Chapter Thirty-Three

When Nathanial reached his hunting lodge, everything was silent. The morning sun glowed softly against the walls, illuminating the ivy he had commanded be cut down. Another time, he might have reflected angrily on Mr Clayton's inability to run the place with only the help of his wife—or perhaps it was the other way around—but today he had no thought except for what he would find inside.

If he would find anything inside.

His limbs were stiff as he climbed out of the carriage and surveyed the silent house before him. Nothing stirred. For a moment, he thought he might have been mistaken. Perhaps Montague hadn't brought Theo here after all; perhaps that had been a false clue left to send him in the wrong direction. Panic tasted sour in his mouth as he hurried to the front door.

It was unlocked.

"Mrs Clayton?" he called as he strode inside, one hand on his cane and the other on his pistol. "Mr Clayton?"

"Your Grace!" Mrs Clayton said in delight, bustling out from the servants' door. Keys jangled from around her neck. " Sir Montague said you would be here today, but I didn't expect you so early. Will you have breakfast?"

Nathanial blinked at her. "Sir Montague . . . said I would be here?"

"Why, did you not expect him to tell me?" She clucked at him. "Though I must say you could have sent us a letter or—"

"Never mind that," he said, waving away her chatter. For the first time, her gaze latched onto the gun in his hand and her eyes widened.

"Is everything quite well, sir?"

"No," he said grimly. "Where is Sir Montague and where is the Duchess?"

"They're both in the—"

A shot cracked through the air like a thunderbolt, and Nathanial didn't wait for the rest of her sentence. He turned, wound forgotten, and sprinted in the direction of the library. His breaths came short and fast, and even though the hallway was not long and the library not too far distant, his mind had ample opportunity to throw images of what he might find.

Theo lying on the floor, blood pooling about her prone body.

Theo stumbling back, eyes wide, her hands clutching her chest.

Theo, Theo, Theo; in every vision it was Theo, her wound too great for any doctor to heal—too great for her body to recover from.

And in every iteration, it was Montague standing over her, emotionless, a gun in his hand.

Nathanial flung open the library door, and stopped.

Theo was there, just as he'd imagined, her face white and her eyes wide and dark—darker than he'd ever seen them. Her head turned at the sound of the door, but she didn't seem to recognise him .

And before her, staggering against the bookshelf, an expression of almost comical shock on his face, was Montague, a red stain erupting on his waistcoat.