Chapter 29
Silla opened the duchess’s door just a crack, peering out amid a glow from within.
“Master Nicholas?”
She didn’t open the door wider, but didn’t shut it in his face either. Her gaze flicked to Ambrose standing at his side, something of a brief gesture of recognition.
“I need to speak to you,” Nic said, voice low in the silent gallery.
“No, I have already said too much. And now His Grace is threatening—”
“I know, but I… I have a plan. Please. Let us in.”
Again, her gaze flicked to Ambrose, seeming to ask the question she could not voice, and at last the woman stepped back just enough to let them slip through the door.
The duchess’s sitting room was lit only by a dying fire and the branch of candles Silla carried with her, leaving the rest of the room a collection of shadows.
A brighter glow came from the bedchamber, along with a faint hum, always out of tune, that reminded Nic of what he was trying to save.
Whether or not she had really loosed an arrow at Master Everel or accidentally poisoned Millie Radlay, Nic found he didn’t care.
She deserved a better life than the one to which the duke had consigned her.
In the half-light, Silla raised her brows. “Well, Master Nicholas. What is this plan? Because if you think pleading with His Grace or trying to make a deal with him will work, I can assure you—”
“No. We’re getting out of here, Silla. All of us. Here.” Nic pressed an envelope into Silla’s hand. “This is all the money I’ve made selling my automata this last year. It’s no fortune, but it will get you and Mama safely away. There’s enough here to hire a chaise from Charlton and take—”
She pushed the envelope away like it had burned her. “No. I cannot do that to her. His Grace will come after us. He’s never let her get far and if she fails this time…”
The admission that this wouldn’t be the first time the duchess had tried to flee was only shocking for how unsurprising it was.
“I think this time he will have his hands full.” Nic held the envelope back out, hovering in the air between them.
“I’m going to break the contract, Silla.
I’m… the doctor has written me a death certificate.
Nicholas Monterris is going to die and I am going to be free, and my father is going to hate that far more. ”
Silla’s hand flew to her lips. “Oh, Master Nicholas, are you sure? That is no small step. And no matter what you do, you may still never escape him. Your mother hasn’t.”
“I have never been more sure of anything, so that is a risk I must take. Please, Silla, take the money. I cannot leave here without her.”
The maid took the envelope, something hesitant in the movement despite the light now burning in her eyes. “So long as you mean it.”
“I mean it. Pack lightly, only what you can carry on foot, and be ready to leave first thing in the morning. I’ll ask Master sa Vare to smith my certificate just before dawn.
That will break the lock-in so there are no alarms on the doors, and if you go early enough, no one will see you.
Hopefully you’ll have at least an hour before my father notices anything amiss with the contract papers—enough time to walk to Charlton and hire a chaise.
He’ll expect you to go to London or to the border, so go west instead.
To Carlisle. If you don’t feel safe enough there, leave a message for me at one of the inns so I can follow. ”
“Yes, Master Nicholas. I will. I will, thank you.”
From the dressing room, the sound of the duchess’s discordant humming continued unabated, a haunting call. “Should I talk to her?”
“No, I think it is best that she stays calm while I ready everything. You should go. In case… in case His Grace begins to suspect.”
“All right. Remember, just before dawn. Chaise from Charlton. Get to Carlisle and wait there. And if you can’t—”
“I know.”
“And if we become separated… I hope a letter addressed to Master sa Vare courtesy of the vowsmith’s guild will find me.”
Silla pressed out a wry smile. “I hope so too, Master Nicholas. Now go. Quick. I have much to do.”
She reached for the door to let them back out into the gallery, yet Nic paused on the threshold. “Did you know that Lord Francis is here? That he’s still alive?”
No flicker of surprise, only a grimace. “Not until a few days ago. He… he came to see Her Grace and I refused him.” A glance at Ambrose again, but she seemed to decide he was worth trusting.
“He wanted her to know he was alive, in case she felt responsible for his death. As though he hadn’t already chosen to abandon her long before— No.
She needs him in her life no more than she needs His Grace. ”
Silla pressed a hand to her lips. “And now I have said too much. Go, Master Nicholas.” With a wave of troubled hands, she urged them out. “And please take care,” she added in a whisper as she began closing the door behind them. “His Grace is not lightly crossed.”
With a fearful grimace, she closed the door, leaving Nic to worry just how much trouble he was courting.
But he could not let such worries pull him off course now, could only return back along the gallery with Ambrose at his side.
Despite everything the young valet had been a party to so far that evening, he remained silent.
“I ought to ask no more of you than I already have, Ambrose,” Nic said as they made their way through the Court’s dark hallways, their single candle holding back the night. “But I hope you will keep my secrets. At least long enough for us to get away.”
“If what you need is for me to feign ignorance, then I will do so, my lord.” The young man cleared his throat and flicked a sidelong glance Nic’s way. “I would, however, also come with you if… if you wished.”
Nic halted. “Ambrose…”
“Even if you do not wish for me, I think I will be moving on from here after… all of this.”
“If you mean it, then yes. I would be most grateful for the company. I don’t know whether Master sa Vare means to forgive me, nor how we will manage to get out of my father’s orbit, and I haven’t exactly travelled very widely, but—”
Ambrose set his hand on Nic’s shoulder. “One step at a time, my lord. I’d warrant Martin is already wondering what’s keeping us.”
Grateful for the steadying hand, Nic nodded. “Yes. Of course. Thank you.”
They kept walking, but despite Ambrose’s sensible advice, Nic’s nerves fluttered all the more sickeningly with every step.
Until then he’d been flying on the thrill of freedom and possibility, not daring to think how terribly it could all go wrong, or how bittersweet a freedom it would be without Dashiell.
As they made their way up the stairs, Nic tapped his pockets, a nervous check that he had everything he needed. “All right, what’s the plan?”
“It’s very simple, my lord,” Ambrose said. “I am to knock while Martin will be waiting to open the door. When he does, I will push you in, he will step out, and we’re done. You can then talk to Master sa Vare while we keep watch from the empty room across the hall.”
Nic grinned, half amusement, half nerves. “The look on his face is going to be priceless. God, I hope he doesn’t shred me for this.”
“I am… quietly confident.”
“Oh, you are, are you? I wish I was.”
They turned in to the second-floor hallway, and as Ambrose led the way, Nic realised he had no idea which room Dashiell had even been given. Dashiell had always come to him, and the idea of bursting into the vowsmith’s private space for the first time at such a moment made Nic’s stomach knot.
All too soon, Ambrose halted outside a door near the end of the guest room suites. The hallway was empty, yet Nic couldn’t but be aware that behind some of those doors, Serrals were finishing up their evenings or preparing for an early night.
“Are you ready?” Ambrose whispered, raising his hand to knock.
The answer was no, but Nic nodded. “Yes. Just do it.”
The valet knocked. A murmur sounded within. Followed by a step, and the door pulled open upon Martin’s familiar features. Nic caught the flash of an amused smile, before Ambrose shoved him in the back, sending Nic stumbling past the vowsmith’s valet and into the room.
Dashiell had been sitting at the writing desk, only to rise, quill still in hand, shock turning to fury as his valet stepped past Nic and out into the hallway.
“Martin!” Dashiell snapped at the already closing door. “You—” He dropped the quill, his glare slicing toward Nic. “Lord Monterris. I know this is your house and you may go wherever you like, but I would request you allow me the privacy of my room.”
“Dash…”
The nickname was like fuel thrown upon a fire and Dashiell’s features twisted. “You no longer have the right to use that name. I have done all you wished yet still you torture me. Please leave.”
Each step a hard snap of fury, the vowsmith strode for the door, and desperate not to lose his only chance so quickly, Nic stepped in front of it.
“I know I have no right to your name and even less right to beg that you listen,” Nic said, the door handle digging into his back as he stared down Dashiell’s ferocious glare. “But I am begging anyway. Please.”
Dashiell didn’t speak, but neither did he try to push Nic out of the way, and knowing it was the best he could hope for, Nic flew. He pulled the charmspun paper flower from his pocket and held it out.
“I lied to you,” he said, pressing it into Dashiell’s hand. “I found this waiting under my door that day.”
Dashiell’s eyes darted along the stem, his lips moving as he read the neatly penned threat. Between his brows, the knot of fury loosened a touch, softening into confusion. Into horror.
“?‘End it, or he will be next.’ Nic…” He looked up. “You should have told me.”