies were unravelling...
“Godric?” Cecil's voice cut through his thoughts, sharp with desperation. “Do you know something? Please, if you have any idea where she might be –”
“I might,” Godric said, the words coming out clipped and cold as he pulled open the carriage door. “Stay here. If I am wrong, I will return within the hour. If I am right... I will bring her back safely. You have my word.”
“I'm coming with you,” Cecil said immediately, moving toward the carriage.
“No.” Godric's voice was sharp enough to make Cecil stop in his tracks. “If I am correct about where she is, having you there will only complicate matters. Trust me, Cecil. Please.”
For a long moment, Cecil stared at him, conflict warring across his features. Then, slowly, he stepped back.
“One hour,” he said, his voice tight. “If you are not back in one hour, I am coming after you both.”
Godric nodded once, then climbed into the carriage. As the coachman snapped the reins and they began to move, he leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes.
Please, he thought, though he was not certain to whom – or what – he was praying. Please let me be wrong. Let her be anywhere else. Anywhere but there.
But even as the desperate plea formed in his mind, he knew with cold certainty that he was right.
Luther had taken her. And if Godric did not reach her in time...
It seemed the coachman had sensed his urgency, because the trip was shorter than he remembered it.
Soon, they had arrived at the outskirts of London, the improvised people a clear sign of the poverty that was rampant in that area.
Once the warehouse was in sight, Godric was out of the carriage before the wheels had fully ceased their motion.
“Wait here,” he ordered the coachman sternly, “If I do not return within half an hour, fetch the constables. Tell them you suspect a murder has taken place.”
The man’s face paled, but he nodded. “Yes, Your Grace.”
Godric did not wait for further confirmation.
He strode toward the warehouse, his heart pounding against his ribs with enough force that he could feel it in his throat.
Every instinct he possessed was screaming at him to run, to burst through those doors and tear apart anyone who stood between him and Nora.
But he forced himself to approach with caution. If Luther was indeed inside, if he had Nora, then rushing in blindly would only put her in greater danger.
The warehouse door hung slightly ajar, just as it had during his previous visit. Godric paused at the threshold, listening intently. At first, there was only silence. Then, faintly, he heard it – the low murmur of voices from within.
One of them was Luther's.
Godric's hand went to the pistol concealed beneath his coat, his fingers closing around the familiar weight. Then, with a deep breath that did nothing to calm the storm raging inside him, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The scene that greeted him was exactly as he had feared, and yet somehow worse than anything his imagination had conjured.
Nora sat on the floor near the centre of the room, her hands bound behind her back and a gag tied across her mouth. Her dress was torn at the shoulder, her hair dishevelled, and the fear in her eyes was visible even from where he stood.
But she was alive. She was breathing. That was all that mattered.
Luther stood a few feet behind her, his posture relaxed in a way that made Godric's blood boil. And beside him, looking significantly more nervous, was Anthony Brown.
All three of them turned as Godric entered, and the expression that crossed Luther's face was one of grim satisfaction.
“Godric,” his uncle said, his voice carrying that same false warmth it always did. “I had wondered how long it would take you to find us. I must say, I am impressed by your speed. Then again, you always were a clever boy.”
Godric's gaze flickered to Nora, checking for injuries, before returning to Luther. His hand remained on the pistol beneath his coat, though he did not yet draw it.
“What,” he said, his voice deadly calm, “do you think you are doing?”