“If you dare target Evelina or her cousin Harriet, or as much as lay a finger on either of their loved ones, there is nothing onGod’s green earth that would hold me back from hunting you down and gutting you like a raw fish before all those blackguards and whores you entertain below,” Dorian muttered in warning.
“Stopped playing coy, have we?” Carrington sighed dryly, leaning into his chair and slinging an arm over the back of it. “About time.”
“I will find the betrayer,” Dorian snarled, “And when I do, and your and his crimes are uncovered, I will make sure you both have the hangman’s noose.”
Pure malice radiated from Carrington’s eyes as he met Dorian’s gaze. “Good luck with that.”
With his piece said, Dorian turned to the doorway, only for Sterling to throw at his back, “Oh, and do tell your pretty wife, there was no hunting party at Sir Alexander DuPont’s home. LordLettuceis an utter milksop. Was she mistaken by any chance?”
A ripple of cold ran up the back of Dorian’s neck. “She is a socialite. It’s possible she misremembered,” he murmured vaguely.
“Aye, but you’re not,” Sterling taunted him. “You do not have the flighty brain of a featherweight. I don’t know why you would spin a lie to me and not think I wouldn’t check. You’re playing a dangerous game, Beaumont, and you won’t win. Not on a board that I designed.”
With his back still turned to Carrington, Dorian gritted, “Not if I have rewritten the rules.”
With that, he stepped out of the room and headed back to his club, eager and ready to scrub away the slimy feeling that covered his skin.
The following midday, with Dorian not returning from the night before, Ellie was in her carriage, off to meet Missus Thorpe. She had to trust that Dorian must have had a good reason not to return that night. So instead, she decided to spend her day as Duchess of Wolfthorne—one of many days she hoped now—by finally taking up her duties for once.
The Thorpe residence, seated on plot C of Dorian’s tenant holdings, was one of at least three dozen cottages on the lands.
The bungalows had slate roofs instead of the older thatch, and wells every ten houses or so. Fresh coats of paint covered the doors and walls while new shutters covered the windows.
The tenants did their part, keeping upkeep on their properties' fronts, with cut grass and trimmed flower bushes. When the carriage stopped at Number Fourteen, the footman helped her down.
“I hope they like pie,” she murmured to herself, eyeing the exterior of the house. Faltering at the doorway, she beratedherself,of course, they like pie. Everyone likes pie. Stop being so damned nervous, Ellie. You are Duchess of Wolfthorne and could perhaps remain so forever if all goes well. Act like it for once!
Knocking on a cheerful, bright blue door, she stepped back, waiting for it to open. When it did, a short, older woman with neatly combed grey hair and bright brown eyes gazed up at her from under a pinned cap.
“May I help you, me lady?” she answered.
Ellie smiled warmly. “Missus Thorpe, I take it? I am Evelina Beaumont, the Duche—”
“Oh, bless me stars!” the woman gasped before dropping into a curtsey. “Good afternoon, Yer Grace. Please, come in!” She stepped aside, and Ellie entered the humble abode.
The cottage was clean and neat, with most of the main room split between the kitchen and the small sleeping quarters to the other side, separated by a small door. Above them was another small sleeping quarters in the attic.
“May I get ye somethin’, Yer Grace?” Missus Thorpe puttered around, stirring the stew on the wood stove. “Ye are beautiful. I’d hoped he’d find a lovely woman one day.”
“No, but thank you,” Ellie smiled gracefully while setting her basket on the small prep table, where diced onions and carrotswere waiting for the pot. “Though… thereissomething you could do for me.”
“Anything, anything at all,” the widow bobbed her head while wiping her hand on her apron. “How can I ‘elp?”
At that instant, her grandson ran in from the backyard, his pants covered in dirt, while holding his elbow. “Ma, I slipped playin’ wif Rolfie and fell.”
“Westley,” Missus Thorpe gasped, aghast. “Where are yer manners? Don’t ye see we ‘ave a lady present. His Grace’s wife.”
The boy pouted but bowed his head, “’Ullo, me lady.”
Missus Thorpe slapped her grandson upside his head. “Lord Almighty, what did I tell ye about proper titles?”
Wrinkling his nose, Westley added, “Er… Yer Grace.”
Amused, Ellie replied, “Yes, Westley. That’s right. How old are you?”
“Six, m’lady, er, Yer Grace.” He scuffled his foot.
“Let me see your elbow,” Ellie coaxed the boy gently. When he presented the skinned limb, she winced. “Oh, that must hurt. Do you have bandages and a salve, Missus Thorpe? I can—”
