Page 107 of The Duke's Jilted Bride

“Wait! Your Grace, those are our only copies!” Thomas reached out, alarmed. “I still need them for?—”

“Send me the bill,” Rowan cut in, already tucking the books under his arm. “I’ll return them when I’m done.”

He didn’t wait for a response. Just walked out, leaving Thomas frozen in place, mouth half open.

The ledgers were heavy, but not just physically. They carried that awful mix of hope and frustration like answers were in theresomewhere, buried beneath the mess, just out of reach.

Back at the townhouse, he brushed past Simmons without a word and headed straight to his study. The ledgers hit the desk with a dull thud, scattering loose papers in every direction.

He stood there a moment, jaw tight, hands braced on either side of the desk. Then he pulled a chair closer and got to work.

“Will you be dining tonight, Your Grace?” Simmons asked from the doorway.

“No. And I don’t want to be disturbed.”

“Very good, Your Grace. Shall I?—”

“Close the door behind you.”

Alone at last, Rowan shrugged out of his coat, letting it fall wherever it landed. He moved to the sideboard and poured himself a generous measure of brandy, downing it in one swallow before pouring another.

The ledgers sat before him like accusers. Three volumes of chicken-scratch handwriting and cryptic notations, somewhere within which lay the key to Edward Bentern’s identity. Somewhere in this maze of numbers and symbols was the person who had stolen a year of his life and now threatened Selina’s.

He opened the first ledger, squinting at the faded ink in the lamplight. Each page was a trial, the handwriting so poor that individual letters were often indistinguishable. The names appeared to be written in code, amounts listed in abbreviations that defied interpretation.

Hours passed. The brandy bottle grew lighter as Rowan’s frustration mounted. Entry after entry yielded nothing, each page bringing fresh disappointment. His eyes burned from straining to read the awful handwriting, his head pounding from the combination of alcohol and concentration.

Somewhere in this house, servants went about their evening routines. Somewhere in London, Selina was sleeping under another roof, driven away by his own stubborn pride and misguided protectiveness. The thought of her absence was a constant ache, made worse by the knowledge that he had caused it himself.

He missed her laugh. Missed the way she looked at him over breakfast, as if he were someone worth treasuring. Missed the warmth of her body beside his in the darkness, the quiet conversations they’d shared in those brief, perfect weeks when they’d let themselves love each other.

And for what? To protect her from dangers that found her anyway? To spare her the risks that came with being his wife, only to watch someone try to poison her in their own home?

He was a fool. Worse than a fool—he was a coward, just as she’d called him. Too afraid to trust in what they’d built together, too terrified of loss to fight for what he’d found.

Another page, another series of incomprehensible entries. The letters swam before his eyes, blurring together in the lamplight. His hand shook as he reached for the brandy bottle, missing the glass on his first attempt.

“Damn you,” he whispered to the ledger, to Edward Bentern, to his own failings. “Damn you all.”

The clock chimed midnight, then one, then two. Still, he persisted, driven by desperation and guilt in equal measure. Every entry he deciphered brought him no closer to answers, but he couldn’t stop. Stopping meant accepting defeat, accepting that he might never find the person responsible.

Accepting that he had destroyed his marriage for nothing.

The third ledger proved no more enlightening than the first two. Pages of financial gibberish, client codes that meant nothing, transaction records that revealed everything and nothing at once. His vision blurred with exhaustion and alcohol, but he pressed on, turning page after endless page.

Somewhere near dawn, with the brandy bottle empty and his head spinning, Rowan’s strength finally gave out. His forehead struck the desk with a dull thud, and ledgers scattered around him like the remnants of hope.

In his dreams, Selina called his name. But when he reached for her, she faded like smoke, leaving him alone with his failures and his fears.

CHAPTER 35

“You cannot stay in this room another day,” Isabella announced, sweeping into Georgiana’s morning room with her usual dramatic flair. “I absolutely forbid it.”

Selina looked up from the embroidery she had been pretending to work on. “Good morning to you too, Isabella.”

“Don’t give me that tone. Georgiana wrote to me, and I came as soon as I could arrange for the baby.” Isabella stripped off her gloves and bonnet, fixing Selina with a stern look. “You look dreadful.”

“Such flattery. I’m overwhelmed by your kindness.”

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