Page 9 of One Duke of a Time (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #37)

T here was a quality to village inns after dark and tonights was no different.

The creak of timber and the faint scent of old paper and lamp oil.

Lydia preferred them to the gold-lacquered salons of London—here, even scandal seemed to tire before reaching the front stoop.

Tonight, the signboard hardly creaked. A the knock at her chamber door broke the stillness.

She lay stretched out on the lumpy coverlet, her hair spilling over the dull gray wool, a book forgotten in her lap.

Outside, the night raged against the window, rattling the shutters and flickering the lamp flame.

For a moment, she thought she might have imagined the sound.

Then it came again. A brisk rap, a hesitation, followed by another, less certain knock.

Lydia rose, her boots echoing on the boards as she crossed to the door.

She half-expected Maximilian. He had lingered at the edge of her thoughts since their return from the stables, but a messenger stood in the hall.

A boy, cheeks raw from the wind, cap clutched in both hands.

He held out a folded letter with a wax seal the color of dried blood, stamped with a crest she did not recognize.

“For Miss Montague,” the boy announced, his voice a mix of pride and fear.

“If that is a tart, bring it here,” the dowager called.

The boy cleared his throat and said, “A missive from the post in Exeter. I was told to deliver it at once, ma’am. It is urgent.”

Lydia took the letter, feeling its weight as the dowager nodded off.

The vellum was stiff and expensive. The ink on the address slanted with flair.

She dismissed the boy with a coin and shut the door.

For a moment, she stood there, her thumb pressed to the ridged wax, letting the interruption settle.

The urge to tear it open was nearly physical, but she checked herself, sitting at the edge of the narrow washstand where the lamplight was best. She slid her fingernail under the seal, heard the pop as it broke, and unfolded the single page within.

The handwriting was unfamiliar. Tall, tight loops, the descenders sharp.

Miss Montague,

You are not safe. There are those who would divert you from your journey. The inheritance you seek is not what it seems; documents have been forged and witnesses coerced. Beware the company you keep. Some among them do not wish you well.

I write as one who has also been wronged. Trust no one, least of all those with titles and good breeding.

Your cousin in blood, if not in affection,

C.M.

Lydia read the letter once, then twice, before laying it on the table. A cold absurdity washed over her, followed by a thrill that began under her collarbone and spread to her fingertips. She sat for a minute, the words arranging themselves in her mind like chess pieces.

Unable to remain still, she stood. The modest chamber of four paces by five, with wallpaper faded to the color of old linen, suddenly felt too small for her agitation.

She began to pace, crossing and recrossing the floorboards, the sharp aroma of lamp oil intensifying as the flame flickered.

She caught herself gnawing her lip, recalled her mother’s lectures on preserving feminine mystery, and almost laughed at the absurdity of such advice now.

By the third circuit, her initial shock had transformed into indignation.

The audacity of it! That someone, a cousin, no less, would imply she was so easily deceived.

She glared at the letter on the table, then at her reflection in the glass: pale face, blue eyes turned stormy, every inch the daughter of her line.

She pressed her palm to the cold glass and watched the heat of her skin melt a perfect oval of fog.

For a moment, she stood entirely still, the only sound her own breathing.

Then, as if conjured by her thoughts, came another knock—firm, unmistakably Maximilian.

She strode to the door, swung it wide, and met him with a defiant expression.

He took in her state—hair unpinned, eyes bright—then shifted his gaze to the letter in her hand.

“You have received news,” he said, not quite a question.

Without preamble, she handed him the letter. “A cousin. In the business of cryptic threats.”

He took it, breaking the tension by focusing on the page. Lydia watched as he read, his eyes moving over each line with precision, the knuckles of his right hand whitening against the vellum.

When he finished, he folded the letter carefully and placed it on the washstand. “You have not responded?”

She nearly laughed. “How does one respond to anonymous treason and cousinly condescension?”

His mouth formed an almost smile, but his expression remained calculating. “Do you believe the threat?”

“I believe the intent to unsettle me is genuine.” She moved back to the washstand, positioning herself between the lamp and Maximilian, casting her shadow over his chest. “But if there is fraud. If someone seeks to strip me of the estate. Wouldn’t you already know?

Would the solicitor not have been privy to any issues with the inheritance? ”

He did not answer immediately. Instead, he leaned against the footboard, folding his arms. The lamplight sharpened his cheekbones and hollowed his eyes. She found herself staring, unashamed.

“Forgery and deceit are hardly rare in matters of inheritance,” he said. “But your aunt’s will was witnessed by two attorneys of the Crown, and your late uncle was meticulous in his paperwork.”

She lifted her chin. “You are certain of that? ”

He hesitated just long enough for her to notice. “I am certain there is no obvious flaw. Which only means that the deception, if it exists, is subtle.”

They stared at each other, the tension palpable. The dowagers faint snore coming through the wall.

After a moment, Lydia asked, “What would you do in my place?”

He looked at her, eyes narrowing. “Trust no one, as the letter advises.”

She pursed her lips, then laughed. “Including you?”

He inclined his head. “Especially me.”

She let that linger. In the hush, she could hear the soft sound of her own pulse and the uneven breathing of the man across from her. The letter lay between them like a loaded pistol.

Lydia lifted the vellum to the lamp, letting the light bleed through the page. “I am not afraid,” she murmured, more to herself than to him.

His gaze flicked to her mouth, then to the letter, then back to her eyes. “You should be,” he replied, his voice low, nearly drowned by the silence of the room.

Heat rushed to her face, but she held his gaze. “I have survived worse than penmanship.”

He smiled, a brief warmth that reached his eyes just enough for her to glimpse the man beneath the surface.

Setting the letter down, she moved to the window and parted the curtain. The street below lay empty, except for the retreating figure of the messenger boy, his cap pushed back on his head. She watched him vanish into the night before turning back to Maximilian, who remained still.

“I refuse to be cowed,” she stated. “If there is a secret, I intend to face it.”

He bowed, mock serious. “As you wish.”

“For the record,” she added, “I do not trust you. Not entirely.”

He met her gaze, the lamp casting a warm light in the blue of his eyes. “Good,” he said, the word feeling significant.

She held the letter over the lamp, allowing the light to reveal watermarks and indentations. “The cousin writes as if they mean to help. But if so, why not come forward? Why all this shadow play and chapel nonsense?”

Maximilian’s eyes tracked her hands. “Because secrets are easier to keep in the dark. And because a message from a stranger can always be denied.”

She studied him, noticing the exhaustion beneath the Duke’s cool exterior—the residue of battles fought too long. For a moment, a sense of kinship flickered between them.

Lowering the letter, she said, “We are being manipulated.”

He nodded, precise as a chess master conceding a pawn.

A reluctant smile tugged at her lips. “There are worse things than an enemy who reveals themselves.”

He smiled back. “Indeed. An enemy disguised as a friend, for one.”

They stood in the lamplight, their faces illuminated in gold and shadow. The space between them was fraught, but honest.

Lydia realized she had moved to stand beside him. Outside, the world remained unchanged, the night still dark and menacing, but inside, the balance had shifted. She leaned her shoulder against his, a small gesture that felt significant.