“Once I asked my father to stay. The thought of him leaving again was too great.” Eleanor dropped her hands from her hair and clasped them together in her lap. “He ignored me and I started crying. I begged him and he...he...”
“He what?” Charles tensed, knowing innately he would not like the answer.
“He struck me.” Eleanor lowered her head. “It happened so fast...and he was so strong... Evander was sent away soon after that. The soft affection I’d once been afforded went hard and I was given a rigorous education in its place.”
“He struck you?” Charles growled. If her father were still alive, Charles would strike him—repeatedly. Stand up for the girl who had not been able to stand up for herself.
Eleanor pressed her lips together before speaking again. “He did not have the extensive lineage my mother had, and he’d always overcompensated for his new acceptance into the nobility. He wanted us to be iron, emotionless, strong.”
Charles clenched his jaw with restrained rage. He reiterated in his mind, if the former Earl of Westix were still alive Charles would kill him. To think of Eleanor being so helpless against the power of a grown man...
“The loss of love was far more painful.” She turned her face up to him. “And all for treasure.”
Charles’s heart flinched.
“Charles...” She met his gaze in the mirror.
His stomach sank. Would she ask him to forgo his travel? “Yes?”
“What if the only way for you to get the ruby you seek is to employ the tactics they used?” Her brows pinched together. “Would you still reclaim the stone?”
He didn’t respond. He couldn’t. His final promise to his father had to be fulfilled. Experience had taught him that not all treasure could be legally acquired. In the past Charles had let it be—it was unnecessary to bring everything back. But the Coeur de Feu...
It was the one thing he knew he could do in his life that would have made his father proud.
“I shall endeavor to keep my morals intact,” he replied slowly, diplomatically.
“And if they cannot be kept intact?” she pressed. “How great is your desire to possess the stone?”
Again, he hesitated, hating this part of himself, hating the burden of his father’s dying wish.
“Did you ask Evander if you could use the key on the journal?” She resumed the task of pulling pins from her hair and unraveling her long, glossy hair.
“I didn’t bring the key with me.”
The pin in Eleanor’s hand pinged onto the table.
“This trip was about our wedding.” He put his hand to her shoulder.
“We ought to return to London soon, then.” She gave him a cool glance over her shoulder. “So that you might get the key and have your journey underway. And Mother will want to know Evander is safe.”
Charles said nothing. How could he when a fire burned in the pit of his stomach? Eleanor had not asked him not to leave, and yet he knew she did not want him to go. It would be on him to make the decision to stay in London, and he could not do that. Not when he was so close to redeeming himself with his father.
Except he would have to do it knowing that in making good on his father’s dying wish he would be hurting the woman he cared about more than any other.
* * *
It was not only the aggravated silence between Lottie and Evander that was growing in the carriage upon their drive back to London—there was a length of silence between Eleanor and Charles as well.
Eleanor knew it to be of her own making. After all, when she’d agreed to marry him she’d known he would be going after the Coeur de Feu, no matter the cost.
Why, then, did she feel so hollow inside when she thought of him leaving?
It was more than just the possibility that he might have to employ immoral practices to get the stone. It was the idea of being left alone. Again. Every man in her life had left her to experience the world. She had subsisted as they’d lived.
And it would be happening again with Charles.
She’d anticipated that the empty feeling would dissipate, but it had only grown like a festering wound inside her, hot and red and raw with powerful emotion.
And while Eleanor had tried to convince herself that she could keep her heart guarded, its pathetic leap every time her eyes lit on his handsome face suggested otherwise. Which was why it was better to cut her emotions to the quick and rely on older, safer habits—the habits that protected her from feeling.
Finally, after a tense and interminable ride back to London, and dropping Lottie at her town house, they returned to Westix Place so that Eleanor and Charles could offer their apologies to her mother. And witness Evander’s homecoming.
By the time they made their way up the steps Edmonds was already pulling the door open. He looked first in surprise at Eleanor, then glowered at Charles. But when his gaze caught on Evander his mouth fell open, and the older man could only stare before stammering out an acceptable welcome.
No sooner had they crowded into the receiving room than the Countess approached, fanning herself to ward off an apparent flash of heat. “Eleanor Susan Murray, you—”
Her mother stopped, and the fan fell from her hand and dropped to the marble floor with an audible smack. Her fingers trembled where they hung in midair before coming to rest on her partially opened mouth.
“Dear God... Evander.” She blinked, and a tear rolled down her cheek. “My son.”
She reached for a small table near the wall to brace herself and missed.
Evander caught her before she could fall. “Forgive me my prolonged absence, Mother.”
She gave a choked sound, as if it had been wrenched from the depths of her soul, and then touched his face, her fingers shaking. “It’s you. It’s truly you, my sweet boy. You’ve come home. You’re...safe.”
She turned away abruptly and the room was filled with the soft gasps of her weeping.
Evander put his arm around their mother’s slender shoulders. “I won’t be going away again. I’ve accumulated enough wealth—we shall not have to worry for generations to come.”
“I don’t care about the fortune. My children...both of whom I’d thought lost forever...have returned.”
The Countess looked to Eleanor and held one arm out to her daughter. Eleanor took her mother’s hand and found herself pulled into the extremely rare embrace of her family.
She smiled at Eleanor through her tears. “I am not pleased with your decision.” Her mother jabbed a glare at Charles. “But I am pleased to have you home.”
Pain twisted at Eleanor’s heart. Was she herself glad for her decision? Or would she come to regret it in a wash of loneliness and hurt?
The Countess pressed a kiss to each of her children’s foreheads, going on tiptoe for Evander, and then pulled away. She swept at her cheeks and smoothed her immaculate blue day dress.
“Yes, well...” She sniffed. “Excuse me a moment. I must freshen up. And then we will all take tea.”
Eleanor sat silent and stiff through tea, letting her mother and Evander do the talking. Charles remained at her side, equally quiet, his constant glances at her the only indication that he suspected something might be wrong.
She should tell him, and yet she could not quite work out the best way to say the words.
How could she possibly ask him to forgo the stone and stay with her in London?
Chapter Thirty
Charles was not so foolish as not to know something was amiss with Eleanor. Nor was he daft enough to wonder at the cause, when she had said it so plainly herself prior to their departure from Comlongon.
The loss of love was far more painful. And all for treasure.
He knew he should not go on his journey, and yet how could he forgo his opportunity to find peace with his father? How could he sacrifice the excitement of the world to simpl
y stay in dreary, dull London for the rest of his life?
And love... What was love? It was not what he had felt for his father—that had been respect. Nor was it what his father had felt for him—that had been obligation. Perhaps it was what he felt for Lottie—but surely even that was sisterly affection?
He knew he enjoyed Eleanor’s laughter and her smiles, that they made his heart swell when he elicited them. He knew he’d never once hesitated at the thought of traveling until he’d known her. And he knew he was frightened that he might somehow lose her.
Later, upon their arrival at Somersville House, and after a brief introduction of Eleanor to the household staff, she immediately went up to her rooms with her maid. It was then that Grimms informed Charles that Lottie had sent over a letter, in the short time he had been at Westix Place. He expected to read of Lottie’s heartache, considering what had transpired between her and Westix.
Charles made his way to the library, where he firstly extracted the key from the safe and then opened Lottie’s note. His heartbeat quickened with delight as he read.
It seemed Lottie had received a considerable amount of mail in the short time of their travel—all of it from mothers, and even some fathers, with daughters in the ton who might benefit from her instruction. She would no longer need a protector.
Smiling, he set the letter on his desk beside a bottle and pile of unopened letters.
Bottle? The smile faded from his lips.
Why the devil was there a bottle on his desk when he hadn’t been home long enough to have put anything there? The last one had been thrown out with the rubbish. He’d seen to that.
But there it was, with a card dangling from its thin neck, glinting with the imprint of a compass.
This bottle was full—new. Which meant that whoever had put it there had been in the house—and most likely very recently. A shiver of warning went up Charles’s spine and he felt an immediate and sudden need to ensure Eleanor was safe.
For in his gut he feared she was in danger.
* * *
Eleanor had not expected such grand rooms—though, considering the vastness of Somersville House, she ought to have known the Duchess’s chambers would be glorious.
Amelia had agreed to come to Somersville House to ready the rooms when Eleanor had left for Scotland with Charles. Now she fluttered about like an excited child while she detailed every feature of her new residence.
“And the best part, if you don’t mind my saying, Your Grace...” Amelia pushed at the wall. A quiet click sounded and a portion of the wall popped out to reveal a hidden door. “It leads to the Duke’s chambers.”
Eleanor pulled at the hidden door. It slid easily toward her on silent hinges. She looked at Amelia, who grinned and nodded toward the passage.
“Go on,” Amelia said. “I believe your Duke said he’ll be joining you soon.”
“He did...”
Eleanor kept the trepidation from her voice. She had known that the closer they had drawn to London, the sooner Charles would be leaving. It was unfair to ask him not to go, and yet... And yet it had been impossible not to soften her heart to him even in her ire. How could she possibly do it while they lived together? Shared a bed together?
She slipped through the hidden door, which immediately clicked closed behind her. The chamber she stepped into was powerfully masculine, with heavy mahogany furniture and artifacts used in its decoration throughout. The familiar exotic spice of Charles’s scent filled the room and set her pulse pounding.
A creak sounded behind her. Eleanor was startled from her thoughts and spun around.
At first she saw nothing, and then she noted where the wall had parted to reveal yet another hidden door across the room. Not the one she’d entered through.
She swallowed down a prickle of fear. Surely Charles hid behind it, in an attempt to surprise her? She pulled it open and found the passage empty. A chill crept up her spine. She frowned to herself at her childish fears and closed the door firmly.
The chill did not abate. In fact, her skin practically crawled with primal apprehension. Not silly, nor foolish, but a true and persistent warning.
She turned slowly—and choked back a scream. A man stood not more than ten feet in front of her. Not Charles, but a man she recognized nonetheless.
The Earl of Ledsey.
“Hugh...?” she managed.
He curled his lip. “I heard he’d married you. The servants talk, you know.” A muscle worked in his jaw, where he clenched his teeth. “I could’ve married you.”
“You have Lady Alice.” She backed away from him.
“Everyone wanted her. How could I resist?” Hugh smirked. “But then you came in as an Ice Queen at the masquerade ball...and you were magnificent.”
He stepped closer and Eleanor realized she had no way to back up further.
“And then he began sniffing around you and I knew you had them still.”
Her mind reeled. Had them still? The Earl had lost his mind. She edged to the side and he followed her step in a mocking, macabre dance.
“Did you like my tulips?” he asked. “You never once even looked outside to see me there, watching you. Imagine my surprise, though, when you went to that whore’s house.” Hugh laughed—a scoffing, snort of a sound.
“Don’t you dare call Lottie that!” Eleanor concentrated all her fear and her anger into grabbing a statue of a gold elephant and hurling it at him. The thing was heavier than she’d anticipated and veered wildly off course, before landing with a muted thunk on the carpet several inches from his feet.
Hugh tilted his head at this inept attack. “A whore is exactly what she is. And you’re no better—married or not.”
Eleanor spun on her heel and darted away from him. She’d only taken a few steps when she felt a sharp rip of pain at her scalp, and found herself wrenched backward by her hair. She gave a surprised scream and was thrown to the floor.
Hugh stood over her and placed the sole of one immaculately polished Hessian on her chest. “This will all be over soon and I’ll finally have what I have needed from you since the beginning—the journals.”
He drew a pistol from his jacket, then lowered it and aimed it directly at her face.
Chapter Thirty-One
Charles took the stairs two at a time and broke into a sprint on the landing, racing toward Eleanor’s rooms, where he bolted through the door.
Her maid shrieked and dropped the ivory-handled brush she held. At least she hadn’t thrown it.
“Did you hear that?” Charles asked. “A heavy thud.”
The maid shook her head.
“Where is she?” he demanded.
“N-next door, in your room.”
Charles ran back into the hall and found his own door locked from within.
His heart was sucked into his throat.
He darted back into Eleanor’s room, not stopping until he was at the concealed door.
Amelia followed behind him. “Your Grace...?”
He threw open Eleanor’s secret door, then his, and stopped.
Lord Ledsey stood on the opposite side of the large bed, looking down at something Charles could not see.
What the devil was Ledsey doing in his chambers? The Lord’s attention snapped to Charles. “Come any closer and I’ll kill her.”
Her.
Eleanor.
Dear God, no.
The maid’s gasp sounded behind him, followed by the pattering of her footsteps over thick carpet. She had evidently made the same assumption as him, and would surely be going for help.
Ledsey nodded at Charles. “Close the door and lock it behind you.”
Charles hesitated. He didn’t want to close the door, or lock it. He wanted to spring across the room like a savage lion so he could tear the blackguard’s throat out and ensure Eleanor was safe
.
But he was no lion. He was only a man, helplessly standing too damned far away to protect her.
“Do not test my patience, Your Grace.” Ledsey sneered out the title. “Close the door.”
Charles pushed the secret door closed, but did not lock it, and hoped Ledsey would not notice. Charles put his hands up in surrender and moved deeper into the room.
“What is the meaning of this, Ledsey?”
He was nearly around the bed when his gaze fell on the splash of vibrant red hair against the blue carpet and the glint of the pistol held in Ledsey’s grip.
Anger erupted through Charles with brilliant intensity. “Let her go.”
He stalked around the bed and drew to an abrupt halt when he came to Eleanor, lying with her back against the thick carpet, rigid and stiff.
Eleanor. His wife.
A panicked jolt shot through his heart. He could not lose her. He would not lose her.
“I want the journals. And the key.” Ledsey’s stare flicked to Eleanor, but he did not appear nervous, merely watchful.
Charles had opened his mouth to reply when Eleanor spoke.
“You couldn’t have known about the journals...or the key...unless...” She gasped.
The realization slammed into Charles at exactly the same moment. “It was you who drugged me that night. You took the journals. You put that bottle—”
Ledsey smirked. “Yes, it was me. The previous Duke made it so easy, with all these passages and hidden rooms. I was able to wait for you to fall asleep, then I crept in and took them. Clever of you, though, hiding the key.”
“How do you even know about the journals?” Eleanor’s voice was sharp with demand—certainly not the voice of a woman being held at gunpoint.
“How do I know about them?” Ledsey stared incredulously down at her. “My father was in the Adventure Club. He’s the one who found most of the artifacts. Your fathers took them from him. They basked in public adoration while he was relegated to the shadows.”
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