Page 86 of His Mad Duchess
At last, he found himself in the library’s farthest alcove, surrounded by towers of books and scattered papers. He leaned heavily against the table, breath tight in his chest, eyes burning from hours of fruitless searching. His reflection in the tall window was grim, almost unrecognizable—a man hunted by questions that refused to yield.
His hand skimmed along the highest shelf of the alcove, fingertips brushing spines worn smooth with age. Most volumes yielded dust, a few slipped loose at his touch. But one, its leather cracked, its title gilt in faded letters—Sermons for the Devout Household—resisted when he tried to tug it free.
Sebastian frowned, dragging the chair beneath him and climbing up to wrest it loose. The weight was wrong. Too light for its size. His pulse quickened.
With a sharp pull, the volume came away, and in his hands, it opened not to pages but to a hollowed core, a box crudely fashioned, the edges stiff with glue and age. Inside lay a single folded paper, yellowed and brittle.
His breath caught.
For a moment, he simply stared, unwilling to disturb the silence that pressed thick about him. Then, slowly, he drew it out. The wax seal was cracked, the angular and deliberate hand unmistakably his uncle’s.
He unfolded it, the scrawl within hurried, uneven, unlike the man he dimly remembered:
There is no absolution for me. The weight of it follows, pressing, choking. I cannot bear the look of those who trust me, nor the memory of the awful thing I have done. God may forgive, but I cannot. It is better this way. Let the name Redmere be spared my stain.
—G.R.
Sebastian’s vision blurred. His hand trembled, the paper rustling in his grip. He pressed it flat against the table, his jaw tightening, his chest a knot of fury and grief. He blinked hard,once, twice, but the ink did not vanish. The words burned all the clearer, “…the awful thing I have done…”
His hand slackened. The page slipped from his grip, fluttered down onto the blotter. “No…” His voice broke hoarse, filling the empty library. “God above—what did you do?”
Sebastian’s chest constricted. He staggered back, dropping heavily into the chair, staring at the damning words until they seared into his sight. A suicide note. His uncle’s last testament.
For a heartbeat, Sebastian sat utterly still, listening to the frantic pound of his own pulse. Then he snatched it up again, his eyes darting over the script, desperate for some other meaning.
“There must be more,” he muttered, the sound half-growl, half-plea. “Something I misread.”
But there was no mistake. His mother’s beloved brother had written it. A confession without detail, yes, but a confession, nonetheless.The awful thing.Something so black, it had driven him to end his life.
“No,” he said again, louder now, rising suddenly to his feet. He pressed the heel of his hand hard against his brow, as though he might shove the thought back where it came from. “Not him. God, not him.”
His throat burned. He sank into the chair once more, the paper trembling in his grip. The words blurred, searing themselvesinto him until he could bear no more. His voice tore loose, ragged and furious, echoing against the shelves.
“Coward! You couldn’t even name it.”
The shout cracked through the stillness, shocking even himself.
Images of a little girl clutching the window latch with smoke all around her surged within him.
Parsons appeared in the doorway, breathless, no doubt summoned by the sound of Sebastian’s voice. “Your Grace?”
Sebastian’s head snapped up, his eyes hard. He closed the letter quickly, sliding it beneath his palm. “Leave me.”
“Your Grace, are you?—”
“I said, leave me!”
The butler withdrew, the door shutting fast behind him.
Alone again, Sebastian pressed both hands to his face, dragging them down until his palms covered the letter. His heart pounded so loudly it seemed to echo in the rafters.
This was no phantom of Margaret’s grief, no nightmare conjured from fever. His uncle had left behind words of damnation.Words that proved—something. That tied him to a deed so vile, he would rather end his life than bear it.
Sebastian gripped the edge of the desk until the wood creaked beneath his palms. “What did you do, George?” His voice cracked, raw with fury and grief. “What did you do to her?”
Sebastian’s throat burned as he whispered into the stillness, “Margaret… was this what haunted you?”
The paper shook faintly in his grasp, the words etched there burning like a brand upon his mind. He rose too quickly, the chair scraping harshly against the floor, and crossed to the door. His hand lingered on the latch, breath uneven.
