“I’m sorry,” he whispered into her hair, his voice finally reclaiming its warmth. “I was lost in the dark, Diana. But you found me. You always find me.”
She closed her eyes, pressing her face into his chest, finally feeling the security she had craved. The man who had abandoned her no longer existed; the man holding her now was the only one who mattered.
CHAPTER 22
“Your Grace? Have I chosen an unfortunate morning to call?”
Alexander did not turn at once, though the dry amusement in Mr. Hargreaves’ voice cut cleanly through the restless thrum in his mind, and for a moment he merely stood with his hands clasped behind his back, staring out over the pale stretch of the garden as if the winter light might offer him order, or at the very least silence.
The memories were returning in fragments—sharp, disjointed impressions that settled uneasily beneath his skin, each one carrying the distinct, unsettling sense of belonging to a man he did not fully recognize.
A colder man. A harder one. And yet, with each passing day, it became increasingly difficult to tell where that man ended and he began.
“Please, report,” Alexander said shortly.
Hargreaves inclined his head, unruffled. “I have begun inquiries as you requested. Discreet ones. There are always those who resent a man in your position, but thus far nothing presents itself as immediate or… personal.”
Alexander’s jaw tightened, the word lingering in the air between them with more weight than it ought to have carried.
“Not immediate,” he repeated. “And yet I was struck down in an alley like a common debtor.”
“Yes,” Hargreaves said quietly, watching him with that same careful sharpness that missed very little. “Which suggests desperation.”
Alexander’s fingers flexed behind his back.
The word settled deep, stirring something that had been scratching at the edges of his mind for days now, like a shadow that remained just beyond reach no matter how he turned toward it.
He moved to the desk, more to ground himself than out of any real need, and poured a measure of brandy though it was scarcely past morning, then set the decanter down with more force than necessary.
“What of the accounts?” he asked, forcing his thoughts toward something solid he could control. “The northern investments. The shipping routes.”
Hargreaves obliged, launching into figures and ledgers with efficient precision, and for a time, Alexander allowed himself to be drawn into it, to let numbers and contracts occupy the part of his mind that would otherwise drift toward far more dangerous territory.
This was familiar. This was safe. And yet?—
“…a slight delay in the Liverpool shipment, though nothing that cannot be corrected within the fortnight,” Hargreaves concluded, then paused, his gaze lingering on Alexander with quiet scrutiny. “You are not listening.”
Alexander stilled, the brandy glass halfway to his lips.
“I am,” he said.
“No,” Hargreaves returned calmly. “You are hearing. There is a difference.”
The words struck sharper than they ought to have, echoing what Diana herself had said the previous day, and Alexander’s grip tightened around the glass as irritation flared inside him.
“I did not summon you to assess my attentiveness.”
“And yet it is difficult not to notice when a man appears as though he is wrestling with himself.”
Alexander set the glass down with deliberate care. “What I wrestle is none of your concern.”
“On the contrary,” Hargreaves said, entirely unbothered, “if it affects your judgment, it becomes my concern precisely.”
Silence stretched between them, taut and edged, and for a moment, Alexander considered dismissing him outright, if only to avoid the uncomfortable precision of the man’s observations.
“You wished to know whether you had enemies,” Hargreaves added, softer now. “It is difficult to identify them if you are not honest about what may have provoked them.”
Alexander exhaled slowly.
