Page 115 of The Duchess Trap
For the first time in weeks, his pulse steadied. The haze lifted. He turned from the window, striding back to the desk. The firelight caught the glint of metal on the inkstand—the sharp edge of his father’s old signet knife. He stared at it for a long moment, then reached for paper instead.
If Felton wanted a war, he would have one. But not at the cost of her.
He wrote until the candles burned low, until the sky beyond the window began to pale with the first light of morning. When he set down the pen, his decision was made.
He would not lose her.
For the first time in a long while, Duncan allowed himself to breathe.
And when he finally rose from his desk, he knew exactly where he was going.
CHAPTER 32
“Tell him I’ll meet him alone.”
The words left Duncan’s mouth in a command he’d already decided long before speaking them. The air in his study felt sharp, tense with purpose. His butler hesitated at the door, brow furrowed.
“Alone, Your Grace?”
Duncan’s gaze lifted, cold and unwavering. “You heard me. No one follows. No one interferes until I give word.”
The man nodded stiffly. “Yes, Your Grace.”
When the door closed behind him, Duncan exhaled slowly and looked down at the letter spread open on his desk—Felton’s reply to his demand for a meeting. No apology. No denial. Just a single line in that same arrogant, slanted hand:
If you insist, Raynsford. The old mill, midnight.
It was exactly the sort of place a man like Felton would choose—remote, abandoned, reeking of waste. Duncan almost smiled. The fool didn’t realize how thoroughly the game had turned.
He pushed back from the desk and crossed to the cabinet, opening the small compartment that held his pistol. He checked the powder, the flint, the weight in his hand. It felt familiar — the cold reassurance of something he could control.
He had spent the last week gathering every piece of evidence Felton had left scattered through his own arrogance. Bank ledgers, letters, receipts hidden under the guise of charitable donations, bribes wrapped in respectability. He’d traced the man’s dealings to three estates, two MPs, and one desperate father with a drinking problem.
Catherine’s father.
Duncan’s jaw tightened at the thought. He knew he still needed the Viscount to testify against Felton so that other gentlemen would come forward, but Duncan had tried to keep Catherine out of the affair as much as possible.
But the trouble was that Catherine’s name was never far from his mind.
Felton had struck Brightwater. He had intentionally attacked a place Catherine loved. But that had been a terrible mistake.Duncan meant to make him pay for that, and so many others, tonight.
He fastened his coat, the movements methodical, precise. When he looked in the mirror, the man staring back at him was composed, not angry, justready.
By the time he stepped outside, the night had deepened. A low mist rolled across the streets, softening the edges of the world. The carriage waited in the courtyard, horses restless in the cool air. Duncan climbed in without a word, settling into the seat as the driver flicked the reins.
The city blurred past in narrow lanes and shuttered windows, the faint glow of gas lamps giving way to darkness as they left the heart of London behind. He gave one last look toward the direction of Belgrave House, a townhome that had been in his family for decades but rarely saw visitors. He was glad the children and Catherine could be there. He was granted a brief feeling of reprieve in knowing that they would be safe whilst locked behind those thick oak doors.
Catherine would be asleep now. He imagined her in the quiet room, the faint rise and fall of her breath, the strands of hair that always escaped her braid to frame her face. The thought steadied him and tore at him in equal measure.
The carriage stopped at the edge of the old mill grounds—an expanse of overgrown weeds and skeletal trees. The moon hung low, pale and heavy, its light broken by the slow drift of fog over the Thames. The air smelled of river mud and rot.
Duncan stepped out, boots crunching on the damp earth. A single lantern burned near the mill entrance, its glow flickering against the warped timbers. He heard the soft rustle of movement inside, deliberate and unhurried.
Felton.
Duncan walked forward, each step measured. He had arranged everything: two Bow Street runners were hidden beyond the ridge, waiting for his signal. If things went wrong, if Felton chose violence over words, they would be there within seconds.
Still, he hoped to handle it himself. He always preferred to end what he began.
