Page 31 of A Bride for the Devilish Duke (Marriage by Midnight #2)

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

E mma ambled the hallway with trepidation, Elsie by her side. Josie was not equal to a ghost hunt and had been tasked with comforting the frightened Mable. Behind Emma and Elsie, beyond a turn in the hallway, lay the private chambers belonging to Emma and Damien. Beyond that were rooms seldom used which she had not yet explored.

“Mr. Wilkins discourages us from dusting these rooms. Only once a month are we permitted beyond the corner where your private chambers end,” Elsie whispered.

“ More secrets . I will cast some light on this one at least,” Emma grumbled back.

They walked to the end of the hallway but heard nothing. No music and no raging demon.

“Perhaps the demon has escaped,” Elsie suggested.

Emma looked at her quizzically and she gave a wry smile.

“I'm trying to think of a sensible explanation for what Mable heard. I can't think of any,” the maid added.

“ I can. We are not alone in this house. But it needn't be a spirit. Merely a… house guest?”

She opened the door at the end of the hallway revealing a staircase that descended. At that moment, there came the sound of movement from above them.

“That was very definitely a person, I should say…” Emma began.

Elsie shuddered. “Feet dragging across the floor and a body slumping heavily against something. Like a man shifting in his sleep. If he were sleeping on the floor.”

“But there is no way up from here. We shall have to find the way up to the fourth floor…” Emma finished.

Her accomplice shook her head. “This is it . Mr. Wilkins said that the way to the music room on the fourth floor went through the Duke's chambers. It is the oldest part of the house and your private rooms were added later.”

Emma frowned. This could not be it. That didn’t make sense. She stepped into the stairwell, turning her head in the direction of the sound. Wooden panels faced her. She pressed her palms inquisitively against them, grazing their outlines. When she reached the last, one of them shifted—ever so slightly beneath her touch.

“Well, I never,” Elsie breathed as Emma pressed harder and the panel swung inward.

They looked into the dark, narrow staircase beyond. From somewhere above, there came a groan and a wheezing breath.

“That is no spirit. That is a human being in distress!” Emma exclaimed.

She hurried up into the darkness followed closely by Elsie. At the top was another door that seemed to be a threshold. Beyond it, the wooden paneling and stairs gave way to stone. A spiral stair rose before them. The flicker of firelight reached fitfully down towards them from the top of the stairs.

Exchanging looks, the two women ascended. Emma entered the room beyond first.

A man with long, unkempt graying hair lay sprawled on the floor in front of the fireplace. A violin lay on the floor a few inches from his outstretched hand. A chair lay on its side beside him.

Elsie hurried past Emma as soon as she saw the man, kneeling by his side and pressing fingers to his throat.

“A pulse, thready and irregular but there,” the maid observed, “he is cold to the touch and his breathing is ragged.”

She put an ear to his chest for a moment.

“There is crackling in there. From the feel of it, he's been in the cold for too long, damp too probably. It’s got into his chest. Can you find blankets and something to feed up the fire?”

Emma was reminded of Elsie when they had first met. When Elsie had been a competent nurse, taking charge of Emma while she recovered. Elsie as a lady’s maid was different but now that first Elsie had come to the fore once again. Emma did not mind. She hurried to obey.

As Elsie had further tested the man's pulse, she had moved his long graying hair aside. It had revealed a face that was a mirror to Damien. A mirror which reflected an older man, much marked by the world. His face was lined and haggard but undoubtedly the face of Damien's close kin.

A brother? It could not be his father, even under all that gray hair and the lines on his face, he does not look old enough.

And besides, Damien's father was dead.

But he had never spoken of a living brother, and if that is what this man was, then he was older than Damien. And an older brother would be the rightful heir...

What has Damien done?

Swallowing her burgeoning fears, she focused on her instructions. Blankets were found in a chest against one wall. She handed them to Elsie who wrapped them around the man. Emma found a box of firewood and added several logs to the fitful fire until it was roaring. The man stirred, raising a hand, and moaning as though in protest, but Elsie soothed him.

“We must make him more comfortable. There is no bed here. Is there another room?” Elsie asked.

Emma tried the room's only door. Beyond was a tiny bedchamber with another door on the other side. This led to a long and dusty stone corridor with windows that looked down on trees that brushed the sides of the house.

Returning to the first room, she tried to help Elsie lift the man. But despite his gaunt frame, he was too heavy for them, being of the same long-legged and broad-shouldered frame as Damien.

“I… I will get Damien. We will not be able to move him without help,” Emma muttered with conviction.

Her maid’s eyes immediately widened. “But what if His Grace has something to do with his condition?”

Emma inhaled a shaky breath. “I am not afraid of my husband. There must be a reasonable explanation for this.”

She stood for a moment, breath trembling in her throat, before she turned and left the chamber.

She did not run—but it was close.

She found Damien on the south lawn where makeshift targets had been set up in the form of pieces of firewood atop a wall. Charles was pacing away from the wall before turning and taking careful aim.

A blast split the air. A splinter of stone leaped from the wall, but the wood atop it remained untouched.

“Try again,” Damien said flatly. “Do not rush it. Turn and take careful aim—breathe out. The man who simply tries to be first to fire will miss. So make your shot count, because your opponent surely will.”

Charles nodded grimly, reloading the pistol. Emma had never seen her brother looking so solemn or so resolute before. If his life were not at stake, she might have been glad of it. Damien became aware of her and turned.

“Husband, I must speak to you. Urgently .”

He studied her for a beat. Then handed off the pistol to Charles with a clipped nod.

“Carry on, Charles. I will return momentarily.”

Emma began leading him some distance from the makeshift shooting range. Her mouth was dry and she felt breathless, heart pounding.

More secrets. And this time it is a man living in the house in which I live. A man who has never been mentioned and is certainly a member of Damien’s family. And yet I can only feel my husband withholds even more secrets from me…

“One of the maids heard some strange sounds from a floor above our quarters that I did not even know existed,” she began tentatively. “I went to explore and found a secret door in the stairwell, and... the man upstairs.”

Damien stopped walking.

She tried to keep fear from her voice, to keep her tone from being accusatory. Emma wanted the truth and knew that hesitancy would be met with anger. Demands would be met with a brick wall. She waited for signs of fury from Damien—or worse, the signs of a guilty man caught. She did not want to believe her husband was capable of holding another person prisoner in such conditions.

He is a good man, and there is an explanation for this. There must be!

For a moment, there was nothing. No words. Not even a breath.

Then Damien moved past her. Not hurried. But fast enough that she had to pivot sharply to follow him.

“You already saw him,” he muttered, voice clipped. “And yet you come to me asking what you already know.”

“I know what I saw,” she replied, trailing him desperately, “but I do not know what it means. And I would like to hear it from your mouth, not in riddles.”

He stopped walking. Turned.

“Was anyone else with you?”

Emma’s eyes narrowed. “Pardon?”

“When you went up there.” His tone had cooled further. “Did you go alone? Did anyone else see you? The maid who told you—who was it? Did she follow?”

Her eyes widened, incredulous. “Good God, Damien. There is a man up there. Dying. By the looks of it, your brother too. Is whether I brought an audience with me what is important right now?”

He flinched at that—barely, but enough.

“So it is true,” she breathed brittly. “He is your brother.”

Silence.

“Answer me.”

Damien’s hand raked through his hair as he pivoted away, muttering something she couldn’t catch. His whole body was taut, as though he were holding back the desire to run or shout or strike something.

“Yes.” The answer when it finally came was low. “His name is Harold. He is… my older brother and the rightful heir to Redmane.”

Emma felt the air leave her body. “I... I do not understand. You are Duke of Redmane. The Regent acknowledges you as such. As do all, except the twins.”

Again, only silence.

“Damien—” she tried.

But he moved again, back toward the manor.

“I need to see him.”

Emma followed, faster now. “No. Not until you tell me why you have your brother imprisoned in your tower!”

Her accusatory tone had him rooted in his tracks. He reached for her arm and she pulled away. His hand remained raised in empty air, grasping at nothing.

“Do you now fear me?” he asked.

Emma searched her heart. That man had been living in secret and in ill health in a part of Redmane Manor that was kept hidden from all. He seemed to be a prisoner and Damien was the only person who could be holding him.

Holding his older brother prisoner so that he can claim the Dukedom? I cannot believe it!

Emma felt her world tremble from the revelation. Felt the beginnings of everything that she had only just begun to rely upon crumbling, leaving her with no foundation to stand.

Just what kind of man had she left her family reliant upon?

She took a deep breath, convincing herself that if she had faith in anything, it was in the man before her. She did not know all of his secrets but she had faith regardless. Faith born of love.

“No, I… I do not fear you,” she murmured, stepping close to him and putting a hand to his chest. “But please, help me understand. Why is Harold imprisoned like a ghost in the tower?”

He met her gaze, unflinching. “Because that’s how he prefers it.”

“No man prefers it,” she said sharply. “Not a man who collapses to the floor and cannot rise. Why? Why would anyone—?”

“Because he couldn’t bear the weight of that godforsaken title!” Damien snapped bitterly. “Not since that damned fire. Because I gave him my word that no one would know. That I would carry the burden so he would not have to.”

Emma frowned. “What fire?”

His arms suddenly went about her, drawing her close and his head lowered beside hers. This time, she did not draw back. Despite herself, she breathed him in. Over his own scent was the pungent tang of woodsmoke and gunpowder. But it was him , nonetheless.

Brushing his forehead lightly against hers, he began. “Our father was a tyrant. After our mother died, he spiraled deeper. Outwardly, he was respected by all. In private, he was a drunk bastard and a brute. I bear the scars of his beatings but Harry received worse. For… for trying to shield me as I was the younger.

“One day, at a house our father owned in London, a fire started. Our father was drunk, again, and neglected a candle before he fell asleep. A breeze from an open window fanned the flame and it set fire to curtains. Thence to the room in which my father slept. I awoke first. I could have saved my father but not Harold too. I chose my brother. Geoffrey Fitzgerald, Duke of Redmane never awoke.”

The wind stirred the roses behind them. Emma didn’t speak, couldn’t. She watched him—this man she had married, war-forged and cold-tempered, now looking like he had been broken long ago and never quite put back together properly.

He continued. “He… he never recovered fully. Not physically. Not in his mind. Smoke damaged his lungs, and fire stole whatever comfort he had in light or warmth. When the title passed to him, he said he couldn’t bear the weight. That he would rather die than be paraded before society as its noble ghost...”

“And so you became Duke,” Emma finished.

“I didn’t want it either.” He laughed—short, bitter. “But one of us had to claim that bastardized legacy. Or the vultures would parade it as if it meant something”

“So you have hidden him for all those years…?”

They both jolted as another blast rang out. Damien looked toward the sound of the gunshot. Charles had missed again.

“Come, Charles can continue to practice on his own for a while,” she murmured.

Taking his hand, she led him into the manor and toward the bifurcated staircase.

“Harold is dying. He collapsed,” she pressed. “Whatever arrangement you once had—it is killing him. You cannot call that mercy.”

Damien’s shoulders fell as he let himself be drawn. “I told him. I told him the tower was too cold, too dark. That he needed more than books and that damned violin. But he wouldn’t have it. He is terrified of flames. If I build the fire up, he smothers it. Or tosses the firewood out of the window into the woods.

“We agreed that he would live in secret at Redmane, unknown even to the servants. But now that the secret has finally been revealed, truthfully, I am glad. Harry will have the responsibilities of the Dukedom and we can share the burden of what is to come.”

Emma shook her head. “I am not sure he will be able to. The man I saw was very weak and very ill.”

“Then what do you want from me?” Damien groaned, bitterly.

“I want you to stop pretending this doesn’t matter.”

She stopped walking and turned on him, until there was barely a breath between them. Her voice dropped, soft and fierce.

“I want the man I married to stop hiding. From me. From himself. From his past.”

His chest rose, then fell. A long silence passed. Then another.

And finally, as if unspooling from the quiet, he whispered, “You weren’t supposed to see it. You weren’t supposed to know. I never meant to drag you into that part of my world.”

Emma’s hand found his. “Then stop keeping me at its edge.”

They stood like that for a moment longer—too many things unsaid, but enough understood.

They reached the secret room not a moment too late and Damien's eyes filled with tears at the sight of his brother. He bent to lift him in his arms, carrying him out of the room and down the stairs.

“He shall have the Duke's quarters. I should never have agreed to this. It ends here. The world will know that Harold Fitzgerald, the rightful Duke of Redmane, is alive.”