Chapter 18
The moon hung high and bright in the sky, casting a pale silver sheen over the deserted streets.
Shadows clung to the edges of buildings like secrets, and Dominic moved among them with practiced ease, his footsteps silent.
Each stride brought him closer to Mr. Haverleigh’s townhouse and the answers he was determined to uncover.
He hadn’t come to ask politely. He already knew Haverleigh would never hand over the truth willingly. There was only one sure way to uncover it: find it himself.
Even if it meant breaking the law to uphold what was right.
Fortunately, he was no stranger to such methods. Years as a Bow Street Runner had trained him well. He knew how to pick locks, move without a sound, and leave a room untouched, as though he had never been there at all.
He reached the edge of Haverleigh’s property and slipped through the wrought-iron gate, crouching low as he crossed the gardens.
No lamps were lit. The house sat quiet and dark, cloaked in sleep.
A check of the lower windows confirmed his hope—the study was unlit, the curtains drawn halfway.
He pressed a hand against the frame and smiled to himself when it gave without resistance.
Foolish man didn’t even secure his window.
With a quiet push, the pane lifted, and Dominic hoisted himself inside.
He landed soundlessly on the carpet, the faint scent of tobacco and stale brandy lingering in the air.
The study was exactly as he remembered it—heavy furniture, a cluttered desk, and books lining the walls in regimented order.
The moonlight spilled through the window behind him, just bright enough to cast the outlines of the room in silver and gray.
He moved to the large mahogany desk at the center and tried the top drawer. Locked. Not surprising.
Dominic crouched and pulled two slender pins from his inner jacket pocket. He inserted the first into the lock, then the second, his head cocked slightly as he listened. Click. The lock gave way.
He tucked the pins away and opened the drawer, careful not to make a sound. Papers rustled as he shifted them aside, sorting quickly through ledgers and correspondence until his fingers caught on something thicker—legal parchment.
Two wills.
One dated ten years prior.
And the second… nearly one year ago.
Dominic’s brows furrowed. Two versions. Two very different dates. If the second was valid and properly executed, it should have been submitted to the probate court—but it hadn’t been.
Which begged the question: why not?
He squinted at the text, but the moonlight was too faint to make out the smaller script. He dared not light a candle; any flicker of flame could alert the household. Better to take them both and examine them elsewhere.
Dominic folded the two documents carefully and slid them into the inner pocket of his coat.
He had just closed the drawer when he froze.
Footsteps.
Heavy. Purposeful. Drawing closer.
He scanned the room. There was no furniture large enough to conceal him. Only one option remained. He moved swiftly to the tall, thick drapes near the bookcase and slipped behind them, pressing himself flat against the wall, heart pounding in his ears.
The door creaked open.
“I do not know why you insist on meeting at this godforsaken hour,” Haverleigh grumbled, his boots thudding across the floor.
Another voice followed, low and cautious. “I can’t risk anyone overhearing our conversation.”
Mr. Wells.
Dominic’s breath caught.
Mr. Wells? His solicitor?
“What do you think I pay my staff for?” Haverleigh snapped. “They know better than to gossip. Now tell me—what is it you want?”
“I’m not certain Lord Warwicke will accept your offer,” Wells replied, his voice tight. “He’s suspicious. I fear he may act independently.”
Haverleigh gave a bitter laugh. “What’s he going to do? He knows nothing of the law. And he’s certainly not clever enough to suspect you are in my employ.”
“I wouldn’t underestimate him, sir,” Wells murmured.
“No,” Haverleigh growled. “You don’t underestimate me. I want Warwicke pacified. Just get him to accept the five thousand pounds and shut this down.”
A pause.
“I understand,” Wells said quietly.
“Good,” Haverleigh barked. “Now get out. And next time, have the decency to meet at a civilized hour.”
Dominic stood utterly still as the men’s footsteps receded, the study door clicking shut behind them. Silence returned—thick and absolute.
He remained hidden a moment longer, his mind racing.
Mr. Wells had betrayed him. He had been playing both sides. Feeding information to Haverleigh while pretending loyalty to Dominic.
Fury coursed through his veins.
At last, Dominic slipped from behind the drapes, every movement deliberate. The room was once again shrouded in stillness, but something fundamental had shifted.
He climbed through the window and dropped soundlessly into the gardens. Only when he reached the safety of the street did he allow himself to breathe fully.
The chill of the night did little to soothe him.
He had the wills in his possession now.
But more than that—he had confirmation of the rot festering at the heart of this scheme. And the next time he confronted Mr. Wells, it would not be as his client. It would be as his enemy.
Turning the corner, Dominic caught sight of his coach waiting where he had left it. He climbed inside, closed the door behind him, and barely had time to settle before the carriage jerked forward.
His thoughts churned with every turn of the wheels. The two wills pressed like a weight against his chest, the truth nestled in his coat pocket—truth Mr. Haverleigh had gone to great lengths to bury.
When the coach pulled up in front of his townhouse, Dominic didn’t bother to wait for the footman. He stepped out quickly, taking the front steps two at a time, urgency driving his every movement.
The front door creaked open beneath his hand, and as he stepped into the entryway, the faint glow of candlelight caught his eyes. He looked up and halted at the sight before him.
Dorothea was descending the staircase, dressed in a white wrapper, her red hair braided and trailing over one shoulder. Her brows drew together. “Where were you?” she asked, her voice edged with worry.
There was no use in lying to her. Not now. “I went to your brother’s townhouse.”
Her frown deepened. “At this hour?”
“It wasn’t to see him,” Dominic replied. “I was searching for something. The wills.”
Dorothea froze at the base of the stairs, her eyes wide. “You found the second will?”
“I did.”
Without hesitation, she hurried to him, her bare feet barely making a sound against the marble floor. “What did it say?”
“I haven’t read it yet,” he admitted.
She stared at him in disbelief. “Why on earth not?”
He gave a crooked smile, the tension easing just slightly. “At the moment, you’re the thing stopping me.”
A laugh broke from her lips. “Well then, we can rectify that. Shall we adjourn to the kitchen and read the wills over a biscuit or two?”
He gestured gallantly. “Lead the way, my lady.”
As they walked down the corridor side by side, he asked, “May I ask what kept you awake?”
She hesitated. “I kept thinking about what Lord Inglewood said to me. The way he looked at me. Spoke to me.”
Dominic’s jaw tensed. “He can’t hurt you.”
“I know,” she said slowly. “But what is to stop others from doing the same? From thinking that I am… available? Tarnished?”
“You are not tarnished,” he said, more sharply than intended.
She paused in the doorway of the kitchen, her expression shadowed. “If the annulment is granted, there will be whispers. And some men will take those whispers as permission. You say you’ll protect me, but you can’t duel every man who speaks ill of me. You can’t guard every room I walk into.”
Dominic said nothing at first. Her words rang with truth. He couldn’t fight every man who dared utter a cruel word. But he could stop the need for such defense altogether. He could stay.
He could choose her.
The realization settled heavily in his chest. “You’re right,” he murmured at last. “I can’t protect you from everything.”
She looked away, a small nod of acknowledgment passing between them. But when his voice came again, it was lower. Steadier.
“But I can protect you by withdrawing the petition for annulment and staying married to you,” he said.
Dorothea stared at Dominic, her breath catching in her throat. Did he truly mean it? The words he had just spoken were what she had longed to hear—for him to stay, to choose her. And yet… the moment that longing flickered to life, a wave of cold disappointment crashed over her.
He wasn’t choosing her out of love.
There had been no such confession. No tender declaration. He was offering to remain married out of protection, out of duty.
Not desire.
Not affection.
Not love.
And she loved him too much to accept that kind of half-hearted vow.
To chain him to a life he might one day grow to resent.
If she kept him in this marriage—knowing he didn’t want it—how long until he looked at her with regret instead of tenderness?
That, more than any whispered scandal, was what she feared most.
“Say something,” Dominic murmured, his voice hushed but hopeful, as if he sensed the shift in her.
She reached for his hand. “That is very generous of you,” she said, “but I couldn’t ask that of you.”
His brow furrowed. “But I want to.”
“Why?” she asked, trying to keep her voice light, though her heart thudded painfully in her chest. Please, she thought. Say it. Say you love me.
Dominic held her gaze. “Because I can’t stand the thought of anything happening to you, Thea. I’d never forgive myself.”
Her heart sank.
That was not love.
That was guilt. Concern. Attachment, perhaps—but not the kind that kept a man at a woman’s side for a lifetime. A lump rose in her throat, and she blinked rapidly to keep the tears at bay. She wouldn’t cry. Not in front of him. Not now.