Page 85 of An Inkpot and a Dowry for the Marchioness

“Is there something I can do for you?” the Duke asked her softly, his voice a tender caress on her agitated soul. “Your favorite sweets, perhaps?”

She smiled weakly at him. “Well, I had been planning to get a few pencils before…before…” she trailed off.

Before the attack.

Oliver nodded grimly. “As it so happens, I have several very fine pencils in my study, quite perfect for sketching. I shall have them sent over to you.”

“You know me so well, Your Grace,” she laughed softly.

“Of course,” he smiled. “I have loved you nearly all my life. How could I not?”

Claire blushed at his sweet words. Maybe one of these days, she would get used to his affectionate treatment of her but for now, she delighted in the delicate fluttering it evoked in her chest every time he did that.

“Will you be in your study all day, Your Grace?” she asked him.

He nodded as he walked her back to her rooms. “I have business to attend to but I shall join you and the others for luncheon.”

“And maybe tea much later?” she asked hopefully.

He gave her a sideways glance. “You know, you merely have to knock on my study and demand my presence,” he told her teasingly. “I am forever at your beck and call.”

When she blushed at his words, he laughed and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“I shall never tire of your laughter, my darling,” he told her with a soft smile. “And I hope to keep you happy for the rest of my life.”

“For the rest ofourlives,” she corrected him.

His smile grew wider at her words. “Yes. For the rest of our lives.”

* * *

Oliver was still smiling when he strode into his study. However, when he saw that Smithson was already inside, his usually stoic features much grimmer than before, the laughter quickly faded from his eyes.

“Still no word?”

The footman merely shook his head. “The constable asked me to tell Your Grace that he will need more time to collect more evidence. For now, it seems like the attackers simply disappeared into thin air.”

Oliver slammed his hands onto his table in frustration. “For all we know, they have already blended in with the rest of society.”

“The constable has sent men to infiltrate the areas where the attacks happened, asking around for any strange men,” Smithson intoned. “It will be a matter of time before they sniff out the rats.”

Rats, Oliver thought in disgust.They are worse than rats!

“Marley also told me that somebody left this for you, Your Grace.”

Oliver looked up to find his trusted steward extending a nondescript missive towards him. There was nothing written on it, no identifying marks that could hint at the sender, save for his name at the top and the dribble of wax that kept it folded close.

To the Duke of Minsbury, it said.

“Did he say who it was from?” he frowned, looking over the plain paper. It felt very light in his hands but the gravity of its contents weighed heavily on Oliver.

Smithson shook his head. “Marley told me that he found it on the doorstep early this morning. He caught a glimpse of the man who delivered it but his features were obscured by the hat and the scarf he had been wearing.”

“That sounds quite suspicious. Did he notice anything else?” Oliver turned the letter over in his hand. The handwriting was not one he recognized—it was an almost illegible scrawl.

Like someone who had just learned to write and had trouble controlling the quill.

“There was nothing else of note, Your Grace.”