Chapter 32
“Tell him I’ll meet him alone.”
The words left Duncan’s mouth in a command he’d already decided long before speaking them. The air in his study felt sharp, tense with purpose. His butler hesitated at the door, brow furrowed.
“Alone, Your Grace?”
Duncan’s gaze lifted, cold and unwavering. “You heard me. No one follows. No one interferes until I give word.”
The man nodded stiffly. “Yes, Your Grace.”
When the door closed behind him, Duncan exhaled slowly and looked down at the letter spread open on his desk—Felton’s reply to his demand for a meeting. No apology. No denial. Just a single line in that same arrogant, slanted hand:
If you insist, Raynsford. The old mill, midnight.
It was exactly the sort of place a man like Felton would choose—remote, abandoned, reeking of waste. Duncan almost smiled. The fool didn’t realize how thoroughly the game had turned.
He pushed back from the desk and crossed to the cabinet, opening the small compartment that held his pistol. He checked the powder, the flint, the weight in his hand. It felt familiar — the cold reassurance of something he could control.
He had spent the last week gathering every piece of evidence Felton had left scattered through his own arrogance.
Bank ledgers, letters, receipts hidden under the guise of charitable donations, bribes wrapped in respectability.
He’d traced the man’s dealings to three estates, two MPs, and one desperate father with a drinking problem.
Catherine’s father.
Duncan’s jaw tightened at the thought. He knew he still needed the Viscount to testify against Felton so that other gentlemen would come forward, but Duncan had tried to keep Catherine out of the affair as much as possible.
But the trouble was that Catherine’s name was never far from his mind.
Felton had struck Brightwater. He had intentionally attacked a place Catherine loved. But that had been a terrible mistake. Duncan meant to make him pay for that, and so many others, tonight.
He fastened his coat, the movements methodical, precise. When he looked in the mirror, the man staring back at him was composed, not angry, just ready.
By the time he stepped outside, the night had deepened. A low mist rolled across the streets, softening the edges of the world. The carriage waited in the courtyard, horses restless in the cool air. Duncan climbed in without a word, settling into the seat as the driver flicked the reins.
The city blurred past in narrow lanes and shuttered windows, the faint glow of gas lamps giving way to darkness as they left the heart of London behind.
He gave one last look toward the direction of Belgrave House, a townhome that had been in his family for decades but rarely saw visitors.
He was glad the children and Catherine could be there.
He was granted a brief feeling of reprieve in knowing that they would be safe whilst locked behind those thick oak doors.
Catherine would be asleep now. He imagined her in the quiet room, the faint rise and fall of her breath, the strands of hair that always escaped her braid to frame her face. The thought steadied him and tore at him in equal measure.
The carriage stopped at the edge of the old mill grounds—an expanse of overgrown weeds and skeletal trees. The moon hung low, pale and heavy, its light broken by the slow drift of fog over the Thames. The air smelled of river mud and rot.
Duncan stepped out, boots crunching on the damp earth. A single lantern burned near the mill entrance, its glow flickering against the warped timbers. He heard the soft rustle of movement inside, deliberate and unhurried.
Felton.
Duncan walked forward, each step measured. He had arranged everything: two Bow Street runners were hidden beyond the ridge, waiting for his signal. If things went wrong, if Felton chose violence over words, they would be there within seconds.
Still, he hoped to handle it himself. He always preferred to end what he began.
“Raynsford,” came the smooth, drawling voice from the shadows. “You’re punctual. I suppose I should admire that.”
Felton stepped into the lantern light, dressed in his usual elegance, in a dark coat, silk cravat, and gloves that gleamed faintly in the dim glow. His face bore that same thin smile Duncan remembered from every negotiation, every deceitful courtesy.
“I didn’t come for admiration,” Duncan said evenly.
“No,” Felton murmured, “you came for justice. Or revenge. There’s hardly a difference when a man’s pride is wounded.”
Duncan’s jaw hardened. “You know exactly why I’m here.”
“Ah, yes.” Felton’s smile widened. “Your father. Her father. The fire. Tragic, really.” He said those phrases with such nonchalance that Duncan’s hand balled into a fist, and he had to restrain himself from unleashing a torrent of fury.
“But you should thank me—it gave your wife a chance to play heroine. Nothing earns sympathy from Society like a duchess covered in ash and virtue.”
Duncan’s hand flexed at his side. “Careful.”
Felton laughed softly. “Still so restrained. Tell me, did she weep when she thought she might die? Or did she whisper your name like a prayer?”
The blow came fast. Duncan’s fist connected with Felton’s jaw in a clean, brutal arc that sent the man staggering back. The sound echoed through the empty mill.
Felton straightened slowly, blood glinting at the corner of his mouth. “There it is,” he said, almost admiring. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten how to feel.”
“I came to make you answer for what you’ve done,” Duncan said. His voice was low, steady, far more dangerous than a shout. “Not just to me, but to every man you’ve blackmailed, every family you’ve ruined. You prey on weakness and call it power.”
Felton dabbed at his lip with a gloved finger, smirking. “Power is knowing how to use what others cannot handle.”
“You used Catherine’s father,” Duncan said sharply. “You fed his debts, twisted his desperation, and used it to reach her. You tried to ruin my wife’s work to get to me.”
Felton’s expression flickered, just briefly. “A casualty—to be sure.”
“No,” Duncan said, stepping closer. “It was calculation. You found the weakest thread and pulled until it frayed. And when you couldn’t get what you wanted, you set fire to a house full of children.”
“Baseless accusation,” Felton sneered, though his voice had lost some of its ease.
Duncan’s smile was cold. “Hardly baseless.”
He pulled a folded sheaf of papers from inside his coat and laid them on the barrel between them—signed statements, bank drafts, and one letter bearing Felton’s own seal.
“I’ve traced every account, every false transaction.
Half the men you bribed have turned on you. The rest are already in custody.”
Felton’s eyes narrowed. “You think a few papers will ruin me?”
“They’ll hang you,” Duncan said. “For arson. Extortion. Conspiracy.”
For the first time, the color drained from Felton’s face. His composure cracked, just slightly, but enough for Duncan to see the cornered, terrified man beneath the veneer.
“You don’t have the nerve,” Felton spat. “Men like you never do. You hide behind the law and your stacks of documents. You’d never risk getting your hands dirty.”
Duncan’s gaze sharpened as he raised his fist and showed off the blood splotches on his knuckles. “My hands are dirty enough.”
Felton’s sneer faltered. He reached inside his coat, and Duncan saw the glint of metal a second before the pistol cleared its holster.
He lunged forward, grabbing Felton’s wrist. The shot went wide, the sound deafening in the enclosed space, shards of splintered wood flying from the nearby wall. The pistol clattered to the floor as Duncan drove his shoulder into Felton’s chest, forcing him back against the beam.
They struggled—Felton striking wildly, Duncan moving with careful precision. His fist caught Felton’s throat, once, twice, enough to make him choke and falter. Duncan pinned him by the collar, the fabric twisting in his grip.
“You think you can stop me by shooting me dead? You think you can save yourself by silencing me? I thrive in silence!”
Felton’s breath came in ragged gasps. “You’re… just like your father,” he rasped. “A brute hiding behind a title.”
Duncan’s eyes flashed. “My father died running from his demons. I’m not running.”
He slammed Felton against the beam again, hard enough to make him stagger. “You played with lives to feed your pride. You made my wife fear for the children she swore to protect. For that alone, I should end you myself.”
Felton’s lips curved into a weak, bloodied smile. “Then do it.”
For one brief, dangerous second, Duncan almost did. His grip tightened, rage coiling through him like a living thing. But then he saw Catherine—the way she had looked at him the night of the fire, the way her hands had trembled when she’d said We’re stronger together.
He released him, shoving him back so hard that Felton crumpled to his knees. “No,” Duncan said, his voice shaking with restrained fury. “You don’t deserve an ending that easy.”
He gave a short, sharp whistle.
A moment later, footsteps thundered outside. The two Bow Street runners burst through the door, pistols raised. Felton’s head snapped up in disbelief.
“Take him,” Duncan ordered.
The men seized Felton by the arms, dragging him upright. He fought, snarling like a cornered animal. “You think this ends with me, Raynsford?”
Duncan said coolly, “It’s already done.”
Felton spat at his feet as they pulled him toward the door. “You’ll regret this,” he hissed. “You’ll lose everything—your name, your wife, your precious estate. Everyone will see what you really are.”
Duncan stepped closer, voice low and deadly. “I don’t need them to see me. I just need them to see you fall.”
Felton’s curses echoed through the mill as they dragged him outside. The sound faded into the distance, replaced by the steady beat of rain against the roof, the rasp of Duncan’s breath filling the silence.
He stood still for a long time, every muscle tight, his pulse still pounding from the fight. The scent of powder hung heavily in the air. The papers on the barrel fluttered slightly in the draft.
It was over. He had expected satisfaction—some sense of victory, justice, peace. Instead, all he felt was exhaustion. The kind that came when a man had fought too long, for too many things, and realized he was the only one still standing.
He turned toward the open doorway. The Bow Street men were already leading Felton toward the waiting carriage, one of them glancing back for instruction.
“Straight to Bow Street,” Duncan said. “And see that he’s held without bail. The magistrate will have my deposition by dawn.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
When they were gone, the night fell quiet again.
Duncan looked up. The clouds had broken slightly, revealing a thin sliver of moon. It cast a pale light over the ruined beams, the scattered dust, the dark stain where the pistol ball had struck the wood.
For a long moment, he simply breathed. The cold air burned his lungs, but it felt cleaner somehow.
When he returned to the carriage, dawn was beginning to break in the east. The driver glanced back, startled, though Duncan barely noticed.
He wasn’t aware of what his face betrayed, only that the rage had settled into something colder, quieter, and that for the first time in weeks, his mind was clear.
“To Belgrave House,” Duncan said.
The wheels turned, cutting through the fog.
He watched the city wake as they rode. The world looked different now, quieter, stripped bare. He thought of Catherine again, of her eyes, her voice, the way she had looked at him the night she had said goodbye. Very well, Your Grace.
He had earned every ounce of her distance, but perhaps now he could begin to earn her forgiveness.
By the time they reached Belgrave House, the first light of morning touched the rooftops. He stepped out before the carriage had fully stopped, the driver calling after him, but he did not slow.
The front door opened before he reached it. Mrs. Simms, who stood there in the doorway, seemed startled by his sudden appearance.
“Your Grace,” she gasped. “You’re—”
“Where is she?”
“In the garden, sir. With the children.”
Duncan nodded once and walked past her toward the open doors at the back of the hall.
Through the glass, he saw her, kneeling in the grass among the children, the early sun glinting off her hair. She was smiling faintly, her eyes tired but gentle. She looked… whole.
He stopped, watching her from a distance. For the first time in months, the tension in his chest eased. The weight that had ruled his every breath seemed to lift, just slightly.
He didn’t go to her yet. He didn’t deserve that peace until he gave her back her safety and her truth. But as he stood there, watching her laugh softly with the children, one thing became clear:
He had spent too long fearing the fire.
What he’d forgotten was that sometimes, fire cleansed as much as it destroyed.
And Catherine—his wife, his match, his undoing—had always burned brighter than the fear that kept him from her.
He turned slightly toward the butler who had appeared behind him, waiting for orders.
“Send word to Bow Street,” Duncan said quietly. “Tell them the Duke of Raynsford will be giving a full statement this morning. And see that a carriage is made ready for my wife.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
When the butler left, Duncan looked back toward the garden.
Catherine was still there, sunlight catching the pale curve of her cheek as she leaned to whisper something that made one of the children giggle. The sight of her steadied him like nothing else could.
Today, he would tell her everything. About Felton. About the fire. About the fear that had made him a coward.
And if she turned away, he would bear it. But at least she would know the truth.