Chapter 18
“Is His Grace not joining us this morning?”
The question escaped before Catherine could stop it. Her tone was light and carefully measured, almost casual, but the silence that followed made her acutely aware of how much she had betrayed.
The butler hesitated, his hands folded neatly behind his back. “His Grace departed for his business engagements an hour past, Your Grace. He left no instructions beyond the usual.”
“I see.”
She reached for the cup of tea before her, though her appetite had fled at once. The silver spoon clinked gently against the porcelain as she stirred, though there was nothing left to dissolve.
Across the table, sunlight spilled through tall windows, striking the polished crystal and scattering soft patterns along the linen. It was a beautiful morning—gold and bright and still. Yet it felt hollow.
She had risen earlier than usual, her pulse thrumming with the foolish hope that he might meet her here, that perhaps this morning might not begin in silence.
She had taken care dressing, choosing the gown of pale blue muslin because the color softened her complexion, and even pinned her hair differently.
And now he was gone.
She wondered at his absence, of course.
Did he go to see my father? Did he wish to make sure Papa was cared for when he awakened?
She fiddled with her teacup as she pondered such a notion.
Duncan showed a fraction of his true character last night in putting my needs first, but would he feel obligated to visit my father today?
She was not sure his charitable nature could match her own and so she convinced herself that Duncan had not left at the break of day to rally her father’s spirits.
But then, where is he?
Catherine laid the spoon aside and sat very still, watching the faint curl of steam rise from her untouched tea. Her hands itched with the restless desire to do something, but there was nothing here to command, nothing to soothe the sharp ache that pressed behind her ribs.
If she remained, she would go mad.
She rose, the chair scraping faintly across the floor. “Have the carriage prepared,” she said. “I will go to my father’s townhouse at once, then head directly to Brightwater.”
The butler bowed low. “At once, Your Grace.”
The carriage slowed as they turned onto the narrow street that led to the orphanage. When it halted, Catherine stepped out, her shoes striking the cobblestones.
Brightwater had changed.
The walls had been freshly whitewashed; the old roof no longer sagged with decay.
The scent of new timber mingled with the faint sweetness of baking bread.
Windows gleamed where once they had been dulled with dust, and the garden bloomed again.
Lavender and marigold framed the path like sunlight made tangible.
Catherine stood for a moment on the threshold, breath trapped in her throat.
He did this.
Duncan’s hand lay upon every stone, every pane, every life within. Yet he had only once graced this place with his presence on two separate occasions.
“Your Grace!”
Mrs. Simms appeared in the doorway, wiping flour from her apron. Her eyes crinkled in delight. “What a surprise! The children will be beside themselves to see you.”
Catherine smiled faintly, though her heart trembled beneath the expression. “Then I hope I’ve not disrupted their morning too terribly.”
“Nonsense. They’ll abandon their lessons at the sight of you, and I’ll not scold them for it.”
The warmth in the woman’s tone loosened something tight in Catherine’s chest. She followed her inside, greeted by the hum of voices and the unmistakable scent of chalk dust and candle wax. The halls were as she remembered, but brighter now. Hope had crept back into the walls.
In the classroom, sunlight pooled over rows of benches where children bent over their slates. The moment Catherine entered, heads lifted at once.
A chorus of delighted cries erupted, and in seconds, she was surrounded. Their little hands reached for her, their voices overlapping in a rush of questions and laughter.
Catherine knelt instinctively, skirts fanning around her.
“Goodness,” she laughed softly. “If I had known I’d cause such commotion, I might have sent word first.”
A freckled boy thrust a slate toward her, words scrawled in uneven chalk: Welcome home, Duchess!
Her throat tightened. She smiled through it. “That is the finest handwriting I have ever seen, Thomas.”
He grinned, proud as a prince. “I practiced for you.”
“I can tell.” She brushed a stray lock from his forehead, the gesture instinctive. “And have you all been good to Mrs. Simms in my absence?”
A collective murmur rose, and Catherine’s laugh, real and unguarded, filled the room. For a little while, she let herself be theirs again, the lady who listened and remembered the names of the children most others forgot.
Then a small boy near the front tugged at her sleeve. “Where’s your husband, Your Grace?” he asked solemnly. “Is he at home?”
The question was so innocent, so guileless, it nearly undid her.
She forced a light tone. “He is attending to business, Henry.”
“What kind of business?” another child piped up.
Catherine hesitated. What kind, indeed? Affairs of property? Negotiations? Or the sort of distant, private endeavors that left her staring at cold plates in empty rooms?
She smiled faintly. “Important business, I’m told. A duke’s duties never rest.”
They accepted this with varying degrees of satisfaction, some nodding as if it made perfect sense, others frowning as though it did not.
But the boldest of them all, Rosie, a dark-haired girl with sharp green eyes, tilted her head and said, “Is he kind?”
Catherine blinked. “Kind?”
Rosie nodded gravely. “My brother says dukes aren’t kind. He says they’re too busy telling people what to do.”
Catherine bit back a smile. “Your brother sounds very wise.”
“He’s ten,” the girl said proudly.
“Then wiser than most men twice his age.”
The laughter that followed was warm, genuine, rippling through the room like sunlight across water. But as it faded, the same girl asked softly, “Is the Duke a wise man? Do you love him dearly?”
Catherine hesitated. Around her, curious faces waited, eyes wide and expectant.
Did she love him? The question was too simple for the truth.
She thought of Duncan’s voice in the dark, his hand braced against the wall beside her head, the way he had pleasured her in the garden, the burn of his nearness and the chill of his retreat.
She thought of every time he had left without a word and every time she had hoped he might stay.
Her throat ached. “The Duke,” she began carefully, “is a good man.”
They groaned at once, disappointed.
“That isn’t what we asked,” one boy complained. “We asked if you thought him the smartest man in the world.”
Catherine laughed despite herself, covering her mouth. “That is not precisely what was asked, my young friend, but I can appreciate the way you twisted the words. You are far too clever.”
“But do you admire the Duke? Do you think of him all the time when he’s not around?” the girl pressed again, her voice smaller this time.
Catherine hesitated, gaze drifting toward the window where light poured in gold and steady.
“Not all the time,” she said softly, “but I do miss his presence when he is not near me.”
“You have it?”
The man across the table spoke low, his voice roughened by smoke and cheap gin. The tavern’s dim lamplight cut through the haze, gleaming faintly on the iron buttons of his coat.
A Bow Street Runner. Hard-eyed, pragmatic, not easily impressed.
Duncan set the folded packet down between them. “Every account. Dates, sums, names. Felton’s entire web.”
The runner’s gaze flicked toward it, cautious. “You’ve done half my job for me, Your Grace.”
Duncan leaned back in his chair, the worn wood creaking beneath his weight. “Then finish it.”
A corner of the man’s mouth twitched. “We will. But if we’re to bring him down proper, we’ll need one more voice. Someone close to the dealings. One who can speak to the coercion itself.”
Duncan’s jaw tightened. “You mean a victim revealing themselves.”
“Aye.” The runner glanced at the papers again.
“Your evidence shows he preyed on gentry debt, forced the desperate into ruin. That’s clear.
But the court will want more than numbers on a page.
” He met Duncan’s eyes squarely. “They’ll want a testimony.
Someone with a title. Someone who can bleed in public and not flinch. ”
Duncan exhaled slowly, the candlelight catching the hard line of his cheekbone. “Lord Portsbury.”
The runner’s brows rose. “Your wife’s father?”
Duncan gave a single curt nod.
“Well,” the man said after a pause, “his name carries weight, even if his habits don’t. If he’ll sign a statement, it’ll lend us legitimacy. But he’ll have to do it sober.”
“He will,” Duncan said, though even as he spoke, he knew it would not be easy.
Portsbury’s debts had been carved into his bones; Felton’s reach had extended so far that by the time Catherine realized the scale of it, the ruin had already set in. Duncan had settled it quietly, but the stain remained.
The runner studied him for a long moment. “And what if Lord Portsbury doesn’t have the belly for such a task? Do you have a second gentleman to take his place?”
Duncan nodded. “Hargrave.”
The investigator’s eyebrows shot up, indicating his astonishment. “You got Hargrave to talk?”
“He vowed to speak, if I could provide the necessary proof.” Duncan waved his hand at the stack of documents that lay between them. “I have held up my end of the bargain. I see no reason for him to turn tail now.”
“You have not missed a step, have you, Your Grace?” He tipped his head to the side and regarded Duncan with genuine interest. “You’ve reason to want Felton destroyed, haven’t you?”
Duncan’s expression did not shift. “More than one reason.”