Page 74 of Duke of Diamonds
Fiona,
I have departed for Scotland on business. I expect to be away for a fortnight.
Isaac
She stared at the final line. It was not signed with affection. Not even with familiarity. Just a name. As if that were enough to explain his absence.
A fortnight.
The word curled in her mind like smoke. Cold and uninvited. So, he had gone. Without a word the night before. Without mention of plans, of goodbyes, of reasons.
Without her.
CHAPTER 24
Fiona folded the note in half with an almost clinical precision, then set it aside as if it might vanish on its own. The room was quiet, as always, the quiet of a house too large for its occupants.
She did not sit immediately. Instead, she wandered to the tall windows and glanced out at the gray morning light.
Mr. Everett entered not long after, his ever-composed demeanor unchanged, the silver tray in his hands supporting a fresh pot of tea.
“Mr. Everett,” she said, turning to him. “Do you know precisely when the Duke intends to return?”
The butler hesitated with practiced grace. “I’m afraid I do not, Your Grace. The note he left mentioned a fortnight, but no specific date.”
“I see.”
So even his staff had been left in the dark.
Her eyes swept the room then, taking in the high-backed chairs with their threadbare upholstery, the faded rug beneath the long table, and the dull curtains that seemed to sag beneath their own weight.
“I was just thinking,” she said slowly, “how dreadfully tired this room looks.”
Mr. Everett offered a small, kind smile. “It has been some years since it was last refreshed, ma’am.”
“I believe it’s due for more than a refresh,” she said, crossing to the table and letting her hand trail along the back of one chair. “I intend to rework the entire house.”
The butler nodded. “That would be most welcome, ma’am. Mrs. Burton will be pleased to assist you. And I shall make myself available in any way I can.”
“Thank you, Mr. Everett.”
She lowered herself into her seat and reached for her fork. Yet even as she tasted the eggs and drank the tea, the food sat heavy and tasteless on her tongue.
Her thoughts circled back to the night before. The way he had touched her face. The way she had leaned into it.
And then he had fled.
Not walked away. Fled.
Did I misstep? Did I misunderstand?
It was one thing to eat alone. She had become familiar with that quiet insult. But this—this vanishing act—left her raw and restless.
She tossed the note aside with more force than necessary and returned to her meal. If she could not find comfort in her husband’s presence, she would find it in buttered toast.
By the end of breakfast, indignation had taken root in her chest. She rose and headed into the drawing room to her writing desk, deciding at once that she would write to Anna.
Fiona stood in the center of the drawing room, arms crossed and eyes fixed upon the faded wallpaper.
