“Keep the horses walking,” she said, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt. “I won’t be long.”
“Excuse my forwardness, Your Grace,” Hawkins said, his sharp blue eyes fixed on her face. She’d only known him a few short months, but he had already shown himself to view her with fatherly affection. “But might I suggest you don’t walk alone at this time of day. I could accompany you.”
She gave him a smile she didn’t feel. “But then who would care for the horses? They’re His Grace’s greys, you know.”
“I suspect His Grace would rather harm came to his horses than Your Grace.”
“I won’t be long,” Theo repeated, with a little more force. Reluctantly, Hawkins fell back, and Theo walked briskly to the gates. A few businessmen passed her, tradespeople and lawyers, perhaps, dressed smartly in black. Some gave her questioning looks—it was not usual for a lady of Quality to be walking alone at this hour—but none so much as stopped to see her.
She glanced back at the carriage, reassured to find it precisely where she left it, Hawkins standing at the bridle and watching her with uncompromising focus. Relieved, she gave him a little wave and walked through the gates into Hyde Park.
Dew clung to each blade of grass and vibrant leaf; if she had been on any other errand, she might have been tempted to linger and appreciate their beauty. But before she could do more than cast a quick glance around, a voice caught her attention.
“Duchess,” he said, a note of surprise in his tone. “You came.”
Dismay and fear flooded through her in equal measure as she turned and looked at the man she had barely allowed herself to suspect. “So it was you,” she said flatly. “You sent me that letter.”
With a sardonic twist of his lips, Sir Montague took her hand before she could twist it away. “How quickly you perceive the situation, little mouse.”
“You know something about Nathanial?” She looked up into his face and the twisted smile that was still on his lips. Her fear overpowered her dismay, and she took a steadying breath. “What do you know?”
“Do you trust me?” he asked, dark eyes hooded.
If she could have done, she would have pulled away. Instead, caught like a fish on a hook, she stared up at him. “Trust you?” she whispered. “Why would you ask me that?”
“Because,” he murmured, bending down until his face was altogether too close to hers, “it changes how I approach this. Do you trust me, Duchess? Theo.” He said her name softly, but there was a curl of menace behind his words that made her heart pound.
No, she didn’t trust him. Nathanial did not, which would have been enough by itself now, but Sir Montague had lured her here.
He had still not let go of her hand.
“Release me,” she said, her voice breathless and too quiet. Panic swarmed up her tight throat. “Release me or I shall scream.”
He sighed. “It would have been easier if you had trusted me.” His fingers wrapped around her other elbow. “I’m sorry, Theo.”
She didn’t even have time to speak before he clamped his hand over her mouth and dragged her roughly off her feet. Her screaming was muffled, lost beneath his rough palm, and for a second, as panic took hold, she couldn’t breathe.
Every part of her was cold. He was going to take her somewhere quiet and end her life once and for all. Nathanial had been wrong, after all—Sir Montague had been the man behind her poisoning. He, for an inexplicable reason she did not yet understand, wanted her dead.
And he was going to succeed.
Belatedly, she remembered the knife in her reticule. With her free hand, she stuck her hand into the small bag, Sir Montague’s palm muffling her cry as the blade cut her fingers. Trembling, terrified, determination hot amidst the coldness in her chest, she fumbled for the hilt, drew it out, and plunged it into his leg.
Chapter Thirty
Theo was gone when Nathanial woke.
He lay alone for a few moments, accustoming himself to being in her bedroom. It was a nicely proportioned room, and he had spent enough time in it while Theo had been recovering that it felt familiar, but there was something different about it in the silence. There was no gentle warmth from her body, no tongue-in-cheek comments about his sleeping habits—he had several, it seemed, that amused her—and no concern for his wellbeing.
He missed the sound of her breathing, which was such a ludicrous thing to miss that he sat up, ignoring the twinge from his chest, and swung his feet out of bed, shuffling through to his dressing room and calling for his valet. Theo had said something about anticipating being back for lunch, which really wasn’t too far away. It was ten o’clock now, and he wouldn’t even think about worrying until it was twelve, at least.
Of course, the letter hadn’t been from her family. Her sister didn’t have the power to send such a flush into her cheeks, andhe doubted she’d have been so eager to visit her family so early for a mere cold.
No, it was almost certainly someone else she was meeting. A friend or worse. Sir Montague, perhaps—
No. After everything he had told her about his cousin, he doubted she would hurry to meet him. Likely, it was another gentleman she had formed a fancy for.
But he was her husband, not her keeper, and if the thought of her meeting another man made him want to smash something, well, he would merely curb it before she returned.
