Truthfully, if they had run off with the box, he would not have bothered to pursue them nor report them. He simply could not bring himself to care.
He smiled bleakly, crouching to open the box. Inside the box were rows of glass vials, one missing, the rest stoppered with wax and labeled in a neat hand. A waxed package in a compartment next to the vials contained papers by the feel. Beneath it were smaller waxed packages, with the grainy feel of powder inside.
He lifted up one of the vials, peering at the label, the words blurring slightly in the dull light.Thornapple.His brow furrowed. He returned the vial to its place and reached for another. The same odd name greeted him.Belladonna.The word seemed distant, unreal, as if it belonged to another time or place.
He placed the vials back in the box, a sense of growing discomfort tugging at the edges of his awareness. His gaze fell on a folded slip of paper tucked beneath the vials, wax-sealed. Slowly, he opened it, his breath shallow as his eyes began to scan the paper.
Above, it was signedChristoper Harper. Below, it contained names. The names of Julian’s staff—Sylvian S. Crammond, Molly T. Peters, Mary J. Grypes. Lower still, Kingsley, Berkeley, Napier. Beside each, there read a few other words, except Napier and Berkeley’s, whose names were also marked with a cross.
Turning over the page, he found even more names.
The first read,Ester.Beside it,Monkshood.Tea.Instant.
His hand faltered for a second, his breath stuttering in his throat.Monkshood—the word sent a shiver down his spine. Where had he seen that before? The name rattled in his mind, just out of reach, like a shadow he couldn’t quite grasp.
“Monkshood. Monkshood.” He frowned, trying to place it. It tugged at him, something old and buried deep in his memory.
And then it hit him.
Suddenly, his heart stilled in his chest, the world tipping on its axis. His pulse thundered in his ears.Monkshood. He had seen that name before. A long, forgotten memory flashed in his mind—he was a boy, creeping through the halls late at night, drawn by the eerie wailing of his father on the night of his brother’s death. He had passed his father’s study and caught a glimpse of a vial on the floor.Monkshood. It was partially erased. He had misread it asMonkey. But now, standing here, that childish misunderstanding twisted into a dark, suffocating truth.Belladonna, Thornapple, Monkshood.These weren’t mere plants. They were toxins.
His brother hadn’t been a victim of the family curse.
He had been… poisoned.
The realization slammed into him like a fist to the gut, driving the air from his lungs. His knees weakened as a fresh wave of nausea crept up his throat. His father—had it been his father? Had the curse been nothing more than a smokescreen to cover up something far darker with the man? A man who despised his one son so much, he was willing to take the life of the other in cold blood? Or was it merely some kind of accident?
Julian now remembered Harper's claim to have been apprenticed to an apothecary. It all fit together now, like pieces of a dark puzzle snapping into place, tightening around Julian’s heart like a vice.
His blood ran cold. He gripped the paper so tightly his knuckles whitened. Monkshood. The same poison that had killed his brother.
No. No, no, no.
There was no curse. It was all a sick ruse started by his father and continued by none other than Harper.
And in each case, Julian knew with absolute certainty, the deaths would be blamed on his supposed ‘curse’. And with those deaths, he knew that his desire for isolation would have grown until he would have been unwilling to countenance human company of any kind. Except, perhaps, Harper. How much power would that have put into the manservant's hands? Julian knew that in such a state, blaming himself for the death of so many good people, he would have been unwilling to deal with any affairs of his estates or business interests. And if Harper was there, efficient and ready to assist, then Julian would have handed over everything to him. Harper would have become the de facto Duke, leaving the poor cursed wretch that was the real Duke lurking in the shadows.
Suddenly, a sickening realization swept over Julian. His eyes immediately began scanning each of the remaining vials in the box, his hands moving faster, more desperate.
He couldn’t find it.Monkshoodwasn’t there.
The missing vial.
Panic surged through him, sharp and wild. Where was it?
Julian dropped the box, his fingers trembling as he frantically searched the ground, his gaze darting across the stony shore, to the grass by the edge of the beach, to the stream that snaked into the sea. His mind raced. Harper. The name gnawed at his thoughts like a curse. Harper must have it. Harper is going to poison Ester.
A sudden flash of light caught his eye—the glint of something small, almost hidden among the reeds near the water’s edge. Julian fell to his knees and desperately scrambled toward it, his boots slipping on the slick stones. There, half-buried in the mud, was a vial. His heart stopped.
Monkshood.
It was empty. The poison was gone.
The bile that had threatened earlier now surged in full force. Harper—he must have it. He was going to administer it to Ester. Right now.
Julian’s entire body moved before his mind could catch up, surging to his feet with a force that felt almost beyond his control. His heart pounded in his chest, his breath ragged as he started to run, harder and harder toward the Morgan’s farm, with murder in his heart.
By the time he reached the farm, he spotted Harper strolling back down the track, a careless whistle escaping his lips.
