Page 65 of Her Beast of a Duke
Proud of herself, Isabella huffed. “On second thought, I might try your isolation and silence myself. I will be in the library if you wish to seek me out.”
With that, she whirled on her heel and left him in the study, feeling as though she had gained something.
As she left, she swore she heard an annoyed, low growl and the clatter of the pen.
Isabella only smiled to herself.
For a minute, her hurt had ebbed away, and she could be brave and confront him, but as soon as she shut herself in the library, it came back again.
The loneliness was heavy in her heart, and no matter how much she tried to focus only on the pages she read, her eyes kept lifting to the closed doors at every noise outside, hoping it was him, and hating that she hoped, and hoped, and hoped.
When she was brought her tea in the library, Isabella ate in silence, her eyes still fixed on the book she was reading. But as she finished, she heard a pained whine, followed by a yelp.
She was on her feet in a second, recognizing Morris’s noises.
Flinging the door open, she pushed out into the corridor. Her head whipped left just in time to see the bloodhound skid into the wall, skirting around the corner. But more worrying than his frantic energy was the smear of blood that followed him, smearing on the floor and the wall.
Isabella gasped. “Morris!” she shouted out, reaching even though he had already disappeared.
She could hear his claws scrabbling on the floor, his fear evident in the jerking movements.
She raced after him, trying to find more blood smears, but they soon disappeared when she got to the carpeted part of the hallway. Hurrying up the main staircase, she searched for more signs of damage or the rampant hound but found none.
“Morris!” she called out again.
Isabella veered off to pass by Oscar’s study, finding the door closed.
When she launched herself into the room, only emptiness greeted her. Not even the smell of recently melted ink to signal he may have been writing correspondence let her know if he had recently left the room. It was still, and she gasped in helplessness, turning to try to find Morris again.
She whirled around next, seeking out Mrs. Tisdale, who was in the kitchen overseeing that night’s dinner. When she saw Isabella, startled and frantic, her brows pinched.
“Your Grace?” the housekeeper asked.
“Mrs. Tisdale, have you seen Morris?”
“Not since he was playing outside, Your Grace. He seemed rather pleased. Is everything all right?”
Isabella paused, then shook her head. “Please, just… if you have seen the Duke, or Morris, do let me know immediately.”
Before Mrs. Tisdale could ask her more questions that would only slow her investigation, Isabella picked up her skirts and strengthened her efforts, but Morris was nowhere to be seen, and neither was his trail of blood.
What had injured and spooked him so greatly that he had not even stopped at her call? Morris was so used to her by now that he had grown almost as loyal to her as Oscar, even coming to her room at night sometimes.
Something had to be truly wrong, and that worried her.
With her heart pounding in her chest, she continued down the hallway, checking corners she had not really ventured around since her initial tour, and soon, she realized she had arrived in the northern wing. She had dutifully stayed away ever since Mrs. Tisdale’s warning. It had mostly been because she had been distracted by the master of the estate himself, but now she ventured further.
Glancing behind her, she approached the door that had once been padlocked. Yet now it was unlocked, and she wondered if she could find Oscar in there. He needed to know Morris was injured, and the sooner they found the bloodhound, the sooner they could tend to whatever wound had been inflicted upon him.
Pushing open the old, creaking door, devoid of its usual padlock, as if it had been forgotten about, but only beckoned her closer, the creak seemed to want to announce her arrival too loudly.
Isabella cocked her head at the lack of a padlock, knowing how intensely Mrs. Tisdale had insisted on this wing being off-limits. Still, she slipped through quickly, too curious to keep questioning, and found herself inside a long hallway of the northern turret. It was drafty and dusty. Motes danced through the air, and the gloom felt oppressive as she slowly stepped her way down the hallway.
The first door she came to was open, for why shut these doors when the main one was usually locked?
Peering inside, Isabella’s breath caught.
It was a gallery room, and portraits were filling the walls.
