Lydia walked him to the gate, her hand still warm in his. The village was quiet around them, most households already asleep, but Frederick had the distinct feeling that eyes were watching from behind darkened windows.
"I should go," he said, though every fibre of his being wanted to stay.
"You should." But she didn't let go of his hand.
"I shall come back tomorrow. If that's acceptable."
"It's more than acceptable." She rose on her toes and kissed his cheek; a soft, brief touch that somehow felt more intimate than the kiss in the garden. "Goodnight, Frederick."
"Goodnight, Lydia."
He made himself let go of her hand; he made himself walk away, and he did not look back, because he knew that if he looked back, he would never leave.
It was a feeling he would remember later, when everything fell apart.
***
The walk home was colder than the walk there, but Frederick barely noticed. His mind was too full of Lydia.
He had just passed the old oak tree at the edge of the village when he saw the lights.
The manor was ablaze with them; every window on the ground floor lit up, as if for a gathering or a crisis. That was wrong. He hadn't ordered any lights. Mrs Patterson, his housekeeper, was frugal to a fault; she would never waste candles on empty rooms.
Something was happening.
He walked faster, his boots crunching on the gravel drive. As he got closer, he could see movement in the windows; figures passing back and forth, servants bustling with unusual urgency. And there, in front of the main entrance, a carriage.
Not his carriage. This one was smaller, more elegant, with a crest on the door that he recognised even in the dim light.
His aunt's crest.
Lady Helena Blackmore was here.
Frederick felt his stomach drop. His aunt never visited without warning. Never travelled this far from London without a pressing reason. For her to be here, now, on this night of all nights...
She knew. Somehow, she knew.
He broke into a run, his earlier peace shattered, his heart pounding with a fear he couldn't quite name. Because he knew, with sudden, terrible certainty, that whatever was waiting for him inside that house was going to change everything.
And he was not wrong.
The front door opened before he reached it, and Boggins appeared, his face carefully blank in the way that meant something was very wrong.
"Your Grace. Lady Blackmore arrived approximately two hours ago. She has been waiting in the drawing room. I offered to send word, but she insisted on waiting for your return."
"Did she say why she's here?"
"She did not, Your Grace. But I believe I can infer."
"As can I."
Frederick took a breath, straightened his spine and reminded himself that he was not the frightened boy who used to hide from his father's disapproval. He was the Duke of Corvenwell, who answered to no one.
Except, of course, he did. They all answered to someone, in the end.
Chapter 13
Lady Helena Blackmore was sixty-three years old, and she carried every one of those years like armour. Her silver hair was swept up in an elaborate style that had been fashionable thirty years ago and remained fashionable now through sheer force of will. Her dress was severe—black silk, high-necked, unadorned except for a single strand of pearls that had belonged to her mother, and her mother's mother before that.
