Page 85 of His Mad Duchess
“Your Grace,” the man murmured, setting the bundle carefully upon the desk. “All that could be found. Letters received and drafts Her Grace left behind.”
Sebastian’s eyes snapped to the pile, his pulse quickening despite himself. He gave a curt nod. “Leave me.”
The servant withdrew, closing the door softly, and Sebastian reached for the papers, his hands unsteady though his jaw was iron.
Sebastian tore the string loose, scattering the bundle across the desk. Sheets rustled, inked lines of receipts, half-written invitations, a note from some distant acquaintance catching his eye. He rifled faster, the sharp scratch of paper loud in the silence, but nothing met him. No explanation. Not even a hint of where she had gone.
His hand stilled at last, resting on a blank sheet, his breath unsteady. Empty. All of it was empty.
He leaned back, the chair creaking beneath the force of his weight, fury and weariness coiling together in his chest.
Sebastian let the final paper fall, its whisper against the desk loud in the hollow room. Useless—every sheet was useless.
A knock sounded, and Parsons entered with his usual measured tread. His gaze swept the scattered letters, then returned to his master with quiet concern.
“Your Grace,” he said, “shall I have supper laid in your chambers? You have only just returned from your journey.”
Sebastian drew a breath, forcing control into his voice. “Yes. Food. And wine. I will rest tonight.” His hand clenched on the armrest. “Tomorrow I will search this house from cellar to roof. The libraries, the offices, every locked drawer. Whatever lies buried here, I will uncover it.”
Parsons hesitated, the faintest crease at his brow. “May I ask, Sir… what is it you seek?”
Sebastian’s gaze cut to him, steady, unyielding. “Answers.” The single word rang final, brooking no further inquiry.
The butler inclined his head, accepting the rebuff with grace. “Very well, Your Grace. I shall see to your supper.”
When the door closed behind him, Sebastian pressed his palms flat against the desk, his breath coming hard. Tomorrow, he would begin looking for answers.
The next morning broke gray and listless, the kind of light that dulled the sea-facing windows and leeched warmth from thechambers. By the time Parsons arrived to announce breakfast, Sebastian was already dressed, his boots polished and coat set square.
He began in his mother’s withdrawing room. The escritoire stood neatly locked, but he forced the key from its hidden compartment in the drawer beneath. Inside, he found only the expected correspondence half-finished, invitations declined, and a few charitable accounts written in his mother’s tidy hand. He rifled through them, page by page, but found nothing beyond the banalities of society life.
From there, he moved to the estate ledgers kept in the steward’s office. He hauled each great book down from the shelf, the weight of years in his arms. He leafed through the accounts, scanning columns of numbers, grain deliveries, rents collected, and salaries for servants. Nothing amiss, nothing to explain the face that haunted Margaret’s memory. He slammed one ledger shut, the crack echoing through the still room, before dragging another into the light.
Hours passed. Dust clung to his fingers, and ink smeared the cuffs of his coat. He had been at it so long that the hours blurred together, broken only by the rustle of turning pages. He prowled the library next, pulling volumes down from the shelves, not to read their contents but to test their spines for hidden recesses and to shake loose any folded letters pressed between the pages.
Several times, slips of paper did fall, a nursery rhyme of his scrawled in a childish hand, a list of dinner guests, a pressed flower, but nothing that carried the weight he sought.
The air was close, heavy with dust and the faint tang of ink. Sebastian’s coat lay discarded over a chair, his cravat tugged loose, his sleeves rolled to the elbow. He bent over the steward’s desk, eyes bloodshot from relentless searching.
A discreet cough sounded in the doorway. Parsons entered with a tray of fresh bread, cold meats, and a pot of steaming chocolate, the scent filling the stale office.
“Your Grace,” the butler said softly, “you have eaten nothing since breakfast. A mouthful, at least, before you make yourself ill.”
Sebastian did not look up, his hand dragging across another column of figures. “Set it down, Parsons.”
The tray was placed carefully upon a side table. “Shall I pour you a cup, Sir?”
“No.” His voice was curt but not unkind. He straightened only long enough to rub his eyes with the heels of his hands, then bent again to the ledger. “I have no use for it. Leave me.”
Parsons hesitated, his lined face drawn with concern. “If you will not eat, perhaps a walk in the air might?—”
“Thank you, Parsons.” Sebastian’s tone hardened, though his gaze remained fixed on the neat rows of ink, as though the truth itself were hidden between the lines.
The butler inclined his head, retreating in silence.
When the door shut, Sebastian shoved the untouched tray farther aside, his jaw tight. Hunger clawed at his belly, thirst burned at his throat, but he ignored both. His hands returned to the work—ledger after ledger, book after book—until the hours blurred together, marked only by the soft thud of volumes hitting the desk and the rasp of his breath in the hollow stillness.
By noon, he had stalked through three anterooms, two parlors, and the long gallery. Drawers were yanked open, cabinets emptied, desk-lids lifted. He examined even the small items: the lining of a writing-box, the hollow behind a mirror’s frame, the base of a candlestick that came away too easily in his hand. Still nothing.
