Page 6 of One Duke of a Time (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #37)

T he storm had calmed by morning, leaving a silence broken only by the slow drip of water from the cottage eaves.

Lydia emerged from the battered doorway, the woolen blanket serving as a makeshift shawl over her dress, and looked with satisfaction at the coach waiting on the drive, its left wheel bearing the splint and bandage of a hasty repair.

Outside, the world was transformed into a landscape of mud and broken branches, the air thick with the calm of the aftermath.

Lydia descended the steps, her crimson skirts collecting the dirt of the lane, and approached the carriage with cautious optimism.

The coachman, face pinched with cold and frustration, hovered by the wheel, arms folded.

Maximilian stood to one side, his boots sunk to the ankles in mud.

The Dowager Marchweather emerged behind them, wrapped in layers of shawls, her taxidermy squirt tucked close to her chest, and promptly declared it a splendid day.

"Ready as she will ever be, Miss," the coachman muttered, casting a doubtful look at Maximilian as if hoping for reassurance.

Lydia examined the repairs critically. The wheel—once a perfect circle—now seemed slightly off, the hub reinforced with iron struts in a haphazard pattern. She ran a gloved finger over the binding.

"It will hold," Maximilian said, his voice flat. "For at least a mile. After that, the village smith can attempt something more permanent."

"A mile is more than some of us hoped for last night," Lydia replied. "Especially considering the countryside's hostility."

He ignored her remark, turning instead to the coachman. "You will drive slowly. Avoid the worst of the ruts."

"I shall ride alongside the coachman, for I wish to see the countryside," the dowager declared, moving to mount the box.

"Lady Marchweather, I must insist you ride inside the coach," Maximilian said .

"Nonsense." The dowager started to climb up onto the coachman's seat.

Maximilian moved to stop her, but Lydia stilled him, placing her hand on his arm and shaking her head. They should insist she ride inside the carriage, but Lydia knew the dowager would do as she pleased no matter what they said.

The coachman nodded, and with an uneasy glance between his passengers, mounted the box. Moments later, he snapped the reins. The horses started, hooves churning the mud, and the carriage lurched forward.

Lydia barely settled before the next jolt sent her sprawling sideways, the blanket twisting around her shoulders. She righted herself, ignoring the way Maximilian's hand hovered before withdrawing. The interior still smelled faintly of panic and brandy. Oddly, she found it comforting.

Lydia traced droplets down the window, her mind drifting to the memory of heat, hands, and the press of lips in the dark. She glanced at Maximilian, whose profile was etched in concentration. No trace remained of the man who had held her fiercely hours before.

She wondered if he regretted it or if he had filed it away as an aberration in the neat ledger of duty. She fogged the glass with a breath and traced it clear with a gloved knuckle, unwilling to mention it or anything significant.

The carriage gave another shudder, then slowed to a crawl. Lydia heard the coachman curse under his breath, muffled but emphatic.

Maximilian was out before the vehicle fully stopped, leaving the door swinging. Lydia followed, ignoring the chill that cut through the wool, and trudged to where the coachman and Maximilian now crouched by the left wheel.

"What is it now?" she asked with nonchalance despite the sense of foreboding churning in her stomach.

The coachman jabbed a finger at the hub. "Look here, miss. That iron’s gone bad. I mended it as best I could, but?—"

Maximilian interjected, "The binding is cleanly sheared. That is not the work of a rut."

Lydia squatted beside them, feeling the cold seep through her stockings. The struts were not merely loosened; they had been wrenched, some forcibly bent. She brushed away a clump of mud and saw, with a thrill of alarm, the jagged edge of a break—sharp and bright.

She reached for the brake strap and ran her fingers along its length. Halfway up, the leather had been cut, merely a nick, but it would eventually tear through. The edges were greasy, as if someone had daubed them with oil to hide the damage.

She glanced up at Maximilian, who knelt opposite. Their eyes met, and she knew he saw it too.

"Someone tampered with the carriage," she said.

Maximilian nodded, his face unreadable.

The coachman sputtered, "No one was near it all night. I slept with the horses, and the boy was?—"

Maximilian stood over them. "You sleep more soundly than you think. Or the tampering happened earlier—at the inn, perhaps. It may even have started before we departed London."

Lydia rocked back on her heels, a mix of fear and excitement rising in her chest. "Why would someone bother? Is there a surge of highwaymen I am unaware of?"

Maximilian considered the question, scanning the empty road. "This was not the work of a common thief. There’s nothing to steal but our company, and we are not valuable enough to warrant murder by accident."

Lydia pondered this, smoothing her skirt where it had gathered mud. "Perhaps someone wants to ensure I do not arrive at my new estate. "

Maximilian's brow furrowed. "Or they want to frighten you into abandoning the journey."

"How ordinary," she said, then softly added, "Do you think it is about the inheritance?"

His response was slow and deliberate. "I think it is about you. And the estate, perhaps the woman who arranged this." He shot her a meaningful look. "Your aunt was not universally beloved."

She fisted her hands, her mind racing through potential enemies—distant cousins, offended neighbors, her sister’s network of gossips. It was not a short list.

She stood, brushing the dirt from her hem. "What now? Shall we press on and see if the next wheel comes off with more flair?"

"I am quite adept," Lady Marchweather called out.

Maximilian looked down the road, then up at the sky, in the habit of a man who had learned to weigh storms and people carefully. "We go on. I will get a fresh carriage at the next village, and we will not leave it unattended. We will not trust the hospitality of future stops without caution."

The coachman, kneeling by the wheel, grumbled about the unpredictability of Londoners. Lydia shot him a look. "If you are frightened, you’re welcome to ride inside with us. We can share the brandy and our mutual suspicion. The dowager can drive."

Maximilian did not acknowledge the joke. Instead, he motioned for Lydia to return to the carriage. She complied, climbing inside and watching as he gave the coachman a quiet, intense instruction—likely to check the horses and keep watch. When Maximilian rejoined her, a muscle twitched in his jaw.

Lydia watched his hands drum a silent code against his knee and wondered if he was thinking about the carriage or about her.

"You know," she said, "if someone wanted me dead, they might have chosen a simpler method. A poisoned crumpet, perhaps, or a stray musket ball in the hunting field."

He looked at her, the faint lines of his forehead softening. "Perhaps they think you too clever for that."

She smiled despite herself. "You have a rather high opinion of my cunning."

"You have survived this long," he said. "That is enough evidence."

The compliment surprised her, and she blushed, turning to the window to hide it.

They continued on, the world outside brightening as the clouds parted. Lydia watched the changing light, her mind racing with thoughts of the evidence, the sharp tang of conspiracy in the air, and how Maximilian now sat a little closer, as if his presence could offer protection.

She was not afraid—fear was not her nature—but she felt something sharper and more exciting than before. A sense that the journey was not just about claiming an inheritance.

There was something, or someone, waiting for them at the end of this road. And Lydia Montague, who had never backed down from a dare, felt her pulse quicken at the thought.

The carriage rattled on, worn but unbroken, its joints creaking.

The afternoon faded as they reached the next village, the air thick with mist and the smell of rain-damp wood smoke. The coachman pulled up before a small, unimpressive inn, its sign swaying and its windows fogged with condensation.

Inside, the dining room was little more than a box of battered tables and uneven floorboards, its only virtue the promise of a fire and hot water.

The few locals present stared as Lydia entered, her skirts marked by the journey, her cheeks flushed from the wind and the thrill of danger.

Maximilian followed, head lowered, his jaw tight.

The dowager declared herself unwilling to eat in public, ordered a tray to her room, and promised to supervise from bed.

Lydia and Maximilian took a table near the hearth. The innkeeper, a woman with strong arms and a cracked voice, brought tea and a plate of bread and cheese. Lydia poured steadily, watching the swirl of steam.

"So," she said, her voice low, "let us review the suspects."

Maximilian did not look up from his cup. "Must we?"

"We must," Lydia replied. "If only to amuse ourselves until the next attempted murder."

He remained silent, but the tightness around his mouth indicated agreement.

Lydia leaned in, elbows on the scratched table. "First, the obvious... a relative with more ambition than affection. My father is dead, but his brother, the Viscount, might see my survival as an inconvenience."

"He does not seem the type to arrange deliberate tampering," Maximilian said. "But desperation breeds invention. "

"Second," Lydia continued, counting on her fingers, "the executors of my aunt's will. If they stand to gain from my absence, their definition of stewardship might be more flexible than they claim."