Chapter 23

Chapter Twenty-Three

H er Grace, Helen, Dowager Duchess of Devlin entered the grand Devlin estate with a fire of frustration bubbling just beneath her composed smile.

She was angry.

No.

She was more than angry.

She was enraged.

The talks had started before she had been gone to bed.

A brute.

No courtesy.

What do you expect from someone so scared?

On and on it went and it was even worse with the morning light.

She noticed, as her carriage drove her to the estate, the stares, the pointing fingers, the whispers…

How could he?

How could he be so…

Especially after the last scandal?

What are men so bloody stubborn?!

And yes, it didn't add to her mood that she was exhausted

The journey had been long, and she had hoped… no, expected, to be met with some semblance of order, some indication that her son had maintained a shred of propriety after the embarrassing display at the ball the previous night.

But no such thing could be seen as she stepped out of the carriage.

And the silence that greeted her only served to increase her anger.

"Where is he?" she muttered, her jaw tightening as she made her way through the long corridors of the estate she knew so well.

With each step, her heeled boots clicked sharply against the polished marble floors, the echo ringing out in the otherwise quiet halls.

She had been angry before.

Of course she had

She had lived long and had suffered some infuriating circumstances

And as mother, she had been disappointed in Anthony numerous times throughout his life, but this... this was different.

This was fury.

A mother’s fury not just at her son’s foolishness but at his stubborn and obvious disregard for everything she had worked to protect—the Devlin name, their legacy, their standing in society.

Him.

Always him.

The ball last night had been intended as a statement, a display of wealth, power, and unity.

It was meant to show that. O matter what, they were still regal.

Still honorable.

Instead, it had ended in disgrace.

Anthony had dismissed the guests without a single explanation, not even a flimsy excuse, leaving her to smooth over the scandal and salvage what little dignity remained in their family’s name.

And now?

He was nowhere to be found.

Probably sulking like the overgrown child he was.

She knew letting him go to war was a mistake and she has never regretted it more than she did right now.

Her fingers fisted tightly around the emerald silk of her gown as she approached his chambers, her thoughts going through the storm of angry scoldings she was about to unleash on him.

She pushed open the door with more force than necessary, causing the heavy wood creaking on its hinges as it swung wide, only for her to stop dead at the entrance.

Empty.

It was still quite early for him to begin his duties for the day and yet…

The bed was still perfectly made and the room looked untouched which meant he had not even bothered to return here after the debacle of the night before.

Her heart sank, though she would never show it.

She knew it.

Her son was spiraling, and she feared that that woman was the root cause.

Victoria.

She stepped further into the room, her eyes scanning the dimly lit space, hoping for some sign, some clue as to where he might have gone.

But there was nothing.

The cold hearth and the neatly organized papers on his desk only increased her sense of worry.

Victoria.

She would know where he is?

Anger surged again, replacing her momentary worry.

This is absurd.

She would not allow this madness to continue.

She would not allow her to drag Anthony into ruin.

No, she would take control of this situation before it was too late.

Put her in her place

Turning on her heel, Helen stormed out of the room, her gown billowing behind her like a queen preparing for battle.

As she made her way down the hall, she spotted a servant slowly dusting a vase near the staircase.

"You," she called, her voice low and cold, stopping the girl in her tracks.

The maid turned quickly, her eyes wide with fear, knowing well that the dowager duchess was not to be trifled with when she was in one of her moods.

"Where is my son?" Helen demanded, her words sharp enough to cut. "Where is the Duke?"

The maid trembled under the weight of her gaze. "I… I do not know, Your Grace. He has not been seen since last night. The others say-"

"The others say what?!" She snapped, stepping closer.

"That he left the estate after the guests were dismissed, Your Grace. I… I'm not sure where he went, but the stable boy mentioned something about the stables being in disarray this morning. It seems his horse was taken."

Her eyes narrowed at the words, words that only served to make her suspicions grow darker by the moment.

Anthony had left? In the middle of the night? Alone? No, this was not mere coincidence.

Something was wrong, something must have happened last night to make him behave like that and then vanish for hours

"And Victoria? Where is she in all of this?"

The maid winced at her question and Helen zeroed on it like a hawk

"Speak girl!"

"The Duchess is not here, Your Grace!" she gasped out. "We… no one has seen her since last night!"

What?!

"What do you mean by that? Where did she go?"

"We have no idea. And from the looks of it, neither does the lord."

Of course.

Her hand tightened on the banister, her knuckles turning white with the force she used.

"Has there been any word from the Duke?" she pressed, her voice dropping to a deadly calm.

The maid shook her head frantically.

"No, Your Grace. None of the staff have seen him since."

Helen’s lips pressed into a thin line, her patience wearing thin.

This is all too ridiculous.

No one, absolutely no one made a fool of the Devlins, least of all her own son.

And certainly not over a woman who wasn’t worth the silk of her gown.

With a sharp nod, she dismissed the maid, her eyes already scanning the halls as if expecting him to appear.

She mase her way towards the study, resolved that if Anthony was hiding somewhere on the estate, brooding over whatever nonsense had gotten into his head, she would wait him out.

He may be stubborn, but she was his mother.

And if anyone could make him see the folly of his actions, it was her.

* * *

Helene paced the length of the drawing room, her agitation growing with each passing minute.

It had been hours -hours!- since she had arrived at the Devlin estate, and still, no sign of Anthony.

She had figured he would be fine with a morning run and return or maybe gone to a club and would stumble in drunk but no.

Still no sign of him.

Her mind raced through every possible explanation, every conceivable reason why her son would have disappeared like this.

Without a word

None made sense.

The sun had already dipped behind the clouds, casting long shadows through the grand windows while the lanterns flickered, their soft light doing little to soothe her rising frustration.

She stopped by the hearth, lost I thought as she stared into the flames, her fingers drumming against the back of a nearby chair.

Where was he?

Just as her patience was about to snap and call for a horse herself, the door creaked open, and Anthony walked in.

Relief should have been what she felt.

Horror was her experience.

Her son, the once dashing and impeccably dressed duke of the estate, looked utterly disheveled.

He was still wearing the same dark tailcoat and white cravat from the previous evening's ball, now wrinkled and stained with God knows what.

His boots that were always usually polished to a sheen, were caked with mud. His shirt was open at the collar, his vest disheveled as though he had made no attempt to straighten himself after the long night.

But it was his face that concerned her the most… his normally clean-shaven jaw was now rough with stubble, his eyes sunken, dark circles framing them.

"Anthony!" she gasped, her hand rising to her chest as she took in the sight of him. "What on earth has happened to you?"

He said nothing.

His gaze barely flickered in her direction as he strode past her, heading for the sideboard where a decanter of brandy awaited.

"Anthony!" she repeated, her voice sharp now, tinged with the worry she could not admit aloud. "Where have you been? Why do you look like this? You’ve not even washed or changed your clothes from last night! What happened?!"

He poured himself a drink, the amber liquid sloshing slightly over the edge of the glass and without responding, he downed the brandy in a single gulp, his jaw tightening as the burn slid down his throat.

Helen's frustration rose.

She had never known her son to be so... dismissive.

Cold… brooding yes, buy disrespectful, down right dismissive?

This was not the man she had raised, not the heir to the Devlin name. Her son was always in control, always the picture of dignity. And yet here he was, looking like a man who had spent the night fighting demons.

"Do not ignore me, Anthony!" she snapped, her temper flaring. "I will not be treated like one of your servants. You owe me an explanation."

He sighed, setting the empty glass down with a loud thud. "There's nothing to explain, Mother. Everything is fine."

"Fine?" she repeated, incredulous. "You call this fine? You disappear without a word, you look like you’ve been dragged through the streets, and you expect me to believe that everything is fine? I’ve been here for hours, worrying-"

"I didn’t ask you to worry," he interrupted coldly, his voice low and tired. "It’s not your concern."

Her eyes widened, both shocked and enraged at his tone. "Not my concern?" she repeated. "Anthony, you dismissed all your guests last night! Without a word, without explanation! Do you realize the scandal you’ve caused? Do you understand what this means for our family’s reputation?"

He said nothing, just merely refilled his glass, his expression still unreadable.

"We were just beginning to recover from the last scandal," she continued, her voice rising with every word. "Your marriage was supposed to restore some dignity to this family, and now, because of your recklessness, we are back at square one. How could you send away dignified guests like that? Important people, people who we need to align with! And you?—"

"I don’t care," he cut in, his voice suddenly loud, the glass in his hand trembling slightly.

Helen froze, her anger momentarily replaced with disbelief. "What did you just say?"

"I said I don’t care," he repeated, his voice now hard, edged with something far darker. "Let them talk. Let them spread their little rumors. I couldn't care less what any of them think."

"You can’t mean that," she whispered, her shock giving way to anger once more. "Anthony, this is your life—our family's life—your estate, your legacy! Do you not see the consequences of your actions? These are not just 'little rumors,' these are?—"

"They could all go to hell for all I care," he snapped, his voice suddenly booming in the large room, silencing her mid-sentence.

Helen took a step back, her eyes wide with shock. Never in her life had her son spoken to her like this. Never had she seen such bitterness, such fury in his expression.

"Anthony..." she began, but he cut her off again.

"I said I don't care, Mother. I don’t care about them, I don’t care about the estate, I don’t care about the gossiping fools who fill their mouths with our name or whatever scandal they can think up. Let them all think what they want. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. Not anymore."

For a moment, the only sound that could be heard in the room was the crackling of the fire in the hearth.

Helen could barely recognize her son. This was not the Anthony she knew. This was someone else, someone cold, someone... defeated.

"What has happened to you?" she asked quietly as she walked closer to him, her anger fading, replaced now with something closer to sorrow.

Or fear

His eyes narrowed on her before he crossed the room in two large strides. Without a word, he snatched up a piece of paper from his desk and flung it toward his mother. It fluttered through the air, landing at her feet.

"That is what Victoria left for me," he said coldly, his voice strained with barely concealed fury. "Read it, and then tell me again how any of this matters."

Helen stared at the letter for a moment, her breath caught in her throat before she slowly bent down to retrieve the paper.

My Dearest Anthony,

I write this with a heart heavy with sorrow and regret. I can no longer bear the weight of this marriage, nor the expectations that come with it. I have tried, I have tried with all that I am, but I find that my heart cannot rest in this union. I cannot love you as you deserve, for my soul is burdened by our reality.

I know not whether it was fate or my own weakness that led me to this path, but I must leave. I thought I could endure this marriage on my sister’s behalf but I cannot bring myself to any longer. She is soon to be happily wed and I mut be free of this farce. I must leave for my sake to a place far from the life we have shared. Please do not seek me, for you will not find me. I will not return. This is the only way I can find peace, though it tears me apart to say these words. I cannot remain with you, Anthony. I cannot.

I hope, in time, you will understand why I must do this. You deserve more than what I can offer you, more than the hollow love I have tried to give.

Yours,

Victoria

The silence that followed was thick and suffocating.

Helen’s eyes scanned the words again, her lips pressing into a tight line as she folded the letter back neatly. She looked up at her son, her expression a mix of pity and frustration.

"Well?" Anthony demanded, his voice breaking the stillness. "Say something. You’ve read it. You’ve seen the truth. She’s gone, Mother. She’s left me, and there’s nothing to be done."

"A fool," she muttered, shaking her head. "You’re a fool, Anthony."

His eyes widened in disbelief.

"What?" he snapped, anger bubbling to the surface. "Did you not just read what she wrote? You call me a fool after seeing this? After knowing she has abandoned me?"

"Yes," Helen said firmly, her voice unyielding. "A fool, and a blind one at that."

Anthony recoiled, incredulous. "How can you say that? She said it herself—she’s leaving. She doesn’t love me. She’s run away, and she made it perfectly clear that she has no intention of returning."

She stepped forward, thrusting the letter toward him.

"Do you truly believe this? Do you think a woman who has fought for you, who has endured all that I have put her through, would simply leave because she could not find love in you? Do you not see the absurdity of that?"

He blinked, startled by the vehemence in her words. "What are you talking about?"

Helene’s face hardened, her tone cutting like a knife. "Since the moment you became betrothed to her, since the very day you married her, I have watched her closely. I have tried to keep her in her place, to ensure she understood the weight of her position, the demands that come with being a Devlin’s wife. And yet, through it all, through all the ways I sought to put her down, to frustrate her, she clung to you."

"What are you saying? Speak plainly."

"I am saying," she said, her voice rising, "that this is not a woman who would simply give up. Victoria did not run from you because she could not love you. She loves you, Anthony. No woman fights the way she has, endures the scorn I have given her, unless her heart belongs to the man she stands beside. That letter is a lie. Something else is going on here, and if you weren't so expectant if the hate and rejection you would have seen it too."

Anthony stared at her, stunned, unable to form a response even as she took a step back, letting the weight of her words sink in. "Now, I suggest you think long and hard about that before you let this letter ruin what remains of your marriage."

He stood there, frozen in place as his mother’s words echoed in his mind.

For the first time since reading the letter, a crack formed in the wall of his anger.

Could she truly have left him like this? Without a single word to his face? No farewell, no explanation beyond a few hurried lines on a page? He clenched his fists at his sides, his breath growing uneven as he replayed his mother’s accusations in his mind.

Victoria wasn’t a coward.

She was fiery, passionate, and resolute. If she had wanted to leave him, she would have done so boldly, standing before him, telling him herself.

He knew her.

In the months they had been together, they had weathered storms far worse than he thought possible.

Their marriage had not been easy…there were the arguments, misunderstandings, and moments when he thought they might break… but through it all, Victoria had remained by his side.

She had fought for him. Defended him when others had spoken ill of him.

Even when his own mother had tried to belittle her, tried to make her feel small, she had stood her ground, unwavering in her loyalty to him.

He remembered, so clearly, how she had faced down the ton, how she had held her head high despite the whispers and gossip that followed their marriage.

There were countless moments where she could have walked away, where she could have left him to face the shame and scandal alone.

But she hadn’t. She had stayed, by his side, through thick and thin.

Why, then, would she leave now?

And more importantly, why would she leave without even facing him?

Anthony’s eyes drifted back to the letter, still clutched tightly in his hand. His fingers trembled as he unfolded it once more, staring at the familiar handwriting.

It was so… like her, the way the letters curled and flowed across the page. But as his gaze lingered, the doubt began to stir again.

His heart pounded as he scanned the words, each one now appearing more foreign than before.

A memory flashed through his mind… he had seen her handwriting countless times before. He had watched her write letters to her sister, to friends, to acquaintances. And then it hit him… a specific letter she had written to her sister just weeks ago. He had caught a glimpse of it, and something about this letter was… wrong.

His brow furrowed as he carefully studied the writing before him.

At first glance, it seemed identical to hers, but the longer he looked, the more strange things he noticed.

There were small differences - small enough that most would overlook them - but to him, they were glaring.

A particular loop on the letter "y" was different. The spacing between words felt slightly off. Even the way the ink flowed…

This was not her writing.

At least, not entirely.

His pulse quickened as the realization hit him like a cold wave.

"It’s not her," he murmured, half to himself. His heart thudded loudly in his chest as he looked up at his mother, eyes wide with disbelief. "It is forged."

Helen, who had been watching him closely, narrowed her eyes. "What did you say?"

Anthony held up the letter, his hands trembling with newfound urgency.

"This isn’t her handwriting. Not all of it, at least. I’ve seen her letters before and this… there are subtle differences. It’s almost a perfect imitation, but it’s not her. She wouldn’t have written this."

Helen’s gaze sharpened, and she stepped forward, her face a mixture of intrigue and concern. "Are you certain?"

"I’m certain," Anthony replied, his voice low but resolute. "Whoever wrote this… they wanted me to believe she had left me. But this is not Victoria’s doing. It can’t be. She’s not a coward, and she wouldn’t leave like this. Someone… someone must have taken her, or forced her to write this."

He felt a wave of anger and dread wash over him, the realization dawning that Victoria was in danger, and he had been too blinded by his own rage to see it.

His chest tightened with guilt as he thought of her, alone, possibly frightened, while he had wasted time brooding over a false letter.

"Then what are you still waiting for?"