Chapter Twenty-Six

Juliet Stanton rifled through her letters, flicking past the invitations, the bills, and the occasional note from an ardent lover. To cool their passions, she made a point of never replying within two days.

However, along with the more regular missives was the letter she had been looking for. Written on coarse paper, the direction scribbled in a clumsy hand, it looked entirely out of place. When Juliet saw it, she dropped her other correspondence and flicked it open, reading the two brief lines inside.

Eyes unseeing, she dropped the letter into her jam and stared straight ahead, the fingers of one hand curling around her knife. Seconds later, the peace was shattered by a scream.

"That devil ," she raged, driving the point of her blade through the letter, and cracking the plate. "How dare he?"

Her servant, a stoic man she had hired for his discretion, did not so much as flinch as she hurled her plate and everything on it at the wall.

"Peters," she said, chest heaving. "Bring the carriage round. "

"Yes, ma'am," he said, inclining his head and leaving the room. Finally alone, Juliet vented her fury in another earth-shattering scream, and retrieved the letter. The two lines had been written by a hand clearly ill-used to holding a pen.

The Duke met with an accident , the note ran. His family left for the country. Looks serious.

Met with an accident. Juliet had been around long enough to know what lay behind those simple words; and if the Duke's family had left Town to see him, including the sister with a new baby, it must be serious.

Montague had not visited since the day of the picnic.

She hadn't expected him to, considering she had handed him the drink that had so almost killed the new Duchess, but his continued absence with this news only meant one thing.

He had been responsible for this. For acquainting Nathanial with his accident .

Really, it had only been a matter of time before he tried something drastic, but she had thought their agreement to prevent his marriage from producing an heir, would have been of more use to her.

Before she left for the carriage, she tucked a small pistol in her purse and changed into a drab dress, a veil over her face. Now Montague had reached the end of his usefulness, she would have to ensure he wouldn't do anything else drastic.

Montague's apartment on James Street was dim and still when she arrived. If she hadn't known he had nowhere else to go, she might have suspected he, too, had left Town for the summer. As it was, however, she presumed he was merely recovering from a late night of excess.

"Tell Sir Montague that a lady is here to see him," she said as she swept past the butler and took stock. It was a regular bachelor's house, and after a little deliberation, she walked through to the study. All she would have to do was beg him to take a walk with her, and as soon as they were somewhere undisturbed, she would shoot him and run for a constable.

Or perhaps she would shoot him here and now and have done with it. No servants knew who she was, and she would be able to slip from the house easily enough. Once outside, she could hire a cab.

The door opened and Montague entered the small space. She had forgotten how tall he was, and for a moment she wondered if one shot would be enough. The pistol was small and she couldn't risk his survival.

"Well," he said, a sardonic smile on his lips. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"I thought you must have heard," she said, sliding a hand inside her reticule. "Nathanial's family have rushed to the country after a certain accident."

His brows rose. "An accident?"

"Well no, Montague. I don't believe it was."

He had the audacity to look almost amused as he strolled forwards, and she fumbled for the trigger. "So you presume I'm responsible for my dear cousin's hunting accident?"

"Hunting?" This time, it was her turn to raise an eyebrow, though her heart pounded in her mouth. "I had not known it was while hunting."

"Where else might he be shot?"

"Do not pretend you were ignorant of this."

"I hardly see what business it is of mine," he said languidly.

"Of course you would deny everything, even to me." Anger replaced her fear, and she strode in short, frustrated circles, her skirts swirling around her legs. "Even to me, you will not be honest."

Montague raised a brow. "Even to you? What do you suppose you have done to gain my trust?"

"We had a common goal. "

His hand flashed out and caught hold of her wrist, pulling her into him. "You made a mistake coming here," he murmured.

"Do not think to lecture me ," she snapped. "I will do as I please."

"I'm afraid I can't allow that. Not after the last time you took matters into your own hands."

Her heart stuttered. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Liar," he said, in a low, seductive voice one might use on a lover. "I was most impressed, you know, with your gall in handing me the poisoned lemonade."

"Is that what you think?" This conversation wasn't going the way she had planned, and although her free hand was wrapped around her pistol, her skin was so slick with sweat, she half thought it would slide from her grasp.

"I don't just think," he said, tilting his head as he looked down at her. His fingers tightened almost painfully, and he took hold of her other arm, moving it away from his body as though he knew what she had in her bag. "Tell me, did you hope he would fall into your arms when his precious wife died?"

"I—"

"Let us not play games. I know you love him."

She had never given name to the emotion she felt for Nathanial. Perhaps it was love, or perhaps it was possession, but it didn't stop her from saying, with all the coldness she could muster, "And you? I've seen the way you look at her."

A look crossed his face that made ice form in her veins. For a second, his eyes blazed with fury, before the emotion passed, leaving a cruel amusement in its wake. "And how do I look at her?"

"As though you want her. "

He seemed to consider for a moment. "Perhaps I do. Why, Juliet, are you jealous?"

"Of course not! She's nothing—a chit in her first Season who knows nothing of the world."

"True," he agreed, transferring both her wrists to one hand so he could take her chin. The pistol slipped from her grip, and his fingers were tight enough to be painful. He forced her to meet his gaze. "Yet she has charms you would barely be able to comprehend."

"I never thought you were in the petticoat line."

"As I said," he said, a humourless smile twisting his lips, "you cannot comprehend it."

"If I had known she would twist you around her finger, I'd—"

"You'd have what?" He forced her hands together away from him when she tried to fight, and for the first time she truly appreciated his strength and power. She tried to control her breathing. "You wouldn't have tried to murder her?"

"I—"

"Even to me, you will not be honest," he mocked. "My, how the tables have turned."

"Montague, please," she said when his grip on her chin didn't ease. "Let's talk about this as adults."

Both brows rose this time. "Oh, but we are. And you, Juliet, are going to listen to me."

All she had to do was reach for her pistol, but he was looking at her with more of that amusement, as though he could read every thought that crossed her head.

She hated him.

If she had the pistol pointing in his direction, she would have shot him there and then without a single regret.

But to achieve that, she would have to make him believe he had intimidated her into obeying him. "Very well," she said, dropping her gaze demurely .

"At the outset, I knew our goals did not align," he said, the hand from her chin sliding to her throat. She struggled, briefly, but he squeezed, long fingers wrapping almost entirely around her neck, and she froze again. "I concluded I would bear with you until you outlived your use. At the picnic, you did just that."

His grip on her hand was too tight; without alerting him to what she was doing, she couldn't point the pistol in his direction. "If that were true, you would have visited me and told me yourself."

"With Theo out of the city and beyond your reach, there was no pressing obligation."

"Far more worth your while to attack Nathanial," she spat.

"Yes," he agreed pleasantly, even though the look in his eyes was anything but pleasant. There was such yawning darkness there, as though she was looking into the mouth of a chasm that held no end. His fingers tightened around her throat, and she doubled her efforts to twist the pistol to face him. All she had to do was pull the trigger.

"She will never love you," she said, her last act of defiance. The pistol's barrel inched around. Just a little further—

Montague leant down as though he was going to kiss her, and his nose almost brushed hers. "No one will ever love you again."