Page 53 of A Dilemma for the Duke

“There was a scent,” she began, her brow furrowing in concentration. “Like lemon mixed with something smoky. It’s distinct, but I can’t place where I’ve smelled it before.”

“Lemon and smoke,” he repeated, filing that away mentally. “Anything else?”

“His voice had an odd cadence. Almost familiar, but not quite. And he seemed to know things about you.”

A chill prickled at the back of his neck. “About me? What did he say?”

“He made veiled references. It felt personal as if he held a grudge.”

Rockford sat back, his fingers tightening around the armrest. A slow dread curled in his gut, cold and uncertain. His past was not without its shadows, but this? This was personal. Whoever the highwayman was, he wasn’t just playing a game, he had a personal vendetta.

“I thought if we pooled our perceptions, we might piece together who he is and what he wants,” she continued, her eyes searching his.

He met her gaze, determination, and something deeper stirring within him. “We’ll figure it out,” he assured her.

A hint of relief softened her features. “Thank you, Rockford.”

He hesitated before adding, “And please, promise me you won’t take such risks again. I couldn’t bear it if—” He stopped himself, the depth of his feelings threatening to spill over.

She offered a faint smile. “I’ll be more cautious.”

“Good.” He exhaled slowly, tension easing slightly. “Perhaps we can interview the couriers who had encounters with the highwayman. See if any patterns emerge.”

“That’s a good idea.” She reached for a stack of papers. “I’ve taken some notes…”

As they immersed themselves in the task, he remained acutely aware of her every movement—the way she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and her voice’s soft inflection when she pondered a thought. An unspoken understanding lingered between them, a connection that went beyond their shared mission.

He decided then and there to protect her—not just from physical harm but from the shadows that threatened to dim her spirit. Rockford would ensure it ended here, whatever the highwayman wanted, whatever vendetta he pursued.

“Lora.” Her name left his lips before he could stop it, barely above a whisper. She looked up, curiosity flickering in her gaze.

He hesitated. The truth pressed against his ribs, demanding to be spoken. But once said, it could never be taken back. His jaw tightened. Not yet.

Instead, he exhaled slowly. “I appreciate your trust in me. It means more than you know.”

Her gaze softened, a gentle smile touching her lips. “You’ve given me every reason to trust you.”

The knot in his chest tightened. He forced a smile, nodding. “Shall we continue?”

“Yes, of course.”

As they delved back into their notes, Rockford knew the moment to reveal the truth was approaching. But for now, he cherished this time with her, even as his heart battled between duty and love.

Chapter Twenty-Two

That afternoon, theSommer Gentlemen’s Club exuded quiet authority, its gas lamps burning steadily above whispered conversations and the shifting weight of influence. The Aubusson carpets muffled the measured strides of Sommer-by-the-Sea’s and London’s most powerful and influential men. Deep burgundy velvet drapes framed the tall windows overlooking Westmore Commons. The subtle scent of cigar smoke mingled with the aroma of aged brandy, creating an atmosphere of indulgent luxury.

Hastings paused at the threshold, allowing his eyes to adjust and his senses to drink in the familiarity of privilege. The hushed conversation provided a rumbling, soothing background. In this realm, deals were struck with a handshake, and reputations could be dismantled with a whisper.

Adjusting the cuffs of his tailored jacket, Hastings allowed a faint smirk to play on his lips. Tonight, he donned his finest attire: a midnight-blue waistcoat embroidered with silver thread, a crisp white cravat secured with a sapphire pin, a recent acquisition symbolizing his rising fortunes. The reflection in the gilded mirror revealed a man of sophistication, but beneath the polished veneer simmered a cauldron of resentments.

Hastings settled into a leather armchair near the fireplace, a glass of whiskey in hand as his gaze casually swept the room. He nodded graciously to several gentlemen who amicably returned his greeting.

Fools, he mused inwardly, casting a glance toward a cluster of gentlemen engrossed in their own self-importance. They think themselves untouchable, yet they all have skeletons waiting to be unearthed. The memory of being snubbed, of whispers trailing in his wake, fueled his determination. He knew that information flowed as smoothly in these halls as the aged whisky in his glass. One by one, they saw the error of their ways. All he had to do was hint at an indiscretion, and oh, how they came around. No longer an outsider, he had clawed his way into their midst, and tonight, he would begin their undoing.

He noticed Sir Becket, a prominent banker with connections to several philanthropic endeavors, engrossed in a game of cards with a few other gentlemen. Rockford, so assured, so untouchable. Hastings had seen the flicker of tension at the mention of Captain Langley. The past still haunted him. Good. Revenge would be slow, deliberate, and oh, so sweet.

Taking up his half-finished glass of whiskey, he approached Becket’s table with an affable smile.

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