Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
“I’ve engaged the services of the Bow Street Runners,” Leo announced, pacing the confines of his study at Stagmore Manor, where he’d returned to only yesterday with Beatrice.
The afternoon light filtered through tall windows, catching the dust motes disturbed by his movement and transforming them into miniature constellations that mapped the trajectory of his agitation.
“Discreetly, of course. If Westbury’s involvement extends as deeply into criminal enterprise as we suspect, politics may prove insufficient.”
Adrian lounged in a leather armchair as he tracked his friend’s movements.
“A prudent measure,” he observed, adjusting his perfectly arranged cravat.
“Though can the extensive resources of the Runners penetrate whatever protection Westbury has secured through his illicit ventures? Men of his ilk typically maintain a battalion of officials in their pockets, from parish constables to magistrates.”
“Their silence is well bought,” Leo said, pausing by the fireplace, his hand resting on the mantel. “The investigator reports to me alone. He values coin over rank, which makes him reliable enough.”
“Most thorough,” Adrian observed, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, the crystal catching the light in fractured patterns that danced across his elegant fingers.
“One might almost suspect a personal interest beyond mere family obligation. Such attention to detail seems unusual for a man who has always kept himself well clear of family affairs.”
Leo halted abruptly, his gaze narrowing as he registered the subtle probing beneath his friend’s observation. “What exactly are you implying, Adrian?”
Adrian shrugged, a graceful dismissal that carried its own sharp meaning. “Merely that your dedication to this investigation seems… particularly fervent. I’ve known you for many years, Leo, and I’ve rarely seen you so thoroughly engaged in any enterprise not directly related to your interests.”
“Philip is family,” Leo countered, resuming his restless pacing of the study, trying to ease the tension in his shoulders. “And family matters demand appropriate attention. You of all people should understand familial obligations.”
“Of course,” Adrian agreed smoothly, the glass pausing halfway to his lips as he fixed him with a gaze too perceptive by half.
“Though I wonder if your new Duchess might also factor into this unexpected display. She showed remarkable composure yesterday, did she not? Intelligence, courage, compassion for Miss Finley, despite the circumstances… Qualities one rarely finds in the decorative ornaments of the ton.”
Leo’s jaw tensed, and Adrian’s eyes quickly caught the subtle shift. “The Duchess performed admirably, yes. She has proven herself… capable.”
“Capable,” Adrian echoed, amusement evident in his tone as he sipped on his brandy. “Such lavish praise. I’m certain she would be overcome by such effusive acknowledgment of her contributions. Perhaps she’d swoon into your arms from the sheer force of your approval.”
“What would you have me say?” Leo huffed, irritation flaring in his chest like summer lightning across a darkened landscape. “That I found her presence unexpectedly valuable? That her insights proved more pertinent than anticipated? None of that changes the reality of our marriage.”
“And what reality is that, precisely?” Adrian asked, leaning forward with sudden intensity, all pretense of nonchalance abandoned. “The convenient fiction you’ve constructed to maintain emotional distance, or the increasingly evident truth that you find yourself drawn to your wife?”
The question hung between them, heavy with implications that Leo had thus far refused to acknowledge.
“You overstep,” he said finally, his voice tight.
“Someone must,” Adrian replied, placing his glass on a nearby table with deliberate care, the crystal meeting mahogany with a soft click that punctuated his words.
“You’ve spent years constructing barriers, Leo.
Cultivating the persona of the detached rake, the lord above common sentiment.
Yet I’ve noticed how you stare at her when you think no one is looking.
And do not tell me it is mere physical attraction, for I know when you’re lying, old friend. ”
“This conversation serves no useful purpose,” Leo declared, turning away to conceal his discomfort at his friend’s observation.
He moved toward the window, where the ordered geometry of the garden provided visual respite from the uncomfortable truths Adrian uttered.
“On the contrary,” Adrian countered, rising from his seat.
His reflection appeared beside Leo’s in the glass pane.
“It may serve the most useful purpose of all: preventing you from sabotaging a genuine connection with a woman who’s worth it.
The question becomes not whether you are developing feelings for your Duchess, but what you intend to do with them. ”
Leo said nothing. He stood perfectly still, his hands clenched at his sides, his body taut with restraint.
The garden beyond the window blurred before his eyes, replaced by unbidden images of Beatrice: her quiet dignity, her unexpected resourcefulness during their search for Anna, the vulnerability in her expression when he had vowed to protect her from Westbury’s machinations.
Each memory carried a weight he had not anticipated, a significance that transcended the convenience he had believed their marriage to be.
Adrian sighed. “Very well,” he conceded, moving toward the door. “I shall leave you to your stoic contemplation. Though I would suggest, as your oldest friend, that there are worse fates than discovering one has married a woman of substance rather than merely acquired a convenient accessory.”
He left, and Leo was left to reckon with the truths his friend had quietly laid bare.
The study door clicked shut behind him, and the weight of the conversation settled firmly in the room.
Two days had passed since they had found Anna, and Leo had thrown himself into the search for Philip with renewed determination.
The investigation consumed him, leaving little opportunity for the uncomfortable intimacy that had begun to develop between him and Beatrice. He had suggested returning to Stagmore Manor, reasoning that from there, they could go wherever Philip might be with far less risk of detection.
The plan was practical, necessary, and entirely in line with Leo’s methodical approach, yet it also imposed a quiet distance between them, one that Beatrice could not entirely ignore.
Perhaps that was for the best. The strange fluttering in her chest whenever he entered a room, the heat that rose to her cheeks when he addressed her with that peculiar intensity, were complications neither of them had anticipated when they had struck their bargain.
Beatrice set aside the ledger, no longer able to focus on the figures. Her mind kept circling back to Philip.
Where could he have gone?
He was her closest friend, yet now it seemed that knowledge was insufficient to predict his movements in a crisis.
She closed her eyes, remembering conversations they’d shared. Philip had always been easy to talk to, open in a way that most men of his station were not. He had often spoken of Anna, of course, but also of his childhood, his hopes, his—
Her eyes snapped open.
“Thornfield,” she whispered, the name materializing in her memory with sudden clarity.
Philip had mentioned it once, a small estate in Surrey where he used to summer as a boy. Not his family’s property, but a distant relation’s—a place of happy memories, isolated enough that few would think to look for him there.
Why hadn’t she remembered it before?
The urgency of the recollection propelled her to her feet. She needed to tell Leo immediately.
She marched down the halls of Stagmore Manor, looking for him.
“Has anyone seen His Grace?” she asked a passing footman.
“Not recently, Your Grace. Lord Tillfield departed some twenty minutes ago, but His Grace didn’t join him.”
Beatrice moved through the house with growing impatience, checking the library, the breakfast room, and even the formal drawing room, rarely used when they weren’t entertaining. Each empty chamber increased her frustration.
“His Grace hasn’t left the manor,” the butler assured her when she inquired. “Perhaps he’s in his quarters?”
She hesitated only briefly before climbing the stairs to the ducal chambers. Propriety be damned—this was information that could lead them to Philip before Westbury found him first.
She knocked on his bedroom door but received no answer. His dressing room was similarly empty.
Where could he have disappeared to within his own home?
And then she remembered.
The garden folly. The mysterious structure she had glimpsed during her tour of Stagmore Manor with Mrs. Fairchild. The building that the housekeeper had been so reluctant to discuss.
Pulling on a light shawl, Beatrice ventured into the garden.
The afternoon sun cast long shadows over the manicured lawn as she followed the gravel path that wound through carefully tended beds of late-summer blooms. The folly stood partially obscured by a copse of yew trees, its stone walls unadorned by the decorative elements typical of such garden structures.
The door was unlatched. She pushed it open tentatively, unsure what she might find within.
The sight stopped her dead.
At the center of the folly was a bath sunk into the stone floor. In it stood Leo, water cascading from his naked body as he rose to his feet, droplets gleaming on his skin like diamonds in the slanted light that streamed through a high window.
“Duchess?” His voice held surprise rather than anger. “What are you doing here?”
She couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t tear her eyes away from the masculine perfection before her. Water streamed down his broad shoulders, tracing the planes of his chest, following the ridges of his abdomen down to—
She spun around, her cheeks burning so fiercely that she feared they might ignite her hair.
“I-I apologize for the intrusion,” she stammered, fixing her gaze on the rough stone wall before her. “I didn’t realize—I’ve been looking for you, and no one knew where… I mean, I should have knocked—”
Behind her came the sloshing of water as he stepped out of the bath, then the rustle of fabric, and she desperately hoped it was a towel.
“I remembered something,” she continued, the words tumbling out in her mortification. “About Philip. A place he mentioned once. I thought you would want to know immediately. I didn’t mean to—”
“Turn around, Duchess.”
His voice was closer now. Too close.
She shook her head, clutching her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “I should go. This isn’t proper.”
“You are my wife.” His voice dropped further, the words vibrating through her like plucked violin strings. “And you will turn around.”
She swallowed hard, forcing herself to obey, because she certainly felt like defying him at that moment. But doing so would only defeat the purpose for which she came.
Slowly, reluctantly, she turned around.
He stood mere feet away, a towel wrapped low around his hips. Water still clung to his skin, tracing paths down his chest that her eyes followed helplessly. His hair was damp, curling slightly at his temples.
She tried to focus on his face, but her gaze kept dropping to his body. To the broad expanse of his chest, to the ridges of his abdomen, to the trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath the towel.
Leo’s lips curled into a knowing smile that only intensified the heat in her cheeks.
“See something you like, Duchess?” he asked, his voice a low, teasing rumble.
“I—” Her mouth was dry as desert sand. “That’s not—I came to tell you about Philip.”
Something shifted in his eyes, amusement giving way to sharp focus. “What about Philip?”
She latched onto the change of subject with desperate gratitude. “Thornfield. It’s an estate in Surrey, owned by a distant relation. He used to summer there as a child. He mentioned it once—said it was so remote that even his own family rarely visited. If he needed a place to hide…”
“Thornfield,” Leo repeated, his expression turning thoughtful. “Yes, I know of it. Belonged to our great-uncle, Lord Harcourt. I’d forgotten about it entirely.” He studied her face with sudden intensity. “This could be significant. Well done, Duchess.”
The praise warmed her in ways she didn’t care to examine too closely. So, she did not, and forced herself to focus on the matter at hand… although not necessarily on the vision before her.
“I’ll investigate immediately,” he added, taking a step closer.
The movement sent another droplet of water down his chest. Beatrice tracked its path helplessly, her breath catching.
“I should go,” she whispered, unable to look away. “Let you dress.”
“Does my state of undress disturb you, Duchess?” he asked, something darker and more dangerous lacing his tone. “We are man and wife, after all.”
Beatrice jutted her chin in defiance. “Don’t you think you should focus more on the issue at hand?” she retorted, unwilling to let him bully her with his state of undress, determined to ignore the heat it ignited in her belly.
His expression shuttered almost instantly. “I’ll look into Thornfield immediately,” he said, his tone businesslike once more. “It’s an excellent lead. Thank you for bringing it to my attention.”
She nodded and stepped back, wrapping her shawl more tightly around her shoulders, though the air was far from cold.
“I’ll leave you to dress,” she said, turning toward the door.
“Duchess,” he called as her hand touched the latch.
She paused, not turning around, afraid of what she might see—or worse, what she might not see—on his face. “Yes?”
“We’ll find him,” he said. “We’ll find Philip, and we’ll deal with Westbury. I promise you that.”
She nodded once, then fled, not trusting herself to speak.