Page 8 of An Unwanted Widow for the Duke
He dipped his quill into the inkwell once more, preparing to write the final lines of the evening. His muscles ached—not from hours of writing, but from years of tension carried in silence.
He had been married at nineteen and widowed for five years. Now, at thirty-two, the weight of it all seemed only to grow heavier.
“Enough of that,” he muttered to himself, brushing the thoughts aside.
Then came a knock.
Once.
Twice.
Sharp and urgent.
“Yes? Who is it?” he called.
It was an odd hour for visitors. The door was unlocked, and whoever stood beyond it opened it slowly. The hinges creaked.
Mrs. Everly, the housekeeper, stepped into the lamplight. Her usual calm was gone, replaced by wringing hands and a pale, drawn face.
“Your Grace,” she began, her voice trembling, “forgive me for the late hour?—”
“Speak.”
“It’s Lord Hector,” she blurted out. Her voice cracked, and her face twisted, as though she were holding back tears. “He’s… gone.”
“Gone?” Gerard echoed.
The quill slipped from his fingers, landing on the page. Ink spread in a slow, dark blot, but he didn’t look down.
“He’s not in his room, Your Grace,” Mrs. Everly continued, almost whispering now. “And the back gate was found open.”
Chapter Two
“Absolutely not,” Mr. Archibald Finch declared, his voice rising as his spectacles slipped down his nose. “You’ve gone too far this time. Lady Silverquill must soften her tone.”
Mr. Finch, the balding and perpetually perspiring sixty-year-old editor and publisher of TheGazetteer, sat behind a desk littered with papers.
Across from him stood Wilhelmina, her arms folded, her expression unyielding.
“How many times have you said that, Mr. Finch?” she asked with a slow arch of her eyebrow. “If I had a shilling for every warning, I might’ve bought this building by now, and secured my freedom along with it.”
Whenever she spoke to her publisher, Wilhelmina adopted the polished cadence and poise of Lady Silverquill, an inheritedpersona she wore with both pride and mischief. The column was more than gossip and wit; it was her way of drawing out the secrets people preferred to keep buried.
Mr. Finch, in contrast, was red-faced and flustered, dabbing his temple with a handkerchief that had long since given up the fight.
“You may find this amusing,” he huffed, fanning himself to little effect, “but I assure you, the matter is grave. Several of our patrons have threatened to cancel their subscriptions. Most notably, the Dowager Viscountess Ellesmere is beside herself.”
Wilhelmina gave a faint, amused smile. “Let us hope my next letter is even more poisonous. Arsenic, perhaps. Tasteless but perfectly fashionable.”
“You cannot say such things,” Mr. Finch groaned, rubbing his ink-stained fingers together. “You know you cannot. TheGazetteermay thrive on wit, but it survives on the gold of the easily scandalized.”
“I suppose,” she said, her tone more thoughtful now, “I have been writing on principle… and impulse. But they read the column because no one else dares to tell them the truth. Imagine living one’s entire life surrounded by flatterers too frightened to speak plainly.”
Mr. Finch let out a sigh and slammed a fresh stack of letters onto the desk. The papers fluttered like startled birds.
“More correspondence for Lady Silverquill,” he said grimly. “From now on, I expect you to find merit in each, be it penned by a child or a countess. I don’t object to your opinions, Lady Slyham. But for heaven’s sake, temper them. Be gentle. Like you were with the boy asking advice on his father’s behalf.”
She hesitated. That letter had touched her in a way few others did.
