Page 68 of The Duke’s Duet

Chapter Nineteen

Dawn crept across London's rooftops as Harper paced his study, every step echoing with the weight of decision. He hadn't slept - couldn't sleep, with Melody's face haunting his thoughts, her voice echoing in his memory.

The pianoforte stood silent now, though he'd played for hours in the dark, trying to find answers in the music they'd shared.

His mother's words rang in his mind.

‘Sometimes the bravest thing a person can do is reach for what others say is impossible.’

Lord Pembroke's challenge followed.

‘Which would require more courage - facing society's temporary disapproval, or watching the woman you love sail away?’

The answer had come to him just before dawn, as he watched the sky lighten over the garden where his mother had once sung Italian arias without shame. Music had brought them together, had let them speak truths society wouldn't permit them to voice. Now it was time to speak those truths aloud, to reach for what his heart wanted, regardless of consequence.

"Your Grace?" Simmons appeared, his usually impassive face showing concern. "The carriage is ready."

Harper glanced at the clock - how many precious minutes had he wasted in indecision?

"Tell James that I’ll want him to drive as fast as he safely can."

The morning air struck cold against his face as he descended the steps to his waiting carriage. London was just awakening, the streets still quiet save for early workers and delivery carts. They made good time at first, the horses' hooves striking a desperate rhythm against the cobblestones.

Then everything began to go wrong.

They turned onto Fleet Street only to find chaos - an overturned cart had spilled its load of vegetables across the road. Carters argued while street vendors scrambled to salvage what they could. The crowd of onlookers grew with each passing moment, blocking any hope of passage.

"Find another route," Harper ordered, his fingers digging into the seat edge.

But even as the carriage turned down a side street, he knew that they were losing precious time. The tide wouldn't wait for overturned carts or blocked streets. The ship would sail whether he reached it or not.

Each delay felt like a personal attack. A parade of military horses near St. Paul's, the soldiers practicing for some upcoming ceremony with infuriating slowness. Construction that had spilled beyond its proper bounds, narrowing the street to barely more than an alley. And through it all, fog rolling in from the river, thick and cloying, reducing visibility to mere yards.

Harper's heart thundered against his ribs as he watched the sun climb higher through gaps in the fog. Each moment lost was another step closer to losing her forever. The damp air pressed against the carriage windows like a physical barrier, as if nature herself conspired to keep him from his goal. Time seemed to twist and stretch, each delay an eternity. Every street they turned down revealed new obstacles - a washerwoman's cart with a broken wheel, a group of drunken revellers still celebrating from the night before.

Each time they were forced to stop or turn back, Harper felt the pressure building in his chest like a piece of music reaching its crescendo.

When they encountered yet another blockage - this time a group of workers repairing the cobblestones with maddening slowness - he could wait no longer. He opened the window and leaned out.

"Stop the carriage."

James turned on the box, his face creased with concern.

"Your Grace, we're not yet—"

"I'll continue on foot." He was already opening the door, calculating the quickest route through the warren of streets that led to the docks. The bitter morning air struck him like a physical blow as he stepped down. "Make your way to the docks as soon as you can, and wait for me there."

"But Your Grace!" The coachman's voice held genuine alarm now. "These streets - in this weather - it isn't safe—"

"Nothing is safe," Harper muttered, more to himself than his servant. Then, louder, "Don’t argue with me. That's an order."

He slammed the carriage door shut and was running before the words had fully left his mouth, his boots striking the wet cobblestones with desperate purpose. The fog swirled around him, turning familiar landmarks into looming shadows. Somewhere ahead lay the docks, and the ship that would take Melody away if he couldn't reach her in time.

His carefully tied cravat came loose as he ran, the end whipping in the damp wind. His coat would never recover from the morning's abuse, and his boots were already ruined by the filth of London's streets. He'd spent his whole life learning the importance of proper appearance, proper behaviour, proper everything - and now here he was, a Duke running through the streets like a common messenger boy.

The thought almost made him laugh. What would his father say, to see him now? The perfect heir, the controlled Duke, sprinting through London's poorest quarters with his clothing in disarray and his heart pounding in his throat?

A clock struck somewhere in the fog - how many times? He lost count in his desperate rush. But the sound was followed by another that made his blood run cold - a ship's bell, ringing out across the hidden water.