The Duke of Longleigh was a powerful man, and he had used his wealth and his influence to make certain Adrian was silenced. And he’d had time—so much time and soul-killing silence—to ponder everything that had happened. The truth was undeniable.
Tilly had changed her mind.
She had betrayed him.
Perhaps she had discovered his lies and sought vengeance. Mayhap the notion of running away with a penniless man had proven too much for her. Had it been greed? The fear of leaving her lavish life as a duchess for the unknown awaiting them in America?
Still, there was the small sliver of doubt.
“What if she did not know?” Northwich asked.
It was not a question Adrian wanted to consider.
“She never searched for me. If she had tried, she would have known where I was. She would have found me just as you did.”
“Yet you had given her a false name. What if she was searching for Robin Carstairs instead of Adrian Hastings?”
He had asked himself that. Yes, indeed. Many times. Over and over. Until he had all but given in to the madness threatening to claim him.
“She is guilty.” His mind was firm.
There was no other way to explain what had happened that day. No way to explain all that had come afterward.
“And yet, you wish to marry her.”
Adrian dragged his eyes to the window of the carriage, staring out into the inky murk of the darkness, interrupted only by the intermittent glow of street lamps. “I want my son. Marrying her is the only way. I will not rest until I am assured he will never be kept from me.”
But he had not told her that yet.
Tonight’s battle had been fought. The war, however, had only just begun.
He had lost one child, and Adrian would be damned if he had survived the torment of what had happened to him, just to be denied all rights to his only living son.
The carriage rattled on, into the night.
Chapter 11
Dunsworth is a model prison. Their separate system is one which truly is commendable for the manner in which its convicts are reformed.
~letter from the Duke of Longleigh to The Honorable Mr. George Shaw
He was walking. Always walking. Walking until his feet and his knees ached, until the panel ahead of him swirled. Until his heels blistered. And still, the treadwheel churned, propelled by forced labor. The chute was closing in on him. Walls growing tighter and tighter, trapping him. Until they collapsed entirely.
Crushing him.
And he was falling backward, hearing the crunch of the bones in his ankle. Feeling the pain radiating up his leg. His breath froze in his chest. His lungs would not function.
Air, he needed air.
He dragged himself on his forearms along the dirt-encrusted floor, trying to escape.
An officer’s booted foot slammed on his fingers…
Adrian sat up in bed, a scream roaring from him. The darkness of the night did nothing to calm him. He was covered in sweat, his heart pounding. With shaking hands, he patted the mattress, the bedclothes, the pillow: proof he was not back there in that crowded dormitory. Proof that he was free. A guest in the Duke of Northwich’s sumptuous townhome. Surrounded by opulence rather than oppression.
He dragged in a deep breath, willing himself to calm.
The nightmares were the most brutal.
