“It shall be done.”
Harris moved toward the door, but Alexander’s voice stopped him once more. “Harris.”
The valet turned.
“If anyone asks after me,” Alexander said, the words clipped, decisive, “I have gone to Cartwright’s on urgent business.”
A beat passed.
Then Harris inclined his head. “I understand.”
When the door shut behind him, Alexander stood alone for half a breath and hated it. Hated the room, hated the bed, hated the memory of waking in darkness with Diana nowhere near him.
He seized his riding crop from the chair and strode out.
By the time he descended the front steps into the cold gray of the waking day, the groom had already brought his horse round, the animal stamping and snorting pale clouds into the sharp air.
Alexander took the reins and swung into the saddle in one fluid movement. “If the Duchess asks after me,” he said to no one in particular and everyone within hearing, “she is to be told I shall return as soon as I am able.”
Then he dug in his heels and rode.
Alexander rode hard, cutting through the chilly morning streets, unable to bear a single wasted minute between knowledge and action. Yet even as he urged the horse onward, another thought kept pace with him, darker and less manageable than fury.
Alexander rode hard, cutting through the chilly morning streets, unable to bear a single wasted minute between knowledge and action. Yet even as he urged the horse onward, another thought kept pace with him—darker, colder, and disturbingly clear.
He wanted to take matters into his own hands. To put distance between them. To remove her from the danger by removing himself from her.
His jaw tightened.
That logic was clean, efficient, and cruel in its simplicity. And he knew, with equal certainty, what it had done to her.
The memory of her composure, of the quiet loneliness she wore like silk, struck harder than the blow to the head he could not fully recall. She would not see it as protection. To her, that was abandonment.
Alexander leaned forward in the saddle, his grip tightening on the reins.
He could not make her feel that again.
Cartwright’s house stood just beyond the edge of the square where several of Alexander’s most trusted retainers lived. It was a respectable residence, tidy and elegant. Alexander reined in so sharply before the front steps that the horse tossed its head in protest.
A servant opened the door almost before he struck the knocker.
“His Grace,” the man said, startled. “Mr. Cartwright is at breakfast, but?—”
“Interrupt him.”
The servant stepped aside at once.
Cartwright appeared in the morning room a moment later, napkin still in hand, his lined face sharpening with immediate concern as he took in Alexander’s expression.
“Your Grace,” he said. “What has happened?”
Alexander entered without preamble. “My memory is returning.”
Cartwright stilled. “Which memory?”
“The night I was struck.” Alexander yanked off his gloves and tossed them onto the sideboard with violence that made the silver rattle. “I almost remember who did it.”
Cartwright set the napkin down slowly. “Sit.”
