Their moment together had passed, and now they had more important things to accomplish.
The door swung open before he could knock, and a nervous-looking servant stood there, wide-eyed and pale.
“Where is she?” His tone made it clear that he meant business.
“Y-Your Grace,” the servant stammered out, stepping aside hastily. “Her Grace is in the drawing room.”
Christopher didn’t bother with a response. He brushed past the servant and made his way through the dimly lit corridors, his footsteps echoing in the silence.
Frances trailed behind him somewhere. He would have waited for her if the task was not so urgent.
He pushed open the door to the drawing room with a force that sent it crashing against the wall.
The Dowager Duchess was sitting calmly by the fireplace, a delicate porcelain teacup in her hand. She looked up with a composed smile that only served to infuriate him further.
“Christopher,” she greeted, her tone infuriatingly serene. “What brings you here at this hour? I thought you had promised me that you would never show your face here again.”
Christopher took a step forward, his fists clenched at his sides. “Where are they?” he demanded, his voice low and dangerous. “Where are my nephews?”
Teresa’s smile never wavered, though a flicker of something—perhaps surprise—crossed her eyes.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replied smoothly. “You seem upset. Perhaps we should discuss this calmly.”
“Calmly?” Christopher’s voice rose. “You took them! You had them kidnapped, and you planned to send them away to an orphanage. Don’t lie to me, Mother. Sally told us everything.”
Teresa’s expression hardened, her mask of composure slipping slightly.
“Sally?” she repeated, her voice cold. “So she’s turned on me, has she? That ungrateful wench. She owes me whatever she has.”
Christopher resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
How typical of his mother. She always thought that she could buy loyalty and her way into people’s hearts. She had never had someone be sincere to her.
Christopher stepped closer to her, his eyes dark with rage. “Tell me where they are,” he demanded again, his voice trembling with the effort to keep his composure. “Or I swear I’ll—” He broke off, reaching into his coat pocket to pull out his pistol, his hand steady but his eyes filled with fury. “You will tell me where they are, or else you’ll regret it.”
Teresa’s eyes widened for a moment, then narrowed as she regained her composure. “You’re just like your father,” she spat, her voice dripping with contempt. “Always so dramatic, so ready to resort to violence.”
Christopher’s grip tightened on the pistol, his knuckles turning white. “Don’t you dare compare me to him,” he growled. “You’ve done enough damage to this family. Now, where are the boys?”
“Do you really expect me to believe that you are capable of using…” Her eyes flicked to the pistol, fear flashing in them. “That?”
Christopher raised the pistol even higher. “Do not test me. For my nephews and to avenge Peter, I will do anything I need.”
“I am your mother.”
“You lost the right to call yourself that a long time ago. As far as I am concerned, you are no less than a stranger at best and an enemy at worst.”
She reeled back at his words. He had never before been so crass with her, as he had held back due to some misplaced notion of respect.
Not anymore. She had crossed all lines. Why should he care about how she feels in the slightest?
Teresa stood up slowly, her eyes flashing with disdain. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you? But you’re just a fool, like Peter. Always making decisions with your heart instead of your head.”
Christopher’s face twisted with rage. “You… you’re responsible for his death, aren’t you? The accident that killed Peter and Lydia—it wasn’t an accident at all.”
She fell silent, and he took it as an opportunity to double down.
“Sally, your trusted confidante, told us everything. I pity you, actually. No one has stood beside you. Must be a miserable existence, living alone like this.”
