Page 59 of The Duke that I Lost

BLAME

S omeone had plunged knives into his skull. Dash squeezed his eyes shut and groaned.

Mistake. The sound ricocheted inside his brain like a musket ball.

Familiar laughter drifted across the room.

“If you’re the picture of nobility, England is doomed, my friend.”

Dieu me damne .

Dash cracked one eye open.

Another mistake.

Sunlight slanted mercilessly through the tall windows of the study at Hawkins Place, and there was Hawk—pressed and dressed as though he were about to depart for one of the ton’s many parties. Of course he was—it wasn’t as though the lout had drunk anything but his beloved tea last night.

Last night… a blonde and a brunette…

“We’ll take good care of you, Your Grace.”

“ Merde, quel idiot ,” he growled. “What did I do?”

“Nothing, aside from lowering the dignity of the peerage by drooling into the upholstery. Bravo.”

Dash blinked, bleary eyed, not sure he understood. He could have sworn…

“You’ll have to thank Longstaffe,” Hawk said, laughing as he gave his head a rueful shake.

“The man could haul a bluestone out of Wales to Stonehenge, no doubt—because dragging you out, stuffing you into the carriage, was no small feat. Otherwise, you’d have woken at the Domus alone.

Or perhaps not alone…” He clicked his tongue, tut-tutting before his grin broke through.

“And for his trouble? You kept lamenting that it was only justice—that you were finally paying for Harrowgate… and then cast your accounts all over the poor man’s Hessians. ”

That was… far too many words in a row.

Cradling his head in his hands, Dash struggled to parse out the most important pieces of that rant. He had passed out after he’d… poured out his heart? To Hawk?

“What exactly did I say?” Dash asked, not sure he wanted to hear the answer.

“Ah, yes…” Hawk’s eyes darkened. Dash felt his spine stiffen. Dieu, was it that bad?

“You mentioned Sebastian—and something Grimm said to you yesterday. And I…” Hawk hesitated, then pressed, “Tell me you don’t still blame yourself for his death.”

Not this. Not now. Dash pressed the heels of his hands onto his eyes.

Hawk should already know the answer to that.

“Seb and I were sparring, as I’m sure you recall,” he reminded Hawk. “Up on the cliffs. Then he was gone.” It was as simple as that.

“So you assumed, what, that you shoved him off in a fit of drunken rage?”

Dash frowned, the line of his brow deepening. He did not appreciate his friend’s nonchalance. “Maybe not precisely like that, but… The cliff was right there. It is the only thing that makes sense.”

“No. It’s not.” Hawk’s tone was dry as old sherry.

“God above, you’re a clever man, Dasborough, but sometimes you can be the greatest fool.

After your little duel, Sebastian went walking with Bash and Longstaffe.

Hell, you were dead to the world, foxed senseless…

You never pushed him, accidentally or otherwise. ”

Dash’s head throbbed. No, but… that could not be right. “But Grimm?—”

“Grimstead?” Hawk gave a bark of incredulous laughter.

“That fool was as deep in his cups as you. I’d be astonished if the blighter remembers his own name from that night.

” He rolled his eyes heavenward and sighed, long-suffering.

“Merciful Lord, what sin did I commit to be shackled with such idiotic friends?”

In that moment, Dash was too stunned to take offense.

Was it possible that he had not killed Sebastian? Mon Dieu. The very ground had shifted beneath him. Impossible. “I—You cannot know this for certain. You were drinking as well. Your memory— mon ami, it may be no clearer than mine.”

Hawk’s brow shot upward, but for once the irony didn’t follow.

His voice was low, sober. “None of us knows precisely what befell Sebastian that night. What I do know is that we embarked on a veritable pageant of poor decisions, and he was the one who paid the price.” The sadness in his eyes lingered, just for a heartbeat, before he shook his head and forced a humorless laugh.

“Your sword may have nicked his cheek, true—but I was the genius who nicked the gin. So yes, blame yourself if you like. But blame me too. Blame all of us. We earned it together.”

His smile faded, leaving his voice quieter, more certain. “But Sebastian’s death? It’s not yours to carry alone. Know that.”

Dash’s pulse thudded in his temples. He could not imagine his life without the weight of guilt; he did not know how to breathe without it.

At length, Hawk leaned back and studied him with that sardonic twist of mouth.

“I suppose it explains a great deal. Why you were so quick to agree to marrying the Beresford chit. If you’d thought you had any real choice in the matter, you’d at least have hesitated.”

Dash nodded.

Slowly.

In truth, he wasn’t sure what he would have done if things had been different. It didn’t change the fact that he’d been Lady Hannah’s only real option or that she’d been his sister’s friend. He would have felt some responsibility towards her, but would he ultimately have abandoned Ambrosia?

“Speaking of,” Hawk went on, one brow cocked, “you rambled about your beloved widow as well. Your princesse , was it? Declared you had to go to her—right before you toppled over like a felled oak. Tell me, did the two of you actually exchange wedding rings? What in God’s name were you thinking?”

Wedding rings.

The memory struck like a bell—one of the women’s voices: This ring, it means you’re married, don’t it?

Dash’s hand shot to his finger, thumb tracing over the well-worn band he had carried for more than two years. Most of that time, he’d worn it on his right hand. Until that night he’d hurled it across the room, only to claw it back again in regret, and slide it onto his left where it had remained.

In the hothouse. Ambrosia had been wearing her ring.

On her left hand. The finger nearest her pinky.

Did it mean something? It had to. Surely if she intended to run off with bloody Grimm, she would have taken it off. Wouldn’t she?

“He lied,” Dash muttered, the words scraping out of him. His princesse would not give herself to one man while in love with another.

She would not leave him without saying goodbye.

“I need to go.” Dash lurched to his feet. The world tilted, his stomach heaved—and only Hawk’s quick hand with a bowl spared him complete disgrace.

“ Putain d’enfer .” Dash spat into the vessel before collapsing back onto the sofa. “Hell.”

He scrubbed a hand across his mouth. “What day is it?” He glanced around, scowling. “And where the devil is a handkerchief when a man needs one?”

“I’d imagine she’s well on her way by now,” Hawk said dryly, pressing a square of linen into his hand. “It’s past noon. And you, my friend, can’t go anywhere like this.”

But he would. Dash pushed himself to stand again, slower this time, and wiped his mouth with the handkerchief.

Surely she hadn’t actually left with Grimm. God help him if she did.

“Our friend was lying,” he said, though he doubted whether Hawk even cared anymore at this point. “He must have been. I should have realized. Merde , he had to bribe Lancelot to make his point.”

“Who the hell is Lancelot?” The confusion in his friend’s voice was almost enough to give Dash cause to laugh.

“Ambrosia’s son.”

* * *

Dash rapped once on the door to her townhouse. Then again, harder. When no one came straightaway, impatience boiled over and he pounded his fist against the panel, the sound echoing down the quiet street.

At last the door creaked open. A man he didn’t recognize—certainly not Mr. Carrington—peered out warily. “The mistress is away from home.”

He made to shut the door, but Dash thrust his boot into the threshold.

“Where is she?”

“I do not have the liberty of sharing her whereabouts with strangers.” The man glanced pointedly down to Dash’s foot. “Now, if you’ll be so kind?—”

“Did she take Lancelot with her?” If Lancelot was here, it meant she hadn’t gone far.

“Pardon?”

“ Her dog . Red-haired, short-legged creature.”

The servant frowned.

“Sleeps with his tongue out and his eyes open.”

“Ah… the dog. Yes sir, the dog is gone as well.”

“Where is Mr. Carrington? Is he available?”

“Oh, no sir, he’s been given time off, until the mistress returns.”

The man said something else, but Dash didn’t hear.

She’d done it. She’d left with Grimm.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, sir.”

Dash removed his foot, and the door slammed shut.

How many times had he told himself this was over? How many times had he convinced himself his efforts were useless? And then found hope in some meaningless gesture…

At last, it seemed, he had no choice but to believe she was lost to him.

Disgusted with himself for being foolish enough to grasp at yet another false glimmer of hope, Dash returned to Beckman House, collected the pack Edwards had prepared for him, and just as he was about to exit through one of the back doors to the mews, his housekeeper rushed outside to catch him.

“Your Grace! Your Grace! But you are here! I thought you left for Dasborough Park yesterday!”

Dash halted but didn’t have the energy to turn around. “I am leaving now, Mrs. Nichols.”

“There was a lady who came to the door this morning.”

Slowly, he turned. “A lady? Did she give her name?”

“Yes, Your Grace. Mrs. Bloomington.” Color rose in her cheeks, as if she suddenly realized who Mrs. Bloomington truly was.

Flustered, she rushed to explain. “Lady Beatrice had already left, and so did Mr. Edwards. And with your horse not in the stable, I just assumed—oh, I beg your pardon, Your Grace.”

Dash ignored the clenching in his chest. “What did she say?”

“She asked where you’d gone. I told her you’d left now that the Season’s nearly done. That you were on your way to Dasborough Park.” Mrs. Nichols winced. “I thought you were, Your Grace. I thought you were long gone.”

Dash drew a deep breath.

Perhaps Ambrosia had come, after all, to deliver her answer in person. At least she esteemed him enough to do that.

She’d come to tell him goodbye.

Because goodbyes mattered. And what must she have thought, thinking he had already left? Another repeat of what may have been the worst mistake he ever made.

It didn’t matter. None of it mattered.

“All is well, Mrs. Nichols. You had no way of knowing I’d been delayed.” He turned back toward the mews, craving the isolation of the road.

“Is there anything I ought to tell her, should she return, Your Grace?”

Dash paused. Was there anything left to say between them?

“Tell her…” He faltered, then shook his head. She would not return. She had made her choice. “Tell her I wish her well.”

And with that, he saddled Guinevere, strapped on his pack, and turned his horse toward home.