Page 117 of The Duchess Trap
Felton’s lips curved into a weak, bloodied smile. “Then do it.”
For one brief, dangerous second, Duncan almost did. His grip tightened, rage coiling through him like a living thing. But then he saw Catherine—the way she had looked at him the night of the fire, the way her hands had trembled when she’d saidWe’re stronger together.
He released him, shoving him back so hard that Felton crumpled to his knees. “No,” Duncan said, his voice shaking with restrained fury. “You don’t deserve an ending that easy.”
He gave a short, sharp whistle.
A moment later, footsteps thundered outside. The two Bow Street runners burst through the door, pistols raised. Felton’s head snapped up in disbelief.
“Take him,” Duncan ordered.
The men seized Felton by the arms, dragging him upright. He fought, snarling like a cornered animal. “You think this ends with me, Raynsford?”
Duncan said coolly, “It’s already done.”
Felton spat at his feet as they pulled him toward the door. “You’ll regret this,” he hissed. “You’ll lose everything—your name, your wife, your precious estate. Everyone will see what you really are.”
Duncan stepped closer, voice low and deadly. “I don’t need them to see me. I just need them to see you fall.”
Felton’s curses echoed through the mill as they dragged him outside. The sound faded into the distance, replaced by the steady beat of rain against the roof, the rasp of Duncan’s breath filling the silence.
He stood still for a long time, every muscle tight, his pulse still pounding from the fight. The scent of powder hung heavily in the air. The papers on the barrel fluttered slightly in the draft.
It was over. He had expected satisfaction—some sense of victory, justice, peace. Instead, all he felt was exhaustion. The kind that came when a man had fought too long, for too many things, and realized he was the only one still standing.
He turned toward the open doorway. The Bow Street men were already leading Felton toward the waiting carriage, one of them glancing back for instruction.
“Straight to Bow Street,” Duncan said. “And see that he’s held without bail. The magistrate will have my deposition by dawn.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
When they were gone, the night fell quiet again.
Duncan looked up. The clouds had broken slightly, revealing a thin sliver of moon. It cast a pale light over the ruined beams, the scattered dust, the dark stain where the pistol ball had struck the wood.
For a long moment, he simply breathed. The cold air burned his lungs, but it felt cleaner somehow.
When he returned to the carriage, dawn was beginning to break in the east. The driver glanced back, startled, though Duncan barely noticed. He wasn’t aware of what his face betrayed, only that the rage had settled into something colder, quieter, and that for the first time in weeks, his mind was clear.
“To Belgrave House,” Duncan said.
The wheels turned, cutting through the fog.
He watched the city wake as they rode. The world looked different now, quieter, stripped bare. He thought of Catherine again, of her eyes, her voice, the way she had looked at him the night she had said goodbye.Very well, Your Grace.
He had earned every ounce of her distance, but perhaps now he could begin to earn her forgiveness.
By the time they reached Belgrave House, the first light of morning touched the rooftops. He stepped out before the carriage had fully stopped, the driver calling after him, but he did not slow.
The front door opened before he reached it. Mrs. Simms, who stood there in the doorway, seemed startled by his sudden appearance.
“Your Grace,” she gasped. “You’re?—”
“Where is she?”
“In the garden, sir. With the children.”
Duncan nodded once and walked past her toward the open doors at the back of the hall.
