Chapter Twenty-Nine

True to his word, Nathanial joined her before much time had passed at all, and she was forced to hide the letter inside one of her gloves. Betsy had been apprised of her plans to rise early, and as she and Nathanial lay together, his arm wrapped around her, their breaths mingling, she told him she was slipping away early to see her family.

He didn't object. The guilt settled in.

But even if she hadn't been feeling guilty, clinging to Nathanial's warmth and the soft regularity of his breathing as though she could live in each passing moment forever, she wouldn't have slept. She was, as she well knew, about to do something stupid, and every heartbeat brought her closer to its execution.

Or perhaps hers.

Every thought was a morbid one, and if Nathanial had awoken to see her restless, sleepless worry, she would have told him everything .

But he slumbered on, and when dawn finally broke across the sky, Theo slipped from the bed, sliding a dressing gown over her shoulders, and moved into her dressing room. There, she rang for Betsy, who came bleary-eyed to dress her in a plain, dark dress.

"Are you sure about this, ma'am?" she whispered as Theo descended the stairs in near-darkness.

"Perfectly sure," Theo said, though it wasn't strictly true. She'd read the small note several times that morning alone, and there was little in her life she was less sure of.

Yet if she didn't take this step, would they ever find out who was responsible for Nathanial's accident? The grooms at Stapleton didn't know, and neither did the beaters. They hadn't seen anything, hadn't spoken to anyone, and there were no reports of poachers or anyone else on their land the morning of the hunt.

No one knew anything except, apparently, this mysterious letter-writer, and Theo was determined to unravel this mystery.

Just in case, however, she had secreted one of Nathanial's knives in her reticule, and she'd left a letter for him with Betsy, to be delivered if she didn't return within a few hours. All the eventualities she could think of were covered.

Time to find the truth.

The carriage pulled up outside the house as sunlight spilled across the streets for the first time. This was not the grey, foggy day she had feared; the sun burned away the mist, and the sky was a delicate, eggshell blue.

She relaxed into the seat.

Victoria Gate came into sight, far less conspicuous than the Canada Gates beside Buckingham Palace, and the carriage came to a stop. Hawkins, the groom, helped her from the carriage.

"Keep the horses walking," she said, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt. "I won't be long. "

"Excuse my forwardness, Your Grace," Hawkins said, his sharp blue eyes fixed on her face. She'd only known him a few short months, but he had already shown himself to view her with fatherly affection. "But might I suggest you don't walk alone at this time of day. I could accompany you."

She gave him a smile she didn't feel. "But then who would care for the horses? They're His Grace's greys, you know."

"I suspect His Grace would rather harm came to his horses than Your Grace."

"I won't be long," Theo repeated, with a little more force. Reluctantly, Hawkins fell back, and Theo walked briskly to the gates. A few businessmen passed her, tradespeople and lawyers, perhaps, dressed smartly in black. Some gave her questioning looks—it was not usual for a lady of Quality to be walking alone at this hour—but none so much as stopped to see her.

She glanced back at the carriage, reassured to find it precisely where she left it, Hawkins standing at the bridle and watching her with uncompromising focus. Relieved, she gave him a little wave and walked through the gates into Hyde Park.

Dew clung to each blade of grass and vibrant leaf; if she had been on any other errand, she might have been tempted to linger and appreciate their beauty. But before she could do more than cast a quick glance around, a voice caught her attention.

"Duchess," he said, a note of surprise in his tone. "You came."

Dismay and fear flooded through her in equal measure as she turned and looked at the man she had barely allowed herself to suspect. "So it was you," she said flatly. "You sent me that letter."

With a sardonic twist of his lips, Sir Montague took her hand before she could twist it away. "How quickly you perceive the situation, little mouse. "

"You know something about Nathanial?" She looked up into his face and the twisted smile that was still on his lips. Her fear overpowered her dismay, and she took a steadying breath. "What do you know?"

"Do you trust me?" he asked, dark eyes hooded.

If she could have done, she would have pulled away. Instead, caught like a fish on a hook, she stared up at him. "Trust you?" she whispered. "Why would you ask me that?"

"Because," he murmured, bending down until his face was altogether too close to hers, "it changes how I approach this. Do you trust me, Duchess? Theo." He said her name softly, but there was a curl of menace behind his words that made her heart pound.

No, she didn't trust him. Nathanial did not, which would have been enough by itself now, but Sir Montague had lured her here.

He had still not let go of her hand.

"Release me," she said, her voice breathless and too quiet. Panic swarmed up her tight throat. "Release me or I shall scream."

He sighed. "It would have been easier if you had trusted me." His fingers wrapped around her other elbow. "I'm sorry, Theo."

She didn't even have time to speak before he clamped his hand over her mouth and dragged her roughly off her feet. Her screaming was muffled, lost beneath his rough palm, and for a second, as panic took hold, she couldn't breathe.

Every part of her was cold. He was going to take her somewhere quiet and end her life once and for all. Nathanial had been wrong, after all—Sir Montague had been the man behind her poisoning. He, for an inexplicable reason she did not yet understand, wanted her dead.

And he was going to succeed .

Belatedly, she remembered the knife in her reticule. With her free hand, she stuck her hand into the small bag, Sir Montague's palm muffling her cry as the blade cut her fingers. Trembling, terrified, determination hot amidst the coldness in her chest, she fumbled for the hilt, drew it out, and plunged it into his leg.