When they first met, he had spoken as though the Duke were alive and well, but he was dead. Had he played a role in the murder, as Charlotte’s letter suggested? Was he the missing man of business who had absconded with the family heirlooms? Why had he come here? Was he covering his tracks—or someone else’s? Had Averton sent him to dispose of evidence? Or worse, was he Averton? Had she unwittingly helped him in his schemes?
Her stomach twisted. None of it made sense. He could not be that evil, could he?
Horrified and terrified in equal measure, Grace paced the morning room, trying to steady her thoughts, but the more she tried, the more questions arose. Why was he investigating the missing girls if he had come to cover up a crime? Why would he draw attention to something he meant to conceal? Perhaps he was one of the Bow Street Runners sent to investigate? She could not make sense of it all, but she had to find out the truth.
Then she remembered—the locked drawer. She had to pry it open.
That morning, when she checked the safe, she saw the master key to all the rooms. She would have to search his room. He was not due to return until tomorrow—this was her only chance. Without wasting another moment, Grace raced back to Skye Manor.
Darkness had begun to settle as she arrived, but the moonlight was bright enough to illuminate the well-worn path. Unfortunately, upon entering the house, she was waylaid by Heather and Mrs Merriweather. She could not tell them what she had discovered—not yet. Not until she was certain. Until then, she would have to feign calmness. It was agony waiting for them to retire for the night, but at last, she heard the household quieten. Just to be sure, she waited another half an hour before making her move.
She went first to the study. Setting her candlestick down, she took a crowbar to the drawer, broke the lock, and yanked it open. Her hands stilled as she spotted a ducal seal—and letters bearing familiar handwriting. Her handwriting.
The letter she had sent to the Duke, thanking him for sponsoring her sister, was there. Mr Stone had intercepted the Duke’s letters.
Her breath caught. Forging a ducal seal was a capital offence.
With shaking hands, she retrieved the master key and hurried to his room.
Moving as quietly as possible, she made her way through the darkened corridors. Reaching his door, she hesitated on the threshold. It felt as though she were about to cross a line she could never uncross. But now was not the time for scruples. She turned the handle and stepped inside.
His scent still lingered in the air. Her heart clenched at the memory of their last conversation, the warmth of his touch,the husky timbre of his voice. But now, what had seemed like a dream was turning into a nightmare. Fighting the prickle of tears, she forced herself to search the room.
It was sparsely furnished—just a bed, a large armchair by the fireplace, and a scattering of books. This morning, she would have been curious to see what he had been reading. Now, she could hardly bear to look.
She rummaged through his belongings but found nothing of significance. Deflated, exhausted, and no closer to discovering his true identity, she turned to leave. In her weariness, she stumbled against the armchair, dropping her candlestick. The room was plunged into darkness.
She cursed under her breath. Fortunately, moonlight streamed through the window, and as her eyes adjusted, she decided to abandon the search for tonight. Then, the door handle turned.
Mr Stone stepped inside.
Her breath hitched, her heart hammering like a trapped bird. She snatched up the candlestick, gripping it like a weapon. She braced herself for a fight.
‘Grace?’ His brows drew together in surprise. ‘What are you doing here?’
Her voice trembled as she thrust the candlestick in front of her. ‘Who are you?’
He stared at her for a long moment before taking a step closer.
‘Stay back, or so help me, I will use this!’ she warned.
He halted, holding up his hands in mock surrender, though the glint in his eyes betrayed his amusement.
‘Grace, put the candlestick down. I will not harm you,’ he said gently.
‘I will decide when to put the candlestick down, sir. Now tell me who you are because I know you are here on false pretences! The Duke is dead, and you have been deceiving us all this time!’
‘I will tell you,’ he replied, his tone patient, ‘but I find it hard to hold a conversation while being threatened with bludgeoning.’
She did not waver. ‘Stay where you are!’
‘You think I am a murderer?’ His expression darkened, anger flashing in his eyes.
Before she could react, he moved—fast. With one swift motion, he wrenched the candlestick from her grip and wrapped his arm around her, pinning her against him.
She struggled, thrashing against his hold. ‘Help!’ she cried, though she knew no one would hear her from this part of the house.
She fought harder, trying to knee him, but he anticipated her move, pressing her tighter against him. She struck his chest with her fists, but he remained unmoved, his grip unyielding.
