Chapter 20 #2
Yet now even the certainty he’d thought he had was being torn away.
Triggering the Requisite Care Clause would bring a contingent of royal guards and vowsmiths from London, leaving only the time it took them to arrive in which to complete the contract.
That meant five days, six at most. Completion might be possible in that time, but the circumstances of the clause being triggered would have to be investigated, filling the house with the king’s men only for the requested audit to bring still more.
Lord Charborough swallowed hard. “Ricard…”
“Don’t you dare Ricard me,” he hissed, stepping close to grip his brother’s chin. “I am your family, Charles. If you wanted him to be your family, you should have married him when you had the chance and left me the damned title.”
For long, aching seconds they stared at one another, until Lord Charborough looked away. “All right.” His voice sounded hoarse and he yanked free of Ricard’s grip with a bitter glare. “Master sa Vare. Invoke the Requisite Care Clause in my name.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
Hateful in triumph, Lord Ricard spun upon the duke. “Question your servants if you wish, Val, but you are done. Done, you hear me?”
When Nic’s father made neither sound nor movement, Ricard snorted.
“Coward.” He turned back to Millie then, some of the anger sliding from his face.
For a moment he closed his eyes, as though being unable to see her would make her loss untrue.
He drew a deep breath. “I will carry Millie back to her room now.”
“If I might suggest the crypt, my lord,” Dr. Fanshaw said from his retreat by the door. “The cold—”
“Shut up.”
The doctor’s jaw snapped shut, and as one they all watched as Lord Ricard bent to gather the still form of his daughter into his arms, exactly as he might once have done when she’d been a child suddenly made bereft of her mother.
When he reached the door, Lord Charborough opened it for him in silence, and equally without sound stood aside to let him pass. Dr. Fanshaw followed.
“We shall see her comfortably settled,” Lord Charborough said to no one in particular, and himself stepped out in their wake.
The door closed with a resolute click.
With the three men gone, bearing their precious burden, air slowly returned to the room—tense and bitter though it was.
“I shall certainly question the servants,” the duke murmured, dropping onto the sofa beside his wife with a display of exhausted ease that attempted to elide his earlier terror. “We ought to be thankful that no one else appears unwell.”
Beside him, the duchess sat glassy-eyed, staring at nothing, her hands caught tightly together in her lap. That she was still present despite the noise and horror shocked Nic, a glance around the room discovering no sign of Silla.
“Yes, but we ought to tip out our cups all the same,” Leaf said, wrapping her arm around Lady Lisbeth’s sagging shoulders. “And the tea tray should be removed.”
Whether or not it had been her intention, Leaf’s words drew all eyes to the tray still sitting in front of the duchess, and from there to the silent duchess herself.
With a sniff, Lady Theresa said, “Does anyone recall whether dear Millie picked up her own cup or had one handed to her?”
When no one answered, Lady Theresa turned her gaze to the duchess. “Your Grace, perhaps you recall. Since you poured the tea.”
The duchess’s hands tightened in her lap but she didn’t look up. Nic’s heartbeat sped as fresh worries churned his stomach, yet at her side, the duke said nothing.
“Your Grace?” Lady Theresa repeated, regaining some of her hauteur.
When his mother flinched, Nic stepped forward. “As you were yourself the one handing out the cups my mother poured, Lady Theresa, we could as well ask you the same question.”
“Are you suggesting that I had something to do with this, Lord Monterris?”
“Not at all. Merely pointing out that you had as much opportunity and far greater motive.”
“How dare you say such a thing to me, you impoverished—”
“Aunt!” Leaf stormed across the room. “You will not abuse Lord Monterris in my hearing, especially when he is right. You have been ghastly to Millie since we arrived, and now this!” Her voice broke on a sob and she turned her face away, features screwed up as she sought to keep tears from flowing.
“Before anything else happens, Lizzy and I are going upstairs. Good night, Aunt. Your Grace.”
Having gathered Lady Lisbeth within the circle of her arm, Leaf paused only to grip Nic’s hand in farewell before sweeping out upon swallowed sobs.
Thus abandoned, Lady Theresa lifted her chin and looked about the scattered remains of the scene, at the empty space where the members of her family had stood. “I will also bid you good night, gentlemen. Your Grace.”
In the wake of her departure, only Nic and Dashiell remained with the duke and duchess. Still seated on the sofa, the duchess’s hands clenched and unclenched in her lap, while her angry gaze darted about the room as though at shadows.
The vowsmith rose, clearing his throat. “I ought to depart too, as I must attend to that clause. It is, of course, my duty to do as my employer requests, but I would like you to know that it is a duty I will perform with great regret, Your Grace.”
A small, wry smile twitched the duke’s lips.
“You were the best apprentice I ever had, Master sa Vare. I would expect nothing less from you than precision and diligence. Perhaps you could do me a small favour, however. You may feel it is overcautious of me, but I would be grateful if you would first walk with Nicholas to ensure he makes it safely back to his rooms.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Dashiell bowed. “And in the circumstances, I cannot deem anything overcautious.”
Caught between the desire to escape and to remain with his mother in Silla’s absence, Nic awaited some explanation, some sense that his father understood the duchess was in a dark place. None came. The duke just met his questioning stare with raised brows.
Dashiell touched Nic’s elbow. “Shall we?”
Nic couldn’t outstare those dark glasses. That impassive face. He glanced at his mother, at her visceral anger, and looked away.
I am but a prisoner. When you own me, will you set me free?
Nic nodded. “Indeed, Master sa Vare, I shall not keep you longer.”
Skin prickling under his father’s watchful gaze, Nic walked with Dashiell to the door, but escaping into the hallway beyond did nothing to ease the tension in his every muscle.
“Are you all right?” Dashiell whispered as they started along the passage, Nic hardly heeding his surroundings for the haze in which he walked.
“Fine,” came the automatic reply, an instant before a scream roared in their wake.
A scream of fury, of hate, of pain like Nic had never known, followed by a crash of glass.
They both froze, yet it seemed Dashiell understood more than Nic had thought, for he didn’t sprint back, just stood watching him.
The silent question in his gaze dug deep as the next primal scream cut into Nic’s soul.
“Wait here.”
Nic hurried back to find the drawing room door firmly shut, the shouts that were emanating through the inlaid wood all his mother’s. Another crash of glass or ceramic or crystal, but no sound of a second voice, no gentle hush or murmur the way Silla would have spoken to her.
Nic knocked, more from habit than necessity, before turning the handle. Hardly had the door begun to open than it stopped, hitting a foot. The duke’s foot. His father stared out through the crack, scarred eyes appearing over the top of his dark glasses.
“I can help,” Nic said.
For a long moment the duke looked at him while taut screams of rage whirled. “Go to bed, Nicholas. I will take care of this.”
“No. Mama?” Nic shoved the door so hard that the duke flinched back, letting Nic push through into the room. “Mama.”
The duchess stood seething, shards of broken teacups and vases littering the floor around her. She had pulled the pins from her hair and let it tumble loose in a wild nest, and tore at the tresses as she let out another scream that seemed to be wrenched from her very soul.
“Mama.” Nic gripped her shoulders. “Mama, it’s me.”
She tensed. Silent. He tightened his hold and held her troubled gaze. “Mama, I’m here for you.”
“Here for me?” She raised her hand as though she would hit him, would claw at his face, but Nic refused to flinch and she froze, fingers flexing. “Nicholas?”
“Yes, I’m here. I can stay with you. Or I can take you to Silla. Just tell me what you need.”
The hand that almost struck him slid down his cheek, not a soft caress but the hard rub of her palm as though she’d forgotten how to touch. “Will you set me free?”
“I will, Mama, I will. You have my word.”
Some of her fury dissolved upon a sob and she threw her arms around him, not a hug, rather the desperate clutch of a woman clinging on for survival.
He held her there, letting her cry upon his shoulder, increasingly aware of the silence behind him.
Nic didn’t turn, didn’t so much as glance back, keeping his attention for his mother alone.
After a few long minutes, she whispered, “Silla. I want Silla.”
“All right. I’ll take you.”
He slid his arm around her and she dropped her head onto his shoulder as they turned toward the door. There the duke stood stiff, watching them approach.
“You do not know what you are promising, Nicholas,” he said. “To be a duke takes sacrifice and duty.”
“And cruelty?”
His father looked away. “You have no idea what it means to lead a family.”
“Well, if this is what it looks like, I hope I never do.”
Awaiting no reply, Nic strode past him, helping his mother out into the shadowy hallway.
A little way along, Dashiell remained where he’d been left, holding a candle like a beacon.
Wordlessly, the vowsmith waited for them to join him, before he led the way through the house toward the duchess’s rooms.