Chapter 8
There he is…
She found him by sound first. It was a low, intermittent cry, half complaint and half fury, coming from the hedge that ran along the east side of the kitchen garden.
Anna stopped walking and listened. Then she followed it carefully.
Percy was wedged into the lower part of the hedge where two branches had grown close together.
He apparently had decided to investigate the interior of the hedge, only to discover that the interior of the hedge had its own opinions about being investigated.
His back left leg was caught, the fur twisted into the woody growth.
Anna crouched down, and Percy looked at her. His expression was not one of a creature pleased to see a potential rescuer.
“I know,” she said. “I’m sorry. Hold still.”
He hissed.
“Yes,” she said. “I understand. Hold still anyway.”
She reached in carefully. He swiped at her in warning with claws extended, close enough to skim the back of her hand without catching. Yet, she did not pull back.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” she assured him, which was not persuasive enough, so she pushed. “You’re going to have to decide to trust me for approximately thirty seconds, and then I’ll leave you alone.”
Percy hissed again, with feeling, but held still.
“That’s better.”
She worked her fingers around the caught fur, carefully, finding where it had twisted into the branch.
The branch had curved inward over time, and she had to press it back gently to create enough space.
Percy growled throughout, and then the fur came free.
Percy was out of the hedge in the same instant, gone between two pots before she had even straightened up.
She looked at the back of her hand. A red line that was more pressure than break. She straightened. Brushed the yew fragments from her skirt. Looked in the direction that Percy had gone and did not see him. Then she turned and went to find his master.
His study was in the north end of the house, which Rachel had told her, and which Anna had noted without intending to need. It faced the park rather than the gardens. It had a lovely view of the oak and the long grass beyond the gravel walk.
She knocked.
“Come.”
He was at his desk, which was covered with the organized precision of a man who moved a great deal of paper around and knew how to get things done. He looked up when she came in, and then, when she did not come with a household query or a note from Rachel, he put down his quill.
“Your Grace, Percy is somewhere in the grounds,” Anna said. “He was caught in the yew hedge along the kitchen garden. I got him out, but he moved off quickly. I couldn’t tell if he’d hurt himself before I found him.”
He was on his feet before she had finished the sentence. “Which section of the hedge?”
“The east end. Near the third pot.”
He nodded, moved toward the door, and then stopped when he reached her.
They were both in the doorway and looked at her hands.
She only looked at him. It was then she could feel just how tall he was, at least six feet four inches of pure muscle, leaning down over her.
While Birchall’s presence made her feel trapped, his towering over her only made her feel safe, protected, and yearning for more.
She could almost feel the heat coming off of his skin, and a strong desire to lean into that warmth.
“Did he scratch you badly?”
“It was close.” She showed him the back of her hand, her mind coming back to the present moment. The red line was fading already, as was the bruise on her wrist. “He warned me first. Several times. Unfortunately, I have never had a cat of my own, so I am learning some of the particulars.”
“That is unfortunate. I have always found felines superior to canines.”
“I did not have a dog either. Maybe I did when I was with my parents, but that was so long ago. My cousin did not allow any furry creatures within the confines of his home. I suppose that is why I am so drawn to Percy.”
“He doesn’t let people near him.”
“Oh yes, I noticed.” She moved aside to let him pass. “He made his position very clear, but he needed me.”
He looked at her hand for a moment longer, his lip curled up. “Thank you,” he said. “For helping him.”
“Of course.” She paused. “He didn’t want it. But he needed it.”
The Duke was quiet for a beat. “He had a difficult start,” he said. “Before I found him. He has not entirely stopped expecting difficulty.”
“Oh,” Anna said. “I would imagine that takes time.” She looked at him steadily. “If it goes away at all.”
She watched the recognition move across his face.
“I was going to send for you this morning regardless,” he said, and turned back into the study, which was either a subject change or a retreat. Possibly both. “My attorney has replied. Sit down.”
She sat in the chair across from his desk. It was a good chair, the kind that suggested the study received occasional guests and he planned for their comfort.
The Duke settled back into his chair and picked up a letter.
“The grounds are more solid than I initially outlined,” he said, which she understood was his version of good news.
“No consummation, clearly. But the coercion component is, well… Barnes thinks it is substantial. The way the marriage was conducted, the license obtained without your knowledge, the absence of any reasonable notice, the methods used to bring you to the altar…” He glanced at her.
“And the methods used to keep you there.”
Anna nodded. “The bruises.”
“I saw them.” He said it directly, as he had before, and she appreciated the directness because it spared her from having to introduce the subject herself. “If there is any dispute on that point, I can testify to what I observed. Such testimony from a witness of standing would carry weight.”
“I see.” She looked down at her hands, now folded in her lap. “What do you need from me then, Your Grace?”
“A written statement. Your account of the wedding morning, everything. The discovery of the dress, how you were brought to the church, what happened there, what happened outside. In your own words, as detailed as you can manage.” He paused.
“Including how… physical Birchall became with you. I know that is not… I know it is not an easy account to write. But it needs to be in your words and no one else’s. ”
“I understand.” She was quiet for a moment. “I’ll write it.”
He looked at her. She was looking at the edge of his desk.
“Miss Cartwell.”
She looked up.
“The process is slow, and it requires paperwork and testimony and patience. I know that feels like very little to set against the situation. But what is being built here is real. Barnes knows what he is doing.” He held her gaze. “You are not helpless. You are… strong.”
The morning light came through the window behind him.
She looked at him across the desk, this man who had lied to her husband’s face and put his household on a carriage.
The man who meant every single word that came out of his mouth, that had delivered on every promise so far, and no doubt, on every promise he would ever make.
She breathed in once, carefully. “Thank you,” she said.
“There is a writing room two doors down,” he said, returning to the letter. “You can draft it there at whatever pace you need. My lawyer doesn’t require it immediately, but sooner is better.”
“I’ll start today.”
“Good.” He made a note on something. “There’s also the question of witnesses beyond my own testimony. Someone who can confirm you had no knowledge of the wedding beforehand. Your lady’s maid at Edgeware House, does she know what happened that morning?”
“Maura.” Anna frowned. “Yes. She was the one who woke me. She was given the dress to lay out the night before. She was…” She paused, remembering Maura’s face. The guilty apology in it. “She knew it was wrong. She was frightened.”
“Of your cousin?”
“He would have dismissed her without reference; I do not put it above him. He may have threatened worse.” She pressed her lips together. “I can’t ask her to testify. If he finds out…”
“I won’t contact her directly.” His pen had stilled on the page. “I’ll have someone approach her discreetly. Someone your cousin won’t connect to me or to you. We’ll establish whether she’s willing before we ask anything of her.”
“And if she isn’t?”
“Then we don’t use her. We find another way.” He looked up. “We have options, Miss Cartwell. We are not down to the last one yet.”
She nodded. And then, because it had been sitting with her since the previous day, she said, “And… Your Grace? I think… I think you should speak to Rachel.”
The quality of the room shifted slightly.
“Should I?” he asked.
“She is still upset. About yesterday.” Anna watched him. “She understood why you were angry, but she is not unreasonable. The way you spoke to her—”
“I said what was accurate.”
“You said what was accurate in a way that made her feel like a problem.” She kept her voice measured. “The same way you sometimes…” She stopped.
“The same way I sometimes what?”
She met his gaze, which only emboldened her, and brought heat to her belly she could not explain. “The same way you sometimes manage rather than speak,” she pressed.
He was quiet for a moment, and his eyes did not leave her. “I did not manage Rachel. I told her the truth.”
“You told her she was lucky rather than careful, and she was careful. She thought it through. The plan was not reckless, it was reasonable, and it worked.” Anna leaned forward slightly. “The issue is that you didn’t know about it, and that is a different problem than the one you described to her.”
“The issue,” the Duke said, his voice controlled, “is that Birchall is looking for you. That is not some hypothetical—”
“I know—”
“Any slip, any identification, any whisper that reaches the wrong ears before my attorney has filed—”
“I know—”
“—could undo everything. That is not managing. That is consequence.” His deep voice had not risen, not once.
Anna suspected it never rose. The slow, deep tones made his voice commanding in its own right.
But the weight of it had shifted, and they had both leaned forward across the desk without either of them noticing until they were already there.
Anna felt they were closer than the desk should have allowed, the geography of argument having its own logic and bringing them together.
“You are right about the consequence,” Anna said.
She was near enough now to see the faint line between his brows, the steadiness with which he held himself when he was working hardest at it.
She could also smell his same intoxicating scent, green pine and good soap.
“And you are wrong about your sister. Both things are true.”
The Duke said nothing.
“She loves you,” Anna said, more quietly. “And she doesn’t…she doesn’t always understand why you hold everything so tightly. She only knows that you do, and that sometimes it…” She searched for the word. “That it comes out sideways.”
He was very still. They were very close. Her heartbeat grew so strong she felt it pounding in her ears, a timpanist’s beat that punctuated a feeling she couldn’t name.
His gaze moved to her mouth, and she drew in a sharp breath.
Is he…?
It was brief, a fraction of a second, and then it moved back to her eyes immediately. It was with the speed of a man catching himself, but she had seen it. He gulped, and Anna could sense that he knew she had seen it.
“I should check on Rachel,” she said.
It came out steady, which she was grateful for.
“Go,” he responded, though his voice came out lower than ever before, huskier.
She was certain he hadn’t meant it to. She collected herself and walked to the door.
“Miss Cartwell.”
She stopped, her hand pressed on the door. She did not turn around.
“The writing room,” he said. “Two doors down on the left.”
“All right. Thank you, Your Grace,” she said, and left, and pulled the door closed behind her.
She stood in the corridor for a moment.
The house was very quiet, almost mocking.
Two doors down, the writing room waited with its blank paper and the account she needed to set down in her own words.
All of it was to be documented: the dress laid out at the end of the bed, Jonathan’s hand on her arm, the press of cold stone against her spine.
I will do what must be done.