Page 101 of The Duchess Trap
He stepped back as she passed, the faint scent of smoke and soap trailing after her. Once she was gone, he turned to find Mrs.Simms waiting in the corridor, her hands clasped before her apron.
“Your Grace,” she said, eyes red-rimmed but grateful. “I don’t know how to thank you. We’d have been lost without your help.”
“It’s my wife you should thank,” he replied. “This is the least I could do.”
“She’s an angel, that one,” the woman said softly. “The children worship her. We all do.”
Duncan’s gaze drifted toward the end of the hall where Catherine had disappeared. “Yes,” he murmured. “I’m aware.”
Mrs. Simms hesitated, as though unsure whether to speak, then added, “No one seems to know how it started, Your Grace. The south wing caught first, but the lamps there were turned out hours before bedtime. We can’t make sense of it.”
He frowned, the familiar pull of suspicion grounding him, reminding him of the inkling that had occurred when he stood there and watched the flames consume the structure. “Were there visitors today?”
“None that I saw. Just the usual staff.”
“Any new hires?”
“No, Your Grace. All ours.”
He nodded slowly. The logic in him, the man who had learned to trust nothing that came easily, stirred awake. “I’ll have it investigated. Every worker, every account. If it was malice, we’ll find who’s responsible.”
Mrs. Simms bowed her head. “Thank you, sir.”
Duncan nodded at her slightly, then hurried down the stairs. When he encountered one of his footmen, he said brusquely, “See that the doors are locked tonight. Keep watchmen posted until morning.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
He stood in the hall for a long moment listening. He heard nothing, and that silence brought him a modicum of contentment.
“Brightwater will rise again,” he said under his breath, as though speaking it aloud might make it so. “And it will be stronger.”
He meant it as a promise to the children, but it sounded, even to his own ears, like one meant for his wife.
CHAPTER 28
“Your Grace,” the butler said, bowing low as Duncan stepped into the townhouse hall. “There’s something for you.”
Duncan barely heard him at first. The ride home had been quiet, the city dark and damp beneath a veil of mist.
Catherine had fallen asleep halfway through, her head resting lightly against the carriage window, and he had sat opposite her, watching the faint rise and fall of her breath. Every time the wheels hit a rut in the road, she stirred, and he’d found himself tensing, wanting to reach out and steady her.
He hadn’t.
Now, standing beneath the familiar chandelier of his own home, he felt none of the relief he should have. The air here was clean, warm, still scented faintly with cedar and wax polish, but his chest was still tight with the acrid sting of smoke.
“Leave it on the table,” he said absently.
The butler cleared his throat. “It’s urgent, sir. A man delivered it not ten minutes before you returned. Said it was meant for your hand only.”
That made Duncan look up. The butler held out a single white envelope, unmarked. No seal. No name.
“Who was the messenger?”
“He gave no card, Your Grace. Only said you’d understand.”
The words scraped against something inside him. He dismissed the man with a nod and took the envelope, turning it over once in his hand. The paper was cheap, coarse between his fingers. It hadn’t come from anyone respectable.
He broke it open.
