Page 37 of Surrender Your Grace (Impromptu Brides #1)

The grandfather clock at the top of the stairs struck four as Cici arrived at her childhood home for tea with her mother—a ritual so ordinary and steeped in routine, it belied the storm seething beneath her calm exterior.

The drawing room smelled overwhelmingly of lavender, as always. That cloying scent never changed, nor did the perfectly symmetrical arrangement of rose-colored cushions or the heavy drapes in the most hideous shade of green covering the tall windows.

“Mama,” she greeted, inclining her head. “I trust you’ve recovered from the other evening.”

“Do not speak of it,” Lady Benton replied, lifting a hand to her brow as though the mere mention summoned a relapse. “My head aches at the thought.”

“Papa and Andrew were wise to quash the matter quickly. I’m sure we’ll not hear another word.”

“Indeed.” She waved to a waiting footman. “James, pour for the duchess.”

He obeyed silently, gloved hands steady as he served from the delicate porcelain tea set they’d used since Cici was five.

They chatted idly for a time—about the weather, the latest gowns from Paris, and the cook’s new lemon scone recipe. Only when the conversation lulled did Cici set her plan in motion.

She tipped her teacup just enough to spill it—spattering the lace runner and the front of her day dress.

“Oh, dear!” her mother cried, reaching for her linen napkin and pressing it into Cici’s hand while the servants rushed forward to tend the mess. “Your gown—it’s new, isn’t it?”

Cici dabbed at the stain. “I’ll need to treat it before the tea sets. I still have some dresses in my room upstairs, don’t I?”

“Everything is exactly as you left it, though none of those girlish things are fit for a duchess.”

“It’ll do,” Cici said lightly, already rising. “Just a quick change, Mama.”

Without waiting for permission, she swept from the room and up the stairs. The second-floor hallway was empty. Her slippers made no sound on the thick rug as she slipped into Elizabeth’s room.

She stood just inside, momentarily taking it in. Like the rest of the house, her sister’s room was unchanged. Pink drapery framed the windows. Lace and frills adorned every surface. Perfume bottles stood like glass soldiers on the vanity. It was unnervingly pristine.

Cici moved to the writing desk first. The drawer held fine stationery and matching envelopes, but nothing more. She checked the bookshelf, the nightstand drawers, even ran her hand beneath the mattress, but each yielded nothing.

Planting her hands on her hips, she scanned the room again. “This is Elizabeth,” she whispered. “Think like her—secretive, manipulative, theatrical.”

Her gaze landed on an embroidery basket near the hearth. Its presence ironic and completely out of place since Elizabeth had always despised needlework.

Cici crossed the room and knelt. The basket’s contents—neatly wound skeins of thread, a pristine hoop, and folded squares of linen—looked suspiciously untouched. Beneath them, she found what she hadn’t dared hope for: a small leather-bound journal.

She opened it. The handwriting inside was unmistakable. The dramatic curls. The exaggerated loops. The flourished E .

She skimmed the first few pages—petty complaints about hair ribbons and dress colors, minor slights, sharing attention—typical sibling grievances. But soon, the tone shifted.

The language turned bitter.

She steals with her wide-eyed innocence what I deserve. Andrew should have been mine.

Every new gown is a mockery. Every priceless jewel a dagger. Duchess—bah!

And then:

If Cecilia hadn’t been born… her life would belong to me.

She closed the book, hands trembling. A folded slip of paper slid free and fluttered to the floor. When she bent to retrieve it, in one glance, she knew.

The draft—virtually identical to the anonymous letter circulated at the Staffordshire Ball—contained the same language, the same spite, the same twisted suggestion that she was her mother’s bastard from an illicit affair.

All the circumstantial signs, the creeping suspicion, the unease she’d tried to suppress, had now been laid bare in ink.

She left the house without a word. Not to her mother. Not to the staff. Her feet carried her down the steps and into the waiting carriage, but her chest felt hollow.

It wasn’t only betrayal that choked her.

It was mourning.

Not for what had happened.

But for the sister she had once believed might love her.

***

When Cici stepped inside Sommerville House, the familiar scent of beeswax and bergamot enveloped her.

So much warmer, and homier, than lavender.

She unfastened her cloak, and Jenkins slipped it from her shoulders with his usual quiet efficiency.

She nodded in thanks and moved toward the stairs on her way to her room for a good cry.

At the last moment, she veered toward the music room.

With each step, the weight of Elizabeth’s betrayal pressed heavier. The journal. The draft. The twisted, venomous words scrawled in her sister’s hand. This wasn’t thoughtless cruelty. It was deliberate. Calculated. Personal.

Music might help soothe the ache clawing at her chest. But what to play?

Not something grand or defiant—no triumphant chords or predictable waltzes. She needed softness, not intensity. Comfort, not fire. Chopin, perhaps. One of the nocturnes, in C-sharp minor.

Then laughter—deep and unmistakably male—filtered from the salon. She paused in the doorway.

Inside, Maggie perched on the edge of the settee like a woman poised to bolt, while Duncan stood nearby, brandy in hand, posture maddeningly relaxed.

“I still fail to see why marriage should involve relocation to the edge of the world,” Maggie said airily. “Scotland is charming in theory—but so are ancient castles. Both are equally cold, damp, and prone to mildew.”

Duncan didn’t blink. “You’re confusing the Highlands with the Himalayas. We do have roofs. And we bathe occasionally to keep away the mold.”

“No patisseries. No opera. And nothing resembling fashion—unless The Ladies’ Gazette begins featuring pleats, kilts, and bare knees.”

“Kilts are timeless. Practical. And delightfully breezy.”

Maggie arched a brow. “So the wind can whistle up your… pride?”

“Might you be worried for my anatomy, lass?” he asked, grinning.

“Hardly,” she scoffed. “I fear for my mine if I’m sentenced to a never-ending diet of mutton stew in such dismal, freezing weather that my teeth rattle right out of my head.”

“You say that now,” Duncan said smoothly, “but give Castle MacPherson a week and you’ll be penning sonnets to the heather.”

“I’d sooner milk a crocodile.”

“Pity,” he said. “They’re in short supply north of Edinburgh.”

Maggie opened her mouth to retort but caught sight of Cici in the doorway, who summoned her with a slight nod toward the corridor.

Duncan’s smile vanished as suspicion took root.

Maggie murmured something that earned a chuckle then excused herself and followed.

Cici led the way to the rarely used withdrawing room—their unofficial war room.

“Did you find anything?” Maggie asked, closing the door behind her.

“What about Duncan?”

“I told him you looked upset after tea with your mother. Which isn’t a lie.”

“Upset is an understatement,” Cici said grimly. “I didn’t find anything—I found everything .”

She handed over the journal and the draft of the letter. She hadn’t left either behind. Let Elizabeth panic, for once, and wonder if discovery was imminent, which it was.

Maggie crossed to the secretary, producing from its bottom drawer the bundle of pink and blue papers tied in ribbon.

“I’d have thought you would keep those in your rooms,” Cici said, joining her at the table before the settee.

“We use this room so rarely it’s practically invisible.”

They laid out the evidence. The draft, anonymous letter, and the journal side by side by side. The identical loops in the Es jumped off the page.

It’s a match, Cici. It’s Elizabeth.”

“I know,” she whispered. “And it gets worse. Read the newest entries.”

One hand drifted to her throat as she read, and she gasped at one point. Cici could guess which one. Several pages in, her friend looked up—stricken.

“It wasn’t just jealousy. She hated you,” Maggie murmured. “The entitlement is terrifying. She believed she was owed your life. And when she couldn’t have it—she tried to take it.”

She swallowed hard. “And almost succeeded.”

“Oh, my dear…” her friend whispered, opening her arms.

Cici went to her without hesitation, her breath catching on a sob. “At least… we have p-proof now.”

A voice sliced through the air. “Proof of what?”

Duncan.

Then Andrew, sharper still. “A better question—why is Cici crying?”

Their bittersweet triumph short-lived, the women turned as the men strode in, their eyes catching on the papers scattered across the table.

Andrew picked up the journal. “What’s this?”

“We’ve been investigating Lady Winslow and Elizabeth,” Cici said, lifting her chin.

A muscle ticked in Andrew’s jaw. “After I specifically asked you to leave it to me?”

“I did the legwork,” Maggie jumped in.

Both men turned their glares on her.

“We eliminated Lady Winslow due to her financial straits, ever since—” She stopped, her eyes shifting to Andrew then darting away.

“Since losing her wealthy benefactor several months ago. That was you, Husband,” Cici supplied coolly.

“That was understood without explaining,” he muttered.

“Anyway,” Maggie said briskly, brushing past the awkward pause, “we focused on Elizabeth. We think she hired the man with the cane but haven’t proven it yet.”

“You think ?” Duncan echoed, folding his arms. “Did you also think yourself a detective, poking into things best left to men with pistols and warrants?”

“Since such men weren’t forthcoming, yes!” Maggie snapped.

Andrew’s tone turned glacial. “Do not be impertinent, Margaret. What you did was reckless—”

“And dangerous,” Duncan growled, burr deepening. “What if it wasn’t Elizabeth? What if you were caught snooping and silenced? You could’ve been the next to fall under a hackney’s wheels.”

“I was careful .”

“A nineteen-year-old debutante turned crime-solver,” he muttered. “Brilliant. I can sleep easy now.”

Maggie’s glare was as fierce as his.

Cici stepped between them. “Please don’t blame her. We couldn’t just sit idly by.”

Andrew’s voice cut through hers. “You think I was doing nothing?”

“You never said—”

“Because it isn’t your burden. It’s mine. Your safety is mine .”

“And Maggie’s is mine,” Duncan thundered.

“Until you’re married,” Andrew snapped, “she’s still my responsibility.”

“We were effective,” Maggie fired back. “Not foolish. Not reckless. And what exactly have you discovered?”

Andrew’s expression hardened. “The twitchy man with the cane is in custody. He confessed.” His gaze shifted to Cici, softening. “He confirmed Elizabeth hired him to eliminate you.”

“The price,” Duncan added grimly, “was twenty pounds.”

Maggie gasped.

Cici reeled, clutching the arm of the settee. “Barely enough for a day dress and gloves,” she whispered, her voice catching. “Not even a ballgown. Something… forgettable . Just like she always saw me.”

Tears welled, spilling despite her efforts. Her fingers trembled as they touched her lips. “My own sister. She wanted me gone so badly she’d erase me—like I was nothing.”

Andrew reached her in three strides and drew her into his arms. “She won’t touch you again,” he promised, voice rough against her hair. “Not ever.”

Duncan sat heavily on the settee and pulled Maggie down beside him. “This ends today. Show us everything you’ve got.”