Page 27 of The Duke Who Stole Me (Stolen by the Duke #4)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

V incent returned to the townhouse, the familiar corridors doing little to ease the restless tension that had gripped his shoulders. Another day of searching, another fruitless pursuit, with Geoffrey’s location still unknown. The fact that the man remained free ate at him like water slowly eroding stone.

He paused at the foot of the stairs and glanced up at the upper floor, where Somerton had been recovering.

According to the physician, his partner had turned a corner in his recovery. Somerton was no longer in the grip of the bullet-induced fever and was now lucid enough to have a full conversation.

It was, perhaps, the only good news amid a series of disappointments.

Vincent ascended the stairs with measured steps, his boots barely making a sound against the polished wood. The door to Somerton’s chambers stood slightly ajar, a thin slice of lamplight spilling into the darkened hallway.

“Come to check if I’ve succumbed to my injuries at last?” Somerton’s voice, though weaker than usual, carried its familiar playful edge.

Vincent pushed the door open fully, revealing his friend propped against several pillows, his complexion still pallid but his eyes sharp and alert.

“I see your brush with death has done nothing to improve your disposition.”

Somerton’s lips curled into a faint smile. “Death took one look at me and decided I am too much trouble.” He smirked, his eyes twinkling with mischief despite his pathetic state.

Vincent moved to the chair beside the bed and lowered himself into it with a quiet exhale. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I was shot in the shoulder,” Somerton replied dryly. He shifted slightly, wincing at the movement. “Though I’m told I have you to thank for the fact that I’m alive to complain about it.”

Vincent dismissed the man’s gratitude with a slight shake of his head. “You would have done the same.”

“Perhaps,” Somerton conceded. “But I can guarantee you that I would not have been more gracious about it.” His attempt at levity faded as he studied Vincent’s expression. “You haven’t found him.”

It wasn’t a question.

Vincent’s jaw tightened. “Not yet.”

Somerton nodded slowly, accepting this with a resignation that spoke to his years in the Intelligence. He knew as well as Vincent did the difficulty of finding someone who did not wish to be found.

Especially a slippery little snake like Norfield. He was just the type of traitorous bastard who knew how to run and hide, like a rat scurrying through the sewers.

“But I definitely will,” Vincent added, his eyes glinting with a steely determination that stirred a similar zeal in Somerton.

“Oh, I’m holding you to that,” the Marquess said, his tone darkening. “After all, I have a score to settle with the bastard, as well.”

Vincent managed a small smile. “Yes, I suppose we cannot wait to get our turns with the traitorous bastard.”

There was a small beat of silence in which their rage and dark intentions were allowed to fester. But then Somerton broke it to pieces with his next words.

“And how is your duchess faring?” he asked, changing the subject. “I imagine this ordeal has been trying for her as well.”

Vincent’s gaze shifted to the rain-drenched window, beyond which London’s evening skyline stretched endlessly. “She’s at her mother’s house. I’ve ordered my men to keep watch—discreetly, of course.”

His heart stuttered as he remembered their last encounter.

Of course, it had pained him to say those words to her. To dismiss her in that way. But…he could not stand the idea of her getting hurt. Could not stand the thought of Geoffrey harming her. He did not think he could handle it.

Somerton’s eyebrows rose slightly. “You sent her away?”

“I sent her to safety,” Vincent corrected, a defensive edge creeping into his voice.

He did not like Somerton’s tone at all, or the way the man said the words, as though he were an idiot for making such a decision.

“Ah.” Somerton’s expression remained neutral, though something in his eyes suggested that he found Vincent’s answer lacking. “And this was necessary because…?”

Vincent frowned. “Because Geoffrey is still out there. Because he’s already shown his willingness to kill to achieve his goals. Until he’s found, Juliana is safest away from me,” he replied, trying his best to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

His partner must have suffered a minor concussion if he was asking such a stupid question or even questioning his decision in such a manner.

“So you’ve posted men around the dower house?”

“Of course.”

Somerton tilted his head, considering. “You could have simply posted men around here to keep her safe,” he pointed out slowly, as though he were speaking to a mentally challenged person.

Vincent did not like that either.

“It’s not the same,” he countered. “Once Geoffrey is found, Juliana will be safest away from me.”

Why could Somerton not see that this was best for everybody involved?

Somerton blinked at him, a long, deliberate gesture that conveyed way more than words ever could.

“Forgive me, Your Grace, but are you an idiot?”

Vincent gaped at him, momentarily taken aback by the bluntness of his question. “I beg your pardon?”

“No, I’m genuinely asking, because I’m struggling to understand how a man as intelligent as you could make such a grave error in judgment,” Somerton replied, his voice gaining strength with each word.

Vincent’s jaw ticked at the man’s sudden zest. To think, he was sitting there and being reprimanded by a marquess.

But Somerton was not yet done, it seemed.

“Are you actually so obtuse that you believe sending your wife away—under the noble guise of protection, no less—is the solution?” he scoffed, even having the gall to arch an eyebrow at Vincent.

Vincent’s back stiffened at the gesture.

“I’m doing what’s necessary to keep her safe,” he bit out, the words falling from his lips like freshly hardened bricks. “Norfield?—”

“Is a threat, yes,” Somerton interrupted again. “A threat that could be managed just as effectively with guards stationed around your townhouse. Or did you not consider that option?”

Vincent turned to look at him, frustration evident in the tight line of his shoulders. This bastard, why did he keep bringing that up?

“Of course, I considered it. But the risk?—”

“Is it the risk to her that concerns you,” Somerton asked, his voice softening slightly, “or the risk to yourself?”

Vincent stilled, the question hitting its mark with unexpected precision. “What are you implying?”

Somerton sighed, wincing as he shifted again. “I’m implying, my friend, that perhaps sending her away has less to do with protecting her from Norfield and more to do with protecting yourself from the vulnerability her presence creates.”

Again, the words hit their mark with uncomfortable accuracy.

Vincent turned away, unwilling to meet Somerton’s knowing gaze. “You’re speaking nonsense.”

“Am I?” Somerton challenged. “It is very clear to me that you’re doing what’s necessary to avoid facing the vulnerability that comes with caring for someone.”

He struggled to sit up straighter, grimacing slightly at the effort. Vincent made no effort to help him.

Petty as that may be, Vincent was sure that if the man had the energy to berate him like this, he should be able to get up on his own.

“You’re pushing her away under the pretense of keeping her safe, when, in reality, you’re keeping yourself safe—from the possibility of loss, from the responsibility of connection.”

Vincent rose from his chair, agitation driving him to pace the short distance to the window and back. “You misunderstand the situation entirely.”

“Do I? Then tell me this—has your wife ever given you a reason to doubt her ability to handle difficult situations? Has she ever shown herself to be fragile or easily broken? You saw her stand firm with a pistol to her head, yet she demanded to be released instead of crying like other women would,” his partner argued, much to his chagrin.

Vincent remained silent, his back turned to the Marquess as he stared out at the street below.

“I thought not,” Somerton continued, undeterred by the silence. “From what little I’ve observed, and from what you yourself have told me, the Duchess of Blackmoor is a woman of remarkable fortitude and intelligence. Yet, you treat her as though she were made of glass.”

As I should , Vincent told himself, stubbornness carving the idea into his mind like an engraving.

“I am trying to protect her,” he said for the umpteenth time, his voice low, dangerous. A warning .

But it was a warning that his annoying partner ignored without batting an eyelid.

“You are isolating her,” Somerton countered, and Vincent’s eyes narrowed. “And in doing so, you’re making yourself vulnerable as well. Two targets separated are easier to strike than two standing together.”

Vincent turned slowly to face him. “This is not about strategy.”

“Isn’t it?” Somerton raised an eyebrow. “Everything is about strategy with you, Blackmoor. Every move is calculated, every decision is weighed. But in this, your calculations are flawed.”

Vincent’s eyebrow rose. He did not quite like having his decision questioned like this. Especially not after he’d considered it long enough before making it. Now, he returned to his chair, sinking into it with a heaviness that betrayed his exhaustion.

“How so?”

“You’ve forgotten to account for the most unpredictable element in any equation—human emotion.” Somerton’s voice softened slightly. “She’s miserable without you, you know.”

Vincent’s head snapped up. “How would you know that?”

“Because you’re miserable without her,” Somerton replied simply.

Vincent flinched. Had he really been that transparent all this time?

“And in my experience, such misery is rarely one-sided.”

“I didn’t take you for a romantic,” Vincent drawled, the deflection obvious even to his own ears.

Somerton huffed a soft laugh that quickly turned into a wince.

“I’m not. But I am observant—that’s my strongest trait. And what I’ve observed is that you’ve been more alive since she entered your life than in all the years I’ve known you.” He leaned back against his pillows, the brief exertion having sapped his strength. “I tell you this again, Vincent. You’re making yourself miserable. And I do not doubt that you’re making her miserable, too.”

Vincent’s jaw worked, the truth of Somerton’s words striking with uncomfortable accuracy. He thought of Juliana’s face when he had told her he was sending her to her mother’s house, when he had brought up living separately—the flicker of hurt quickly masked by resignation as if she had expected no better from him.

He was silent for a long moment, staring off into the distance. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.

“But…I have put her in danger by making her my wife.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Somerton groaned before looking him square in the eye. “You have given her a place at your side. The danger comes not from your connection to her, but from Geoffrey’s vendetta against the Crown—a vendetta that existed long before the duchess entered your life.”

Vincent dragged a hand down his face, the gesture betraying a rare vulnerability. “And what if something happens to her because of me? What then?”

That was his biggest fear, the one thing that he couldn’t bear to even think about.

“Then you face it together, as husband and wife,” Somerton replied. “But pushing her away does not make her safer—it only ensures that if danger finds her, you will not be there to face it with her.”

The truth of Somerton’s words settled over Vincent like a blanket. He had been so certain of his decision, so convinced that distance was the only way to protect Juliana. But what if he had been wrong? What if, in his attempt to shield her, he had only succeeded in leaving her more vulnerable—and more alone?

“I’ve been a fool,” he murmured, more to himself than to Somerton.

“Yes,” Somerton agreed without hesitation. “But fortunately, foolishness is a temporary condition that is easily remedied by action.”

Vincent looked up, meeting his gaze. “When did you become so wise?”

“I’ve always been wise,” Somerton replied with a hint of his usual humor. “You were simply too stubborn to notice.”

Despite everything, Vincent felt a smile tug at his lips. “I should go to her.”

“You should.” Somerton nodded. “Before another day passes with this unnecessary distance between you.”

Vincent rose to his feet, then hesitated. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “For your candor…my friend.”

Something flashed in Somerton’s eyes—surprise, perhaps, followed quickly by a genuine warmth. “Go get her, Blackmoor,” he said softly. “And when you do, try not to be an arse about it.”

“Rest. I’ll return with news.” Vincent nodded once, then turned and marched out of the room with a newfound purpose.

Within minutes, he had given orders for his carriage to be readied, heedless of the late hour and the worsening weather.

He had been a fool, as Somerton had so bluntly pointed out. But perhaps it was not too late to fix his mistake. Some matters, he realized, could not wait till morning.

The dower house sat among cobbled streets of London, its stone facade bathed in moonlight.

Inside, in a bedchamber on the second floor, Juliana lay awake, her eyes fixed on the canopy above her bed. Sleep had eluded her for the third night in a row, her mind too full of worries and frustrations to find rest.

She had tried to understand Vincent’s decision to send her away. Had tried to convince herself that it was born of genuine concern for her safety. But as the days passed with no word from him, doubt had crept in, insidious and persistent.

Had it been so easy for him to separate himself from her? Had the intimacy they shared meant so little that he could dismiss her without a second thought?

Juliana turned onto her side, pulling the covers tighter around herself. The room was chilly despite the fire that burned low in the grate. Or perhaps the chill was inside her, a coldness that had taken root the moment Vincent had declared her “not his concern.”

She closed her eyes, willing sleep to come, to provide a temporary respite from the thoughts that plagued her. But just as she began to drift off, a sound from outside jolted her awake—a thud, followed by the soft crunch of gravel.

Juliana sat up, her heart rate quickening. It could be one of the guards Vincent had posted around the house. But something in the furtive nature of the sound set her on edge.

Silently, she slipped out of the bed, the floorboards cool beneath her bare feet. She reached for her robe, pulling it around her nightgown as she moved toward the door.

The corridor outside her room was dim, illuminated only by a single lamp that cast long shadows over the walls. Juliana hesitated, listening intently. The house was quiet, almost unnaturally so. Even the usual creaks and clicks seemed muted, as though the very structure was holding its breath.

She took a step forward, then another, driven by an instinct she couldn’t name. Perhaps it was nothing. Perhaps her overwrought nerves were imagining dangers where none existed.

But as she reached for the handle of her door, it turned on its own.

The door swung open before she could retreat, and there on the threshold stood a figure—a man whose features were obscured by shadow but whose presence sent a wave of cold dread through her.

Before she could cry out, a hand clamped over her mouth, firm enough to silence but not to hurt.

“Not a sound, Your Grace,” Geoffrey whispered, his breath warm against her ear. “I’d hate for our reunion to be interrupted.”

Juliana’s eyes widened, recognition and fear coalescing into a single paralyzing moment of clarity.

He had found her. Despite Vincent’s precautions, despite the guards, Geoffrey had found her.