Chapter 23

CHAPTER 23

“Awedding gift has arrived from Rome, Your Graces. From the Duke and Duchess of Sunderley.”

The next morning at breakfast, Crawford presented an elegantly wrapped package on a silver salver.

Isolde’s eyes lit up as she untied the silk ribbon. Inside lay an exquisite Venetian glass vase, its swirling colors catching the morning light. Shades of sapphire and emerald danced through the glass like captured sunlight on water.

A note in a feminine hand read:

Dearest cousin, forgive our tardiness in congratulating you. Rome’s gossip travels slower than London’s.

All our love,

Octavia and Simon.

“How lovely,” Isolde breathed, turning the vase to admire the craftsmanship. “Look how the light catches these little gold flecks—it’s as though someone captured the stars in the glass.”

Arthur leaned closer, his hand settling warmly on the small of her back. “Octavia always did have excellent taste. Though I suspect she chose those particular colors to match your eyes.”

Isolde felt her cheeks flush at his observation. “Where shall we put it? Somewhere it can catch the morning light, perhaps?”

“Wherever you wish.” His thumb traced small circles on her back. “This is your home too, after all.”

The tenderness of the moment was interrupted by the arrival of his steward, Campbell, who looked rather harried.

“Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but there’s been an incident on the estate.”

“Now?” Arthur’s jaw tightened as he glanced at Isolde.

“I’m afraid it’s rather urgent. The grain storage has been compromised.”

“Go,” Isolde said softly, touching his arm. “I’ll have the vase placed in the morning room.”

An hour later, Arthur surveyed the damage with growing suspicion.

The lock had been broken with precision, not force, and grain scattered in a way that seemed deliberately wasteful.

This was no simple theft. The perpetrator knew exactly where to strike and how to ensure maximum waste with minimum effort. The methodical nature of the sabotage spoke of planning—and hatred.

“The third incident this month, Your Grace,” Campbell reported, wringing his cap nervously. “First the failed crops, then the missing supplies, and now this.” He lowered his voice. “And begging your pardon, Sir, but there’s been talk among the tenants. Strange sounds in the night. Shadows where there shouldn’t be any. Cook’s boy swears he saw someone watching the house from the tree line two nights ago.”

Arthur crouched down to examine a set of footprints in the scattered grain. The size and pattern seemed familiar, though he couldn’t quite determine why.

More disturbing was the careful placement—these weren’t the random tracks of a thief in a hurry. These had been left deliberately, like a signature.

Or a warning.

“We must be vigilant,” he ordered, his mind racing with the implications. “Send word to all neighboring estates to be alert for suspicious activity. I want every stranger in the area questioned.”

“Very good, Your Grace. However, some of the tenants are growing nervous. They say—” The steward hesitated, glancing over his shoulder as if the very walls might have ears.

“Speak freely.”

“They say it’s like someone’s trying to sabotage the estate. Someone who knows its inner workings. The way the crops failed—it wasn’t natural, they say. And these attacks, they’re too precise. Too deliberate.”

Arthur straightened, brushing grain dust from his coat.

“Perhaps they’re right.” He gestured to the precise way the damage had been done. “This was no random act of vandalism. Every strike has been calculated for maximum impact with minimum risk of discovery.”

A cold wind blew through the broken doorway, stirring the scattered grain.

Something about the scene niggled at Arthur’s mind—some detail just beyond his grasp.

“What are your orders, Your Grace?”

“Have the granary repaired immediately. Use the harvest set aside for the mill to support the affected families.” His voice hardened. “And tell Crawford to send for Mr. Boyd again. I want every incident documented in detail. Patterns, timing, witnesses—everything.”

Someone was indeed trying to sabotage his estate. Someone who held a grudge, who knew exactly where to strike for maximum effect.

But they’d made one crucial mistake—they’d underestimated just how far Arthur would go to protect what was his.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as he mounted his horse. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched, that somewhere in the shadows, his enemy was gauging his reaction, planning their next move.

As he rode back to Meadowell House, a plan was already taking shape in his mind.

But for now, the sight of Isolde arranging Octavia’s vase in a patch of morning sunlight drove all thoughts of sabotage from his head. She had positioned it perfectly, the light catching the swirling colors and casting rainbow patterns over her face as she stepped back to admire her handiwork.

Some battles could wait, but this moment—watching his wife create beauty in their home, her presence slowly transforming cold grandeur into warmth—could not.

From her place by the window, Isolde watched Arthur return, the vase momentarily forgotten as she studied his approach.

Something was wrong.

She could see it in the rigid set of his shoulders, the purposeful way he strode across the cobblestones. His usual fluid grace had been replaced by a predatory tension that made her breath catch.

She turned away from the window, gathering her skirts to meet him.

Whatever was troubling him, perhaps she could help—or at least offer comfort. In these past weeks, she’d learned that beneath his ducal mask, Arthur carried the weight of his responsibilities heavily.

“Your Grace?” Mrs. Phillips appeared in the doorway, a stack of ledgers in her arms. “The quarterly household accounts require your attention. Cook has also prepared several menu suggestions for next week’s dinner party that need your approval.”

Isolde hesitated, caught between duty and desire. Through the window, she saw Arthur disappear into the house, his long strides eating up the distance.

“Of course, Mrs. Phillips.” She smoothed her skirts, pushing aside her concern.

A duchess’s duties waited for no one, not even a worried wife.

“Shall we review them in the morning room?” she asked.

Still, as she followed the housekeeper, Isolde couldn’t shake the feeling that something darker than simple estate troubles haunted her husband’s eyes.

She only hoped he would trust her enough to share the burden when he was ready.