Chapter Thirty

Theo was gone when Nathanial woke.

He lay alone for a few moments, accustoming himself to being in her bedroom. It was a nicely proportioned room, and he had spent enough time in it while Theo had been recovering that it felt familiar, but there was something different about it in the silence. There was no gentle warmth from her body, no tongue-in-cheek comments about his sleeping habits—he had several, it seemed, that amused her—and no concern for his wellbeing.

He missed the sound of her breathing, which was such a ludicrous thing to miss that he sat up, ignoring the twinge from his chest, and swung his feet out of bed, shuffling through to his dressing room and calling for his valet. Theo had said something about anticipating being back for lunch, which really wasn't too far away. It was ten o'clock now, and he wouldn't even think about worrying until it was twelve, at least.

Of course, the letter hadn't been from her family. Her sister didn't have the power to send such a flush into her cheeks, and he doubted she'd have been so eager to visit her family so early for a mere cold.

No, it was almost certainly someone else she was meeting. A friend or worse. Sir Montague, perhaps—

No. After everything he had told her about his cousin, he doubted she would hurry to meet him. Likely, it was another gentleman she had formed a fancy for.

But he was her husband, not her keeper, and if the thought of her meeting another man made him want to smash something, well, he would merely curb it before she returned.

But no sooner than he had dressed and was applying himself to his cravat, there was a knock on the door. "Enter," he said.

Jarvis, his face carefully blank, entered the room. "Hawkins would like to see you, Your Grace."

"The groom?" Nathanial frowned, decided his neckcloth would pass muster, and turned. "What could Hawkins have to say to me this early?"

"That is for him to say, Your Grace, but I determined it was Urgent Business."

Immediately, Nathanial's thoughts went to Theo—and specifically, the fact that she had called for the carriage that morning. That in itself was unsurprising, as was the fact the carriage and Hawkins had returned without her, but he couldn't prevent the feeling of dread that crept through him.

"I'll come downstairs," Nathanial said, taking the stick that lay propped against the dresser. He preferred not to use it, but it was convenient, he'd found, to have it on hand.

Hawkins was waiting for him in the library, and Nathanial wasted no time in asking, "Is it the Duchess?"

"I'm afraid it is, Your Grace," Hawkins said, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. He was a burly man of indeterminate age whose crooked nose suggested he had once tried to make a career of boxing. As long as Nathanial could remember, however, he had been part of the household, and he had no reason to question his loyalty.

"Well?"

"She requested me to take her to Hyde Park this morning," he said. The dread Nathanial had been feeling settled into mingled anger and panic. "Around eight o'clock, sir. I suggested she might want an escort, and offered to walk her to her destination, but she appeared to think my services unnecessary and bid me to watch the horses."

Of course she had, the little fool. An attempt on her life wasn't considered danger enough for her to be careful. The Lord help him, he was going to have words with her when he got her back.

If he got her back.

The thought was so terrible, so horrific, he reared back. No, he would find her. There was no other option. He would not allow it.

"And?" he asked, though he barely recognised his voice. "What happened next?"

"Well, you see, that's the thing, sir. She passed through the gates and was lost to sight. I held the horses for her as she bid for an hour, but she didn't return. I handed the horses to a passing boy—they're quite all right, sir—and searched the vicinity myself, but I didn't see her. Thought I should come back and inform Your Grace of the events."

It would be impossible to keep this matter from the servants, no matter how hard he tried. Jarvis would, no doubt, attempt to keep talk to a minimum, but this was severe enough he could not hide it. No one could. Theo was gone.

But now was not the time to panic.

"Very well," he said. "Dispatch as many servants as you can spare to search the area, although I doubt she'll be there now."

"Yes, sir," Jarvis said. "Should I inform the servants whom we are looking for? "

"Tell them Her Grace may have fallen ill again."

"Yes, sir."

Nathanial pinched the bridge of his nose. He had to think . Who could have wanted to harm her? The letter she had received last night would give him a clue, but he didn't know where she had put it. Where she had hidden it. Last night, he'd felt unequal to confronting her, and she had been just as gently affectionate as always, looking at him in a way that . . . He had felt sure she wanted no other.

He should have found that damn letter.

Using his cane, he pushed himself to his feet as Jarvis cleared his throat. "Betsy wishes to speak to you, Your Grace," the butler said, waving her in.

"Betsy?" Nathanial looked across at Theo's lady's maid, the one who had so often glared at him and made her disapproval plain. "Well? I presume this is about Her Grace."

Unusually, the woman had tears in her eyes, and she held a folded piece of paper in shaking hands. "She told me to give you this if she didn't return in two hours, Your Grace," she said, passing it to him and pressing her hands against her face. "I never thought—she never said—I didn't think she'd be in danger."

Without bothering to respond, Nathanial ripped open the note.

My dearest Nathanial , it began in an achingly familiar hand.

If you are reading this, I conclude I have not returned home, and you must no doubt know I went to Hyde Park this morning, not my mother's house. You see, last night, I received a letter claiming to know something about your accident, and I went to discover what I could. I know you are planning on making enquiries, but you're too hurt, still, and I wanted to spare you that.

If the worst has come to pass, I beg you would not hurt yourself looking for me. Only know that these months married to you have been the happiest of my life. I was looking for a hero, and I had not known I had found one in you.

Your ever-loving,

Theo .

Nathanial stared sightlessly at the paper, unable to focus on the words, unable to look away. His dear, sweet, stupid Theo had thought to spare him the pain of investigating by endangering herself, and she could not see how very much trouble she was in.

Only know that these months married to you have been the happiest of my life .

He needed to find her before—

He crumpled the letter in his fist and turned his attention to the butler, groom and lady's maid, who still watched him, waiting for his next instruction.

"Prepare the carriage," he said curtly. The stupid, foolish girl. As though he would rather she put herself in danger for him.

He would have preferred her to be meeting another gentleman. At least then she would have been safe. At least then, she would have come home, and he could have found a way through this.

But knowing she had gone to ‘discover what she could' about his would-be murderer meant something far more dangerous was at play. He could be guaranteed of nothing.

"Fetch my pistol," he told Jarvis. "I have a feeling I will need it."

Theo awoke in a carriage. She couldn't recall having been unconscious, but she had certainly awoken, and pain splintered from a point in her temple.

The carriage was not one of her own .

Nathanial had several carriages, but they were all outfitted in a similar way, with burgundy leather seats, his coat of arms mounted on the back, and wide, clean windows. This carriage, however, was dirty. The stitching on the seats had split, revealing the stuffing within, and there was no coat of arms.

The curtains were drawn. Opposite her sat Sir Montague.

He might have looked composed and easy, one leg stretched out in front of him and the other tucked away, if it were not for the blood and makeshift bandage across his thigh. His gaze, when it alighted on her, was not forgiving.

The memory hit her like a bolt of lightning and she looked at her hand—specifically, at the cut that ran across her fingers from where she had gripped the knife. The same knife she had sunk into Sir Montague's leg.

"I took it," he said in answer to her sudden panic. Her reticule was nowhere to be seen. "I confess, I hadn't thought you would think to take a weapon with you. Nor," he added with a grimace, "the capacity to use it in such a way."

"You tried to capture me!" She paused and wrinkled her nose again at her surroundings. "You did capture me."

"I did."

Horror pressed against her throat, and she closed her mouth before she could say anything foolish. He'd already hit her once, if the pounding in her head was any indication, and she didn't want to give him any reason to do it again.

If only she still had her knife. Next time she would aim it higher than his leg.

"I won't hurt you again if I can help it," he said.

"If you can help it?"

His voice was grim. "Don't stab me again, and you won't have to find out."

"How could I stab you again if you've taken my knife?" she asked, and the fear in her throat made its wavering way into her words. She clenched her fists until her nails bit into her palms .

"I'm hoping you can't," he said dryly. "But you might as well stop looking at me as though I'm some terrible villain. I've captured you, yes, but note you're unbound and I'm not attempting to force myself on you. That should give you some comfort."

"Little enough," she flashed before she could help herself, and an appreciative smile leapt into his eyes, just for a second.

"I see kidnap has not dimmed your spirit."

"Where are we going? Is this your carriage? Why am I here?"

"So many questions."

"I will have fewer if you answer them."

His laugh was pained, but he laughed all the same, and despite herself, she relaxed slightly. "Very well. We are going to Nathanial's Leicestershire hunting box to begin with, and this is a hired carriage. I apologise for the smell."

She drew her feet up. "You may apologise for capturing me."

"Oh, but I feel no need to do that," he said gently. "This, without the unfortunate pain in my leg, is precisely what I had intended."

"But why ?"

"Because you are Nathanial's wife," he said. "And he is the Duke—a title that without his marriage might have fallen to me."

"All this for a title?"

"All this because my cousin, born with that proverbial silver spoon, was granted leniencies I was not. Because my cousin is the Duke and I am not." His smile was a dark, bitter thing as he looked at her. "And he married you, my little mouse."

There was a look in his eyes that alarmed her. Not because it was violent, precisely, but because it held a heat she was all too familiar with. Nathanial had taught her what expressions like that could mean, and while she might have been amenable to kissing Nathanial in a carriage, Sir Montague was a very different matter .

"What do you intend to do with me?" she whispered.

"An intriguing question," he murmured. "What do I intend to do with you?"

Without her knife, which she could see nowhere easily accessible on his person, Theo was helpless. He might be injured, but he was larger than her, and stronger. He had killed a man in a duel, and there was something dark about him that spoke to the primal part of her, telling her to run.

There could be no running from inside a carriage.

Sir Montague gave a low, humourless laugh. "I told you, Duchess, I have no intention of hurting you."

"I suppose I ought to thank you for your forbearance."

"A mouse with the claws of a cat," he said, one side of his mouth curling. "I understand why my dear cousin is so attached."

The thought of Nathanial made Theo want to scream. Had Betsy given him the letter yet? What would he do ? He wasn't well enough to go gallivanting around the country after her.

If only she had aimed the knife a little higher.

"Why Nathanial's hunting box?" she asked after a moment. "Surely he'll find us there eventually?"

"Sooner rather than later, I hope."

"And once he arrives, what then? What are your intentions?"

"My intentions are to become Duke," he said. He made no attempt to reach forward and touch her, but she felt his gaze skim across her body, and she fought the urge to curl into a ball. "And I intend to achieve that with Nathanial's consent or without it."

She snorted. "You're expecting Nathanial to give up his title for my sake?"

"I have every expectation of it."

"And if he does not? "

"I recommend you do not trouble your head over it." A coldness entered his voice, one that sent goosebumps rising over her skin. This was not the charming, smiling man who had courted her and offered her compliments. This was the creature of darkness that lingered under his skin and did not shy away from causing pain. "But if that were to happen, then fear not, little mouse. I would be more than happy to restore you to your current position as Duchess, once the appropriate period for mourning had passed."

Disgust tasted like ash in her mouth. "You would marry me? After killing my husband?" Laughing or crying—both seemed reasonable options, but neither would give her satisfaction. "You cannot be serious."

"Can I not?" Now he reached across the space between them and plucked her hand from her lap, smoothing out her fingers to reveal the life lines on her palm. "I must marry someone, once my position as Duke is assured, and of all the ladies I have encountered thus far, you are the only one to occupy my attention for more than a month or so."

"I?" Theo tried to snatch her hand back, but he didn't let her. "Let go of me."

"I would make you happy, Theo."

"Don't call me that, don't—" She finally succeeded in wrenching her hand from his grip, and she cradled it against her chest, watching him all the while. Her rejection didn't seem to have discomposed him; he leant back against the seat, the tiniest of smiles playing around his mouth.

"You can hardly say you were never drawn to me," he said. "The moment I arrived in London, you made your preference known."

"A mistake," she said, wrapping her arms around herself. Then she hadn't realised the man she could fall in love with was lurking—unromantically—in her house the whole time. "And a flirtation, Sir Montague. Nothing more."

"No?" He moved to her side and sat beside her, his knee brushing against hers. She wondered if she could open the door and throw him out. "When you accompanied me to the masquerade despite your husband's disapproval?"

"A mistake," she repeated.

"The mistake was mine for letting you out of my sight."

"If you think I would have done anything with you, you are very much mistaken," she snapped. "And you are mistaken now."

"I haven't asked you for anything, little mouse."

"Then sit back where you were before and let us talk of something else."

With a laugh, he did as she requested, although she noticed his movements were stiff. Perhaps the pain in his leg meant he was feeling less amorous.

"You said in your letter that you had some information for me," she said. "Were you behind my poisoning?"

"I?" There was a tightness around his eyes that hinted at pain, but their expression gentled as he looked at her. "No, Theo. That was not me. But rest assured I handled the situation—the person who harmed you cannot any longer."

"And the shooting? Nathanial? Was that also—"

"No. That, I can lay claim to."

"You admit it so easily."

"I have no desire to deny it. I rather suspect you will not attribute a conscience to me now, and we are past the point of lying. I was the one who arranged for Nathanial to be shot that day, and I was very nearly successful."

"Then how can you expect me to believe you won't hurt me?"

"Are you really so blind, Theo? Can you not guess?"

Perhaps, on second thoughts, it would be better not to know. "If you had succeeded in your aim of killing Nathanial," she said simply, "you would have killed me, too."