38. A Real Villain

A REAL VILLAIN

M elanie paused at the entrance to the drawing room, her breath catching as she took in the figure standing near the fireplace. She’d walked in expecting to find Malum. Instead, the Duke of Crossings turned toward her, his smile charming at first glance, but laced with something that pricked up the hair on the back of Melanie’s neck.

It was the same sensation she’d felt when they’d met in the park—an instinctive wariness.

For a moment, she hesitated in the doorway. Her mother and Josie were both absent. Eloisa, she knew, had left to meet with the two of them at the park, and Mr. Chesterfield had already returned to his other duties. Which left Melanie alone to deal with Crossings.

“Good morning,” she said a touch belatedly, dipping into a half-hearted curtsey. Unwilling to let him out of her sight, she didn’t so much as drop her gaze. “ Your Grace.”

She fought to keep her expression neutral, doing her best to ignore the sharp disappointment. Not only had Malum not come to right things between the two of them, but she now had to entertain a man with, at best, questionable motives she did not know.

Recalling everything she’d learned, this man, by all rights, was Malum’s enemy. But why was he here?

The smile on Crossings’ lips didn’t come close to reaching his eyes, which were cold and flat, and a quiet voice in the back of Melanie’s mind warned her to tread carefully. Everything about this visit felt… wrong.

“My dear lady.” Crossings returned her greeting smoothly, giving a short bow as he did so, as if his sudden intrusion were the most natural thing in the world. “What a pleasure.”

It was anything but.

Melanie stepped farther into the room, her pulse quickening despite herself. She instinctively lifted her chin, a faint tremor in her hand as she smoothed her skirt. “This is… unexpected,” she replied, her tone polite but distant.

“Unexpected perhaps, but not unwelcome, I hope?” His smile remained fixed.

It made her skin crawl.

She glanced toward the door, wishing her mother or Reed would sweep in to take over this meeting. Neither did, of course.

But perhaps there had been a mistake… Crossings had no reason to wish to speak with her. He didn’t belong in her mother’s home.

“I can only assume you were hoping to speak with your daughter, Lady Standish?” she asked hopefully. “Or perhaps my brother, Lord Standish? But they don’t live here. Standish Hall is on Hanover Square.”

“Oh no, my lady,” he said, his tone as smooth as silk. “It is you, Lady Melanie Rutherford, who I’ve come to see.”

There was no cushioning his words, and for a moment, the drawing room felt claustrophobic.

“How…” she began carefully. “How can I help you?”

Crossings gave her that faint, predatory smile again and gestured toward the nearest chair. “Perhaps we should sit.” His eyes narrowed. “You and I need to talk.”

It wasn’t a suggestion. His tone carried the weight of expectation, as though the mere idea of refusal was absurd.

Still, Melanie hesitated. This was her mother’s house. And yet, he was a duke! Aside from ordering him to leave outright, what could she do but be agreeable?

The concern Malum had expressed the night before struck her suddenly… Something about her being in danger.

This had nothing to do with Goldie or her brother. It had something to do with Malum.

Swallowing her apprehension, Melanie lowered herself into her mother’s chair.

Crossings followed, easing his much larger frame into the opposite one with an air of dominance. Melanie clasped her hands in her lap tightly, her palms sweating even though her skin felt ice-cold.

He drummed his fingers idly against the armrest.

“I must admit,” he began, leaning forward, “I was… disappointed to hear that the silent little mouse had discovered her voice. If you had just remained silent, then this conversation wouldn’t be necessary.”

Melanie furrowed her brow, baffled. He wished she hadn’t recovered? Why? What could he possibly expect her to say to that?

“Tsk, tsk, tsk. Pretending to be mute won’t protect you now.”

Melanie felt her lip curling despite herself, her irritation briefly overtaking her nerves. What in blazes was he on about? Pretending? And yes, she’d been quiet, but… “I was never mute, Your Grace. I’m afraid I have no idea what you mean.”

Crossings sneered at her, a glint in his eye as if they were sharing in some sort of jest—or as if he was enjoying one at her expense. “Oh, but I think you do.”

Whatever had brought the Duke of Crossings here, it wasn’t good.

…It almost sounded as if… as if he were threatening her, but that couldn’t be right.

“You might know something that could put you in danger.” Malum’s words had been confusing. “ Be careful of who you trust, who you speak to.”

Melanie shook her head. “I don’t.”

The faux smile vanished from Crossings’ face, and his voice turned low and deliberate, abandoning any pretense of friendliness. “You have something of mine—some letters. I would like to have them back.”

Letters? Melanie’s breath hitched. Fragmented images, pieces of her memory, taunted her. “I’m sorry. Again, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His eyes turned glacial. “This is your chance, my lady, to secure your brother’s future—his freedom—once and for all. Hand over those letters, and I’ll see to it that all suspicions against him vanish. Something, I imagine, your entire family would be... most grateful for—something your betrothed has failed to accomplish.”

Her pulse hammered against her ribs. Malum hadn’t made any real promises, but Crossings was not wrong about her betrothal.

“What can you—” She faltered as more memories began to stir. Her father’s voice echoed faintly, growing louder with every passing second.

"Hide these, my darling, keep them safe for me… And don’t tell anyone you have them.”

Her hands clenched tighter in her lap. “Keep them safe for me…” The words reverberated over and over, dragging her back to the moments right before the fire.

Her father’s desperate voice, his trembling hands thrusting something into hers. Something important.

“Lady Melanie?” Crossings’ voice sliced through the fog of memory, yanking her back to the present. “Relying upon Malum, the owner of a brothel, is not going to save your family. You, an upright young lady, surely must know that. Malum” —Crossings practically spat his name—“is immoral—a reprobate. Whereas I, the most esteemed member of the ton , can actually make those rumors disappear.” His eyes narrowed. “That is, if you let me.”

The pounding in her head made it hard to focus, even as his words wormed their way into her thoughts. They were a bitter reminder of a truth she couldn’t completely ignore.

Malum— Harry —was, in fact, the owner of a brothel. For all the good she believed he did, it wasn’t so simple, was it? Those women, from what little she understood, must have lived lives of hardship—of desperation. Was there truly no better way to help them?

But then she remembered—the haunted look in his silver eyes when he’d spoken of his father, of his mother. The tenderness that softened his features when he’d held Ernest, so carefully.

So many moments when that mask of indifference had slipped, and then later, fallen away completely.

Malum wasn’t perfect. He was a man marked by shadows, by choices no one could fully understand, but his heart—his heart—was good. It beat with kindness, strength, and a fierce sense of justice that went deeper than appearances.

He wasn’t perfect. He was simply… Malum.

In fact, no man was perfect, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t good.

The thought struck hard and fast, igniting a spark of indignation. All the whispered insults she’d endured—about Reed, her father, her mother, herself—coiled into a tight knot of defiance.

She would not let the Duke of Crossings fool her.

"Hide these, my darling..."

She didn’t dare look away. She couldn’t. To show weakness would be disastrous.

But the pounding words in her head persisted, her father’s voice blending with the crackling of fire and the scent of smoke that seemed to linger on her skin.

She swallowed hard.

For now, her best option was to convince the Duke of Crossings that she truly had nothing to give.

“I don’t have any letters,” she said, her voice steady despite the tremor beneath it.

Crossings didn’t believe her. She could see it in his eyes. And worse, he was probing for something she couldn’t quite grasp—something that felt just out of reach.

Her jaw tightened, but she forced her expression to remain neutral. “As you can see, my mother is not at home…” She did her best to sound polite—but firm. “Perhaps you should call another time.”

His eyes narrowed, but then he dipped his chin. “Perhaps,” he said.

That had been almost too easy.

His gaze lingered, though, sharp and calculating. “I’ll allow that you may need… time to reflect.”

When he put his hands on his knees and rose to stand, Melanie did her best not to look too relieved.

But he wasn’t finished.

“Take some time, my lady, to locate those letters. But not too long.” He hovered over her, before leaning down so he could speak directly in her ear, his voice low and heavy with the weight of something ominous. “Because, understand this—I will return.”

Melanie swallowed hard and forced a small nod, but with her knees trembling beneath her skirts, she remained seated.

Holding up a hand, he forestalled any attempt she might have made to stand. “No need to see me out,” he said, almost kindly.

Without waiting for her response, he turned and strode from the room, the door clicking shut behind him—a sound she barely even noticed.

And in the moments that followed, time slipped away. Melanie sat in her mother’s chair, staring at the empty hearth, hardly able to comprehend what had just happened.

There was something in the shadows of her mind, long hidden, threatening to break through… Her father’s voice echoed faintly in her mind. “ Hide these, my darling. Keep them safe for me.”

Hide what? Keep what safe?

Her breath hitched as realization began to dawn.

She rose and hurried to her chamber, her footsteps quickening as she reached the corner of the room, a space she’d intentionally ignored for months. And then, without an ounce of hesitation, she began to remove the hatboxes from where they had been arranged in tidy, waist-high piles, with the largest ones on the bottom and the smallest sat on top. Beneath them, untouched since coming to London over a year ago now, was her small writing desk.

With shaky hands, she pulled it free and set it on the bed. The latch gave way easily, the faint creak of the hinge loud in the stillness of the room. And inside, beneath a neat stack of her stationery, was a bundle of letters.

Her hands trembled. The handwriting was unfamiliar, but the ducal seal unmistakable.

Just as her fingers brushed the topmost envelope, a noise came from behind her that had Melanie freezing in place—the ghostly groan of the wooden floorboards under careful footsteps, or else the simple addition of another person’s breath in a confined space.

Whatever it was, Melanie became suddenly aware that she was no longer alone in her bedchamber.

Slowly, she turned, her heart pounding.

The Duke of Crossings stood in the doorway, his smile cold and triumphant.

“There, that was easy enough, wasn’t it?” he said, his tone mocking. “Now…” He held out a gloved hand, his dark eyes lingering on the letters. “Hand them over.”