Chapter 6 #3
She shifted slightly. "You are saying you had no motivation. Do you suspect who the father might have been?"
He shook his head. "None. But she had associations. Often with men of rank. Some whispered of a Marquess, others a Viscount. No proof either way."
"Volatile, they called her."
He nodded. "Much like myself. But we understood each other, oddly enough. She was more a confidante than a lover, especially near the end. Losing her hurt — because she was one of the few people who saw past the pageantry."
Elizabeth stilled. "I am sorry."
"Do not be. You asked, and I answered."
They held each other's gaze for a beat longer than necessary.
She cleared her throat. "The letter opener. It was found at the scene."
"I know," Damon said. "But I had not seen it in months. It was from my father's desk, not mine."
"And you did not carry it with you?"
"Why would I carry a letter opener to a party?" he said, with a brief flare of irritation.
"I am only confirming the facts. If you did not carry it, then someone else planted it."
"Exactly."
She noted it, underlined it, moved on.
They continued through the documents — the placement of Sarah's body, the absence of witnesses near the east balcony, the bruises on her arms that the prosecution had attributed to restraint but which no one had traced to a specific hand.
As she worked, Damon made tea without being asked.
He helped set the table when the dinner tray arrived, moving around the small room with the unhurried practicality of a man who had stopped waiting to be served.
Elizabeth had not intended to stay so long. But as the evening darkened the windowpanes, she remained.
There was something here — beneath the legalities. A story no report had told. And she was determined to uncover it.
◆◆◆
Damon found himself growing ever more fond of Elizabeth Whitaker, though the feeling came not with ease, but with quiet surprise. Their dynamic unsettled something in him—something unfamiliar.
Care.
Not in the performative sense he had mastered over years of drawing rooms and courtly charm—but in its truer form.
In doing things for another person without expectation or flourish.
All his life, Damon had been surrounded by servants, stewards, and secretaries, trained to anticipate his needs before he voiced them.
The duties of a Duke—when not ceremonial—were handled by others.
His role had been to host, to dazzle, to oversee.
But now, confined to a modest safe house and stripped of all pretense, he had become something altogether humbler: a man of limited means, offering his mind and hands to the only person still fighting in his corner.
Elizabeth came as often as she could—typically three times a week, sometimes more.
And each time, she arrived with purpose.
Papers, notes, theories. Questions sharper than razors.
Damon did what little he could: he made tea, fetched ink, supplied anecdotes, and answered her questions with all the candor he could manage.
Over the course of a week, he gave her everything he had—memories, observations, context. He spoke of Thomas Hensley, whose disdain had curdled into something near venom in recent years. Of things Thomas had said, casually cruel and always just beyond reach of proper accusation.
"Interesting" Elizabeth murmured as she scribbled in her notebook. "That gives us more work with. Do you recall where he was at the time of the incident? "
"No," Damon said. "Other than the fact he accused me afterward with such haste it bordered on the theatrical — I did not track his movements."
She glanced up. "Would you consider him a lead?"
He hesitated. "I do not wish to," he said finally. "But in times such as these, trust feels like a luxury I can no longer afford."
She nodded, noting something down. "Then he remains a person of interest. Anyone else come to mind?"
Damon was quiet for a moment. Then: "Many. And no one."
Elizabeth looked up from her notebook.
"I know who would want to see me off the pedestal," he said.
"I always have. I made it easy for them — I was careless with egos, reckless with the people who deserved more care from me.
I brought myself to this position as much as anyone pushed me.
" He paused. "But knowing who resents you and proving who destroyed you are two very different things.
All I can do now is believe that you will find the thread — and that when you do, we will make them answer for it. "
Elizabeth studied him for a moment, her pen still.
"It is a curious thing," she said, almost to herself. "There are two versions of you, Your Grace. One moment I see one man — and the next, someone close but different."
Damon smiled at that. "The speed with which you have formed that observation is impressive. Most people spend years in my company without seeing the whole picture. You would make an excellent judge."
The color rose in her cheeks without her permission. She looked down at her papers.
"Now that you mention speed," she began, and then stopped.
She had said it before she knew what she meant to follow with — the word had pulled the thought behind it, and the thought was the one she had been sitting with for days, and it came out with more feeling than precision.
"The speed of this case. That is what troubles me most. The speed of it all.
How quickly it was decided. How fast everything moved. That is—"
She stopped.
Damon said, quietly: "I know."
She looked at him. He was not filling the silence, not redirecting it. He was simply there, watching her with the patience of a man who had learned, somewhere in the last several months, that some things needed to run their course before they found their shape.
She straightened. Took a breath. Set her pen down and picked it up again.
"What I mean," she said, her voice returning to its proper register, "is that too much speed leaves traces.
A justice system that drags its feet for years does not move in three weeks without someone pushing it — and whoever pushed it pushed hard, and fast, and people who move that quickly leave things behind.
Evidence they did not have time to bury.
Witnesses they did not think to silence.
Gaps." She looked at him directly. "There will be gaps. There always are."
Damon exhaled slowly. "It reassures me to hear you say that. You have thought this through more carefully than I have. If I am being honest — more carefully than I believed anyone would."
"You are my case," she said simply. "It is my job to think it through."
"Is that all it is?"
She did not answer that. She picked up the next document.
"You are surprisingly cooperative," she said, with a note of challenge that pulled the conversation back onto ground she could navigate. "Most men in your position find interrogation beneath them."
"I am?"
"Yes. You listen, you do not interrupt, and you do not make a fuss when I ask for more detail."
"Men do that?"
"Far too often. I have had to battle for the smallest ounce of respect in this field. Most do not believe a woman ought to be reading law, let alone practicing it. But you — you seem to care more for truth than for pride. And I appreciate that."
Her tone had softened — only slightly, but enough for Damon to notice. It made something stir in him. Not triumph. Not flirtation. Something quieter. Graver.
"Then I am grateful," he said simply. "For your words. And your work."
She cleared her throat and straightened a stack of notes. “I plan to work late, if that is permissible.”
"Of course, " Damon said. " The accommodations are modest, but should you wish to rest, the bed is yours and I shall take the floor. "
Elizabeth quirked a brow. "Chivalrous. But unnecessary. I shall return home before that becomes a question. Uncle Charles would not take kindly to me remaining overnight, even for noble purposes. "
The way she said it—carefully, but not coldly—held weight. There were implications in her restraint. Damon merely nodded. “Naturally.”
"Now," she said, gathering the reports, "shall we return to the mess? "
He gestured toward the table. “By all means. Lead the charge.”
They worked through the evening with quiet efficiency.
The room filled with candlelight, parchment, and long moments of shared silence that felt companionable rather than strained.
When Elizabeth finally rose to leave, her movements were reluctant.
Her hand hovered a moment over her satchel, as though something tethered her to the room.
Damon walked her to the door. He did not say goodbye—only inclined his head with a solemnity that felt more intimate than it should have.
And for the briefest of moments, Elizabeth lingered in the doorway, as if she might say something else.
But she did not.
And then she was gone.