Page 52 of Dukes All Night Long
Night Shadows
Evan
W estbridge House loomed against the clearing sky, the last of the snowfall drifting down as the stars began to emerge.
Its Georgian facade, lit by gas lamps, struck Evan as both familiar and foreign—like stepping into a role written for someone else.
Violet paused at the carriage door, one gloved hand on the frame.
He helped her down, his fingers brushing hers.
She was staring up at the wreath over the entrance.
“Christmas decor?” she asked.
He followed her gaze. “The staff runs the place like clockwork. My housekeeper follows the late duchess’s calendar to the letter. Ornaments polished, menus printed, greenery strung exactly where it’s always gone. I stepped into the title like a cog in a machine. Nothing changed.”
Nothing except me.
Inside, the pine garlands curled along the banister, and the tall tree dominated the foyer—perfect, stately, lifeless.
Or maybe he was the one lacking life. Jenkins, his butler, greeted them with his usual efficiency, betraying no reaction to Violet’s presence at such an hour.
Just a bow, the swift removal of their outerwear, and then a discreet withdrawal.
Evan led her down the corridor, away from the entrance hall’s glow.
“I used to come here only for holidays—an amiable guest young enough to be overlooked. But after I moved in permanently, nothing changed for the household. My uncle and aunt still ran everything, the staff carried on as though I were only passing through. These last six weeks I’ve pretended I know how to take charge, while everyone politely works around the interloper who inherited the title. ”
In the sitting room, a low fire flickered against the polished hearth. The scent of cinnamon and clove hung in the air—an echo of holidays past. Violet stepped toward the mantel, eyes scanning the greenery and ornaments with a look he couldn’t quite place.
“It’s beautiful,” she said quietly.
“I haven’t changed anything since…” He didn’t finish. The words had edges he wasn’t ready to hold.
She turned to the fire instead. “Will you stir the coals? I’m half-frozen.”
He moved automatically, taking up the poker and shifting the logs. Sparks danced upward. It should have been comforting, that little burst of warmth and light. Instead it made the absence sharper.
He poured himself a brandy and her a sherry out of habit and handed hers over. Their fingers brushed, lingering longer than they should have.
“Thank you,” she said.
They stood in silence, drinks in hand, the room stretching wide and unfamiliar around them.
“I’m sorry,” he said at last. “For dredging up the past.”
Her reply came gently, but without softness. “Our past is why I was asked to speak to you. My presence at the Hamlin House was meant to feel incidental—less suspicious to an outside observer.”
His jaw tensed. “Were you sent to manipulate me?”
“I was sent to see if you were involved.” She didn’t flinch. “But I never believed you were.”
He let out a slow breath, the weight of too many ghosts settling across his shoulders. “And now?”
“Now I’m convinced your uncle stumbled onto something dangerous. The accidents, the disappearances… they weren’t random. Sableport East India is covering its tracks. And they’re willing to kill to do it.”
He looked toward the darkened hallway. The house suddenly felt like a mausoleum.
“Then let’s find what he left behind.”
She set down her glass. “You said you’d show me his study?”
He nodded, grateful for the distraction. “This way.”
They walked side by side down the corridor, the hush around them broken only by their footsteps against the floorboards and the whisper of her skirts. The garlands along the walls looked too cheerful under the circumstances.
At the study doors, he paused. “I’ve allowed no one in since the letter came. Not even to dust.”
He opened the doors.
The room welcomed them with its heavy silence. Paneled walls, tall bookshelves, the scent of ink and old wood. A place that once held order and purpose—now just another closed chapter.
“It’s exactly as he left it,” Evan said, striking the lamp. “Every paper untouched.”
Violet stepped inside, her eyes already scanning the space like she was memorizing the map of his uncle’s mind. “If there are answers, they’re here.”
He closed the door behind them, the soft click sealing them into the space. She stepped closer, and her skirt brushed his leg.
The air shifted.
The house, the fire, the wreath on the door—none of it mattered now. Not compared to what they might find. Not compared to the truth.
“Every drawer,” she said quietly. “Every shelf.”
They stood motionless for a moment, shoulder to shoulder, poised on the edge of something neither of them could name.
“Let’s begin,” he said, voice steady.
And for the first time since his uncle’s death, Evan felt like he might finally be doing something that mattered.