Page 111 of The Duke's Jilted Bride

Rowan’s head snapped up. “You don’t understand. Someone tried to poison her in our own home. While I slept beside her, they nearly killed her.”

“So you finished the job yourself? Destroy your marriage to save it?”

“I’m trying to find who’s responsible.”

“By drinking yourself into oblivion and driving away everyone who cares about you?” Felix stood, his voice rising. “Look at yourself, Rowan. Look at this room. You’re becoming exactly like your father.”

“Don’t.” Rowan’s voice turned dangerous.

“Hiding in a bottle, shutting out anyone who tries to help, drowning in guilt while everything falls apart around you. The only actual difference? He pointed fingers at others. You point them at yourself.”

Rowan lurched to his feet, swaying slightly. “At least I’m not bedding every widow in London to avoid my responsibilities.”

The words hung in the air like poison. Felix went still, his face closing off completely.

“At least I don’t abandon the people I love when they need me most,” Felix said quietly. “At least I don’t use protection as an excuse for cowardice.”

“Felix, I didn’t mean?—”

“Yes, you did.” Felix straightened his coat with deliberate precision. “You meant every word. Just like your father would have.”

He started toward the door, then stopped. “You keep this up, Rowan, and you’re going to run out of people who give a damn. And when you finally crawl out of that bottle, don’t be surprised if there’s no one left waiting.”

The door closed with quiet finality, leaving Rowan staring at the space where his oldest friend had stood. Shame crashed over him in waves, mixing with the alcohol in his blood to create a nausea that had nothing to do with drink.

Felix was right. About everything.

Rowan sank back into his chair, the ledgers mocking him with their indecipherable secrets. Three days of this madness, and he was no closer to answers. Three days of destroying himself while Selina suffered alone somewhere, thinking he didn’t want her.

His father had done the same thing. Retreated into drink and self-pity whenever life became difficult, lashing out at anyone who tried to help. How many times had the old duke blamed his son for his mother’s death? How many cutting remarks about Rowan being the reason she was gone, the burden that had killed her?

And yet his father had been the one with the mistresses, the gambling debts, the enemies who eventually killed him. Theblame had always fallen on everyone else while he sat in his study, just as Rowan was doing now.

The irony was bitter as poison.

A name flashed through his memory—Annette Brewer, his father’s longest-standing mistress. The woman who had expected to become the next Duchess of Aldermere before his father’s untimely death. She had been at every social event lately, watching him and Selina with those calculating blue eyes.

Something tugged at his consciousness, a memory from their recent encounters. Her words at the garden party, sweet as honey but with venom underneath. Her comments about fairy tales and fortune turning, about his father’s promises.

Rowan stared down at the ledger open before him, at the name that had haunted him for months: Edward Bentern.

His breath caught.

Edward Bentern. Annette Brewer.

His mind rearranged the letters, heart pounding as the pattern emerged. An anagram. The same letters, rearranged to create a false identity that could never be traced back to a respectable lady of the ton.

“Dear God,” he whispered.

It all made perfect sense. Annette had the motive—revenge against the family that had cost her everything. She had the connections to arrange such an elaborate scheme, and the social position that made her above suspicion. Who would ever suspect Lady Winsley of orchestrating a duke’s abduction?

And she had access. To his household, to society events, to information about his movements. She could have poisoned Selina’s water, could have been planning this revenge for years while playing the grieving former mistress.

The perfect crime, committed by the perfect suspect. A woman who had loved his father and blamed the son for taking away her future.

Rowan was on his feet and moving before conscious thought caught up. He grabbed his coat from where it had fallen, not bothering with his cravat or waistcoat. Every second counted now.

“Simmons!” he bellowed as he took the stairs two at a time.

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