Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
Damien urged his stallion through the London streets at a punishing pace. The folded letter remained tucked inside his coat, its contents repeating through his mind with relentless urgency.
Lord Pemberley has been located. He is being held at the Red Door Tavern. Come at once.
At the time, the message had seemed like the answer to every prayer he had uttered over the past miserable days. Gantry had found the man at last. Damien had wasted no time asking questions. He had simply ridden.
The horse thundered around the final corner before the Red Door Tavern came into view.
It was an ageing coaching inn tucked between a cooper's workshop and a warehouse near the river, its faded crimson sign swaying lazily in the afternoon breeze.
Damien swung from the saddle before the stable boy could approach and tossed the reins into the lad's startled hands.
Without breaking stride, he strode towards the entrance, every muscle in his body coiled for violence.
If Lord Augustus Pemberley were inside, the man would not be leaving under his own power.
The tavern door burst inward beneath Damien's hand with enough force to strike the wall.
Conversation ceased immediately. Tankards paused halfway to mouths.
Cards were forgotten on tables. Every pair of eyes turned towards the imposing Duke standing in the doorway, his dark riding cloak billowing behind him like a storm cloud.
Damien ignored the curious stares entirely.
His gaze swept across the smoky room with military precision, searching every corner for the familiar face he had imagined confronting a hundred times.
Instead, he found only merchants, drovers, sailors, and weary travelers enjoying their ale.
A bald, broad-shouldered innkeeper emerged from behind the counter, hastily wiping his hands upon an apron that had seen far better days.
His round face carried equal measures of curiosity and apprehension as Damien approached.
The room remained unnaturally silent behind them.
Few expected a duke to appear in such an establishment, much less one who looked as though he intended to throttle somebody before supper.
"I am the Duke of Wexford," Damien said, his voice clipped as he stopped before the counter. "I believe I am expected."
The innkeeper blinked twice. "Expected, Your Grace?
" he repeated uncertainly, exchanging a puzzled glance with one of the serving maids polishing glasses nearby.
"Forgive me, but... I was not informed of your arrival.
" He scratched the back of his head awkwardly before offering an apologetic smile.
"Perhaps there has been some misunderstanding. "
Damien frowned. "Is there not a man being held here for me?" he asked, leaning one gloved hand upon the worn timber counter. "A gentleman by the name of Pemberley…or perhaps Bowditch."
The innkeeper's eyes widened. "Held?" he echoed. "Good heavens, no." He looked towards the maid again. "Martha," he called. "Have you heard of any gentleman being held upstairs?"
The maid looked thoroughly bewildered.
"No, Mr. Henrich," she answered, shaking her head. "Nothing of the sort."
Henrich turned back towards Damien, now appearing genuinely concerned.
"If it eases Your Grace's mind," he said carefully, "I'll search every upstairs room myself." He gestured towards the staircase. "Perhaps someone has taken a chamber under another name."
"Do so," Damien replied curtly.
Henrich hurried upstairs with surprising speed for a man of his generous proportions, while Damien remained standing in the center of the common room.
The patrons gradually resumed their conversations in hushed whispers, though many continued stealing curious glances in his direction. Damien scarcely noticed them.
Something feels... wrong. Gantry is nowhere to be seen. If Pemberley has truly been captured, the investigator would have waited personally.
Minutes crawled by. Henrich returned alone. "I'm terribly sorry, Your Grace," he said, breathing heavily after climbing the stairs. "Every room has been checked. No gentleman by that name is here."
Silence settled between them. Damien slowly reached into his coat and withdrew the folded letter.
His green eyes traveled across the hurried handwriting once more.
Then, for the first time since receiving it, he studied the paper itself rather than merely its contents. There was no wax seal. No signature.
Nothing. His stomach tightened. He had never noticed.
How did I not notice?
Without another word, Damien folded the paper again and strode back outside.
The afternoon sun struck his face as he descended the tavern steps.
He stood perfectly still, his mind working furiously through possibilities.
Gantry would never have sent an unsigned message.
Never. The man was cautious to the point of obsession. Every report bore his mark.
A movement near the stables caught Damien's attention. Someone ducked behind a stack of hay. His eyes narrowed.
In two long strides he crossed the yard.
The hidden figure attempted to flee, but Damien caught the young man's collar before he had taken three steps.
He hauled him upright with effortless strength.
The lad could not have been older than seventeen, dressed in patched breeches and a worn linen shirt.
Terror flooded the boy's face as his boots barely touched the ground.
"P-please, sir!"
Damien released him just enough for the boy to stand.
"Who are you?" Damien demanded, his voice dangerously quiet.
The youth trembled so violently that his teeth chattered.
"My name's Thomas, Your Grace," he stammered, wringing his cap between shaking hands. "I'm... I'm only a farm lad."
Damien held up the letter. "You're the messenger that delivered this to me."
"Y-yes, Your Grace," he stammered.
"Who gave it to you?" Damien demanded.
Thomas swallowed hard. "I don't know his name."
Damien took one deliberate step closer. "Describe him."
The boy squeezed his eyes shut as though trying desperately to remember.
"He was well dressed," he whispered. "Like yourself, Your Grace. Fine coat. Gloves. Proper gentleman." He shook his head helplessly. "I'd never seen him before."
"Did he say anything?" Damien asked.
"He only said if I gave the letter to the Duke of Wexford exactly as instructed, I'd earn a sovereign."
Damien's jaw clenched. "Did he ride away?"
"Yes, sir."
"Which direction?"
Thomas pointed vaguely towards the western streets. "I wasn't paying much attention."
Damien studied the terrified youth for another moment. Every instinct told him the boy spoke the truth. He was frightened, unsophisticated, and completely out of his depth.
"This was not your doing," Damien said at last.
Thomas blinked.
"Go home."
The lad needed no second invitation. He practically sprinted across the yard before disappearing around the corner.
Damien remained motionless. The letter crackled softly within his fist.
Why? Why send me here? What purpose does it serve?
His thoughts raced with frightening speed. Someone had wanted him away from Wexford Manor.
Away...
His eyes widened.
Seraphine.
The blood drained from his face.
"God help me," he muttered hoarsely.
This had never been about Lord Pemberley being captured.
I did exactly what my enemy wanted.
He had abandoned Seraphine.
A vicious curse escaped beneath his breath.
Fury unlike anything he had ever known surged through him, not at Lord Pemberley, but at himself.
He, who prided himself upon seeing three moves ahead, had ridden straight into an obvious trap.
He had left the woman he loved defenseless because he had allowed hope to cloud his judgement.
"Idiot," he growled through clenched teeth. "Blasted fool."
He wheeled around and ran for his horse. The stable boy barely had time to release the reins before Damien vaulted into the saddle. Digging his heels into the stallion's flanks, he sent the powerful animal surging into a gallop.
The streets of London blurred past. Pedestrians shouted. Carriages swerved. None of it mattered. One thought echoed relentlessly inside his mind.
Please let me not be too late.
Seraphine sat opposite Rosaline as the carriage rolled steadily along the post road, the rhythmic clatter of the wheels doing little to soothe the heaviness in her heart.
The countryside drifted past beyond the window in shades of green and gold, yet she scarcely noticed it.
Every mile carried her farther from Wexford Manor and farther from the husband she loved.
She rested her gloved hands in her lap, twisting her handkerchief without realizing it.
She had imagined marriage would mean finding a home.
Instead, I have lost one.
Rosaline sat with little Annie on her lap.
“Laurent sent word this morning,” she explained gently.
“He was called away on estate business and asked that we meet him at the King's Stag Inn just beyond London.” She smiled encouragingly.
“It happens to be the coaching stop where we must change horses regardless, so the delay is not terribly inconvenient.” Her tone remained cheerful, clearly hoping to distract Seraphine from her melancholy.
Seraphine managed a faint smile that lasted only a heartbeat. “I understand,” she replied softly, lowering her gaze. “Estate matters seldom wait for convenient moments.”
Her thoughts drifted inevitably back to Damien.
Has he already returned from his mysterious errand? Has he noticed I have gone? Or has he merely accepted my departure with the same calm resignation he had shown in the foyer?
The questions chased one another relentlessly until her chest ached with them.