Page 36 of Surrender Your Grace (Impromptu Brides #1)

Following a quiet breakfast three days after the disastrous ball, Maggie intercepted Cici in the hallway. Andrew had left for the day. The dowager and Lady Conaway were bundled up for a walk in the park, leaving the two younger women alone.

“You won’t believe what I’ve learned,” Maggie whispered.

“So soon?” Cici asked, eyes widening.

They fell silent as two maids exited the dining room with clattering trays. Once they had gone, Maggie grabbed her arm. “Not here. Come with me.”

She led her down the corridor to the rarely used ladies’ withdrawing room. Once inside, she shut the door and crossed to the tea table, sweeping aside a vase of hothouse roses and spreading out a stack of notes.

“I’ve separated them by color—pink for Lady Winslow, blue for Elizabeth. Floral print is everything else—miscellaneous clues that don’t yet fit into either camp.”

“You’re alarmingly organized for an amateur investigator,” Cici observed.

“I prefer ‘brilliantly methodical.’” Maggie grinned. “If your life weren’t at stake, this would be fun.”

Cici blinked at the array. “And you learned all of this in just three days?”

“Not just me—Mary helped. Your idea of including her was inspired. Some people were eager to share their gossip with me, but others refused to say a word the moment they realized I was a Sommerville. Mary was able to coax the truth out of maids, porters, street vendors, even a flower girl outside Covent Garden. She’s more effective than the best inquiry agent. ”

She grabbed Cici’s hand and pulled her down onto the settee.

“Let’s start with the obvious suspects. Lady Winslow has motive—jealousy, wounded pride. Andrew dismissed her for someone younger, more beautiful, and vastly more interesting.”

“He said she actually believed she could lure him back.”

“Then let’s add delusional to the list,” Maggie muttered, scribbling another note. “She has a long history of barbed remarks and social sabotage. But there’s one problem.”

Cici arched a brow in question.

“She hasn’t a penny to her name. Living on loans and borrowed gowns. Her debts are mounting, and her creditors’ patience is wearing thin. If someone hired a professional to harm you, it wasn’t her. She couldn’t afford it.”

“What about the man with the cane?”

“No one in Mayfair seems to know him. He must be an outsider.”

“Could Elizabeth have brought him in?” Cici asked.

Maggie hesitated then shrugged. “Possible. But your sister’s financial habits aren’t much better. Madame Marchand—her modiste—was full of complaints. Elizabeth ordered fifteen gowns and accoutrements preseason, demanded a rush job, and then failed to pay.”

“But Papa would pay. That doesn’t make sense.”

“All I can say is the woman was livid. And here’s where it gets worse. Madame Marchand told me the rumor about your questionable parentage was already circulating before the ball. She heard it from her shopgirls, who heard it directly from Elizabeth—during fittings.”

“Loudly, I assume.”

“Of course. No discretion, no shame.”

Cici exhaled, slow and shakily. “My father’s hair was the same shade of red as mine before it turned white. His sister—Aunt Drusilla—had hair even redder than mine. And the figure?” She sniffed. “Andrew insists I’m wasting away. I’ve had every dress in my wardrobe taken in.”

“I’m on your side, dearest. I’m just relaying what was said.”

“Why would Madame Marchand tell you all this? Doesn’t she fear losing Elizabeth’s business?”

“She said Elizabeth wasn’t worth the worry. Between the unpaid bill and the scandal, she’s no longer a valued patron.”

Cici rubbed her forehead. “So we have motive, lack of character, and hearsay—but no proof.”

“Maybe not,” Maggie said, reaching into the stack and pulling out a crumpled, ink-smeared paper. “Look at this. Is the handwriting familiar?”

Cici’s breath caught. “My father had this at the ball. How did you get it?”

“I found it in a drawer in Andrew’s desk.”

“You searched his desk?”

“I needed paper,” she replied without a hint of remorse. Then, hastily redirecting, she held the page out. “Is this your sister’s handwriting?”

Cici studied the curling loops and long strokes. “The E might be hers, but Elizabeth rarely wrote letters. In eighteen years, she sent me only three.”

Maggie perked up. “Do you still have them?”

“Regrettably not. I was so incensed after reading them, I threw them in the fire.”

“Confound it.” Maggie flopped back dramatically. “We need a sample to compare.”

“I’ll get one,” Cici said with sudden resolve.

“How?”

“I’ll arrange tea with my mother when I know Elizabeth is out. Then I’ll find a reason to slip upstairs and search her room.”

“Will Andrew let you go?”

“To visit my mother? Probably, but not without my battalion of commissionaires.”

Maggie nodded, sobering. “I know how hard it is being restricted, but in your case, I agree—it’s warranted.”

Part pain, part steel, Cici declared, “If Elizabeth is behind this, I want to know everything.”

Her dear friend gripped her hand. “And then?”

“She’ll answer for it.”

***

The poorly sprung hackney jolted rather than rolled to a stop on the lane above the docks. The street clamored with the clatter of hooves, the creak of vendor carts, and the shrill cry of gulls overhead. Far from Mayfair’s civility, the world here was raw, loud, and unapologetically grimy.

Andrew drew aside the worn leather curtain and scanned the row of waterfront taverns.

The buildings leaned like ships caught in a gale, their shingles curling, shutters long since rotted away.

The Devil’s Hatch , their destination, boasted a broken sign swinging from a single rusted chain.

Beneath it, a door banged open and shut as patrons came and went—many staggering out.

He checked his pocket watch. Two minutes to four.

Across from him, Duncan drummed his fingers on his knee in a slow, deliberate rhythm.

Henry hadn’t provided much detail in his message—only that he’d found the twitchy bastard and that Andrew was to arrive at the dockside tavern by four o’clock today.

Andrew leaned back in the seat, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the tavern door. His thoughts drifted to the last time he’d met with Henry.

After the bookshop incident, Andrew had expected the man to resign in disgrace. Instead, Henry arrived at Sommerville House the next morning, hat in hand.

“I know I failed you. Your duchess, even more so,” he’d said. “But I’ll work for nothing. Just let me prove I can do better. I will keep her safe.”

Andrew hadn’t answered right away. He’d studied the man—stoic, broad-shouldered, eyes shadowed with remorse—and weighed instinct against reason.

Henry was too observant, too quietly cunning, to waste as a simple guard.

On a hunch that he was more of a bloodhound than a shield, Andrew had given him a second chance.

The door creaked open, and Henry climbed in, windblown and flushed.

“He comes at four sharp every day,” he said without preamble. “Same tavern. Orders two fingers of whiskey. Always sits with his back to the wall. He’s gone in fifteen minutes, leaving by the alley.”

The hack lurched as Andrew moved to get out. “Then let’s greet him properly at the back door.”

***

The alley was dark and damp, hemmed in by two leaning stone walls slick with moisture. It stank of soured beer, piss, and fish guts. Broken crates littered the ground. Somewhere nearby, a gull shrieked over the clank of chains and the slap of water against pilings.

Duncan lounged against the wall like a man idly waiting for a smoke. Henry stood opposite, one foot braced on a crate, eyes fixed on the back door.

Andrew didn’t pace—he prowled. His rage burned slow and deep, like coals banked behind his ribs.

“You’re sure we don’t need to cover the front?” Duncan asked.

“He’ll come this way,” Henry said. “He’s a creature of habit and always does.”

Sure enough, the tavern’s rear door creaked open, and the man emerged. Wiry, fidgety—just as Cici had described.

Andrew stepped into his path.

The man startled. “Who are you?”

“Men in search of answers.”

“Please, I don’t want no trouble.”

“Good,” Andrew stated succinctly. “Then we agree on something.”

The man pivoted to flee—but Henry blocked his exit, Duncan cracking his knuckles on the other side.

“Do you remember the opera a few months back?” Andrew asked, voice low. “The duchess. The stairs. The blood.”

“You’ve got the wrong man!”

Andrew seized him by the collar and slammed him into the stone wall so hard his boots left the ground. “I don’t think so,” he snarled, nose inches from his. “You tried to kill my wife. You did kill my child.”

The man’s mouth opened and closed like a landed fish. “I didn’t know—”

Andrew slammed him again, harder. “You had a problem murdering an unborn child, just not my wife?”

“I— It wasn’t supposed to go that far! She said to frighten her, that’s all—”

Duncan’s voice turned lethal. “You expect us to believe tripping her at the top of a marble staircase, toppling a bookcase on her, and shoving her in front of horses wasn’t meant to kill? You’re a liar.”

Andrew’s fist cracked into the man’s jaw. His head hit the bricks with a thud. He moaned in pain, but Andrew showed no mercy—no more than had been shown to Cici. He pressed his forearm against the man’s throat.

“Do you need more persuasion?” he growled. “I’ve got all evening.”

“All right, all right!” the man gasped. “She paid me. Said to make it look like an accident. I needed the money—”

“You needed the whiskey,” Henry spat.

“How much?” Andrew demanded.

“I—”

Andrew leaned harder, watching the man’s eyes bulge. “How much?”

“Twenty pounds!”

Duncan swore viciously. “Bloody bastard.”

The man choked and sputtered as Andrew kept the pressure on.

“Your Grace,” Henry said calmly, “if you want answers, he’ll need to stay alive long enough to give them.”

Andrew let up just enough for the man to wheeze in air. “Who is she?”

“No name,” he rasped. “But I’ll never forget her. Blonde. Green eyes. Elegant. Cold. The kind who doesn’t lift her own parasol. She said the duchess stole something that was hers. That she never should’ve been born.”

“That’s Elizabeth,” Duncan said darkly.

“Every inch,” Andrew agreed.

He let go. Too weak to stand, the man collapsed into a murky puddle.

Andrew stared down at him with contempt. Wanting to be gone from his repugnant presence, but they weren’t quite done with him yet. “Can you read and write?”

He nodded.

Andrew motioned, and Henry produced a folded parchment and pencil stub.

“We have witnesses to the bookshop and Bond Street attempts. You’ve just admitted to the opera. It’s all here. All you have to do is sign.”

“Cooperate,” Duncan added, “and maybe you won’t hang.”

Trembling, the man scratched out his name in a crude scrawl. Henry passed the confession to Andrew and hauled him to his feet.

Duncan stepped to the mouth of the alley and flagged down a constable patrolling the quay.

“Here!” he called.

The officer approached, wary but alert.

Duncan gestured to Andrew. “You’re in the presence of His Grace, the duke of Sommerville. This man”—he jabbed a thumb at the sniveling figure—“just confessed tae three murder attempts. The intended victim was the duchess of Sommerville.”

The constable’s eyes widened. He snapped his hat off and bowed. “I’ll see him locked up at once, Your Grace, but I’ll need a formal report to charge him officially.”

Andrew handed over the parchment. “It’s all there. Signed. Try not to lose it.”

The officer blew his whistle. In minutes, two other patrolmen converged on the alley.

As they hauled the twitchy man away into the mist, Duncan exhaled a long breath. “One snake down.”

“And one serpent left.” Henry concluded.

Andrew’s jaw tightened as he started for the waiting hackney. “Not for long.”