Page 12 of Duke of Diamonds
And then there was the matter of the tension—thattension—between Craton and Canterlack. She had not imagined it. The disdain, the hostility, the barely concealed loathing. Perhaps the Duke might have a reason of his own to interfere.
Even if it were simply to spite the Earl.
Hope bloomed, sudden and wild in her chest. A dangerous hope. A foolish hope. But a hope all the same.
Perhaps... perhaps there is a way out after all.
That evening, Fiona waited until the halls of the house fell into shadow and silence. She waited until the last of the footmen had retired and the soft click of her mother’s door confirmed that Prudence was, at last, at rest.
She slipped from her chambers and changed swiftly into a dark cloak, the hood drawn low. Her heart beat with frantic rhythm, but her steps did not falter. Through the servants’ entrance, she slipped into the cool night air and made her way down the quiet streets of Mayfair.
Toward the far edge of the district, where few ventured. Toward the house shrouded in ivy and isolation. Craton Manor.
It loomed like a sentinel in the moonlight—stoic, silent, and utterly indifferent to the rest of the world. Just like its master.
Fiona drew in a breath and stepped forward.
Let us see if the Beast of Mayfair might be persuaded to play hero.
CHAPTER 4
The knocker felt heavier than it ought to.
Fiona stood on the narrow stone step outside the looming house on Craton Street, her gloved hand raised and hovering—absurdly, stupidly—just above the iron knocker’s lion’s head. The brass glinted in the faint glow of the gas lamps lining the quiet street, and her reflection in the polished metal was pale and wretched.
You are only asking for help,she told herself, even as her stomach roiled.You are not here to ruin yourself.
With one breath drawn too quickly to be calming, she dropped the knocker against the wood.
Once. Twice.
The sound echoed into the night, swallowed by the ivy-covered façade and the heavy air of disapproval that seemed to hang around the place.
A long moment passed. Fiona shifted on her feet, unsure if the silence meant refusal or mere delay. Then the door opened with a deliberate slowness, and a tall, elderly man in austere black appeared.
He blinked.
She wasn’t sure what he’d expected to find at his master’s door at this hour—certainly not a gently trembling lady in a blue cloak with her bonnet askew and shoes damp from pacing.
“I—” she began, then straightened. “Good evening. I wish to speak with His Grace. It is most urgent.”
The butler, to his credit, betrayed nothing more than a flicker of confusion. “May I ask your name, madam?”
“Lady Fiona Pierce.”
A pause, as though he were attempting to reconcile her presence with all known facts. Then: “Please wait here.”
She nodded, stepping inside when he held the door. The foyer was dim and quiet, the hush of the house so complete it rang in her ears. She remained just within the entrance, her gloves pressed together at her waist, heart battering against her ribs.
The butler disappeared, leaving her in a house that felt more like a mausoleum than a residence. No warmth, no idle conversation. No hint of welcome.
Her nerves were beginning to fray by the time he returned.
“His Grace will see you,” the butler intoned. “This way, my lady.”
He led her down a hallways that smelled faintly of wax and cedar, the silence between their steps stretching taut. Finally, he opened a heavy door and gestured for her to enter.
The study was large, wood-paneled, with tall windows now hidden behind thick curtains. A low fire burned in the grate, casting shadows that danced across bookshelves and leather-bound volumes. And at its center, behind a broad desk cluttered with correspondence and what looked like estate ledgers, stood the Duke of Craton.
