Page 28 of The Duke Who Stole Me (Stolen by the Duke #4)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

“ A h, Julie, you’re trembling.”

Geoffrey’s hand remained firm over her mouth, his fingers pressing into her skin just enough to convey his intent without leaving any marks. With his free hand, he reached inside his coat pocket and withdrew a pistol, the metal gleaming dully in the muted lamplight.

Juliana’s heart thudded in her chest at the sight of it.

“I am going to remove my hand now, dear Julie,” he murmured, his voice carrying a gentleness that made the situation all the more unsettling, all the more…terrifying. “And when I do, I trust you’ll exercise restraint.”

Her eyes flicked to the weapon that was now pointed at her temple, the barrel close enough that she could feel its coldness against her skin. She nodded once—a small, tight movement.

As promised, his hand fell from her face, but the pistol rose to take its place, the barrel pressing coldly against her temple. She drew in a shaky breath, her heart thundering so violently that she was certain he could hear it.

“How…How did you get past Vincent’s men?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

A smile played at the corners of Geoffrey’s mouth, devoid of genuine mirth.

“I have ambushed people before. It’s a skill one develops in my line of work, Julie,” he replied, the nickname rolling off his tongue with mock deference. “The trick is to move silently and strike decisively. Your husband’s men are competent enough, I suppose, but they’re accustomed to visible threats, not shadows.”

The implication hung in the air between them, a reminder of the treachery that had brought them to this moment.

Juliana’s mind raced, calculating the distance to the door, wondering if any of the guards were still conscious, if anyone in the household had been alerted to the intruder’s presence.

But, as if he could sense what she was thinking, Geoffrey pushed her back into the room with subtle pressure from the pistol. The door closed behind him with a soft click that seemed to seal her fate.

“What do you want?” Juliana managed, her voice sounding steadier than she felt.

“Puzzled, are you?” Geoffrey observed, taking a step closer. “Wondering why I’ve come, perhaps? Why I’ve sought you out specifically?”

He circled her slowly, like a predator assessing its prey, his gaze never leaving her face.

“Our little encounter at Lord Trenton’s reminded me of something I had nearly forgotten,” he continued, his tone conversational, as though they were merely acquaintances having tea rather than adversaries in a deadly confrontation. “That my former fiancée might be of use to me, after all. And here I am, seeking your assistance.”

His words sent a chill through her, not because of their implications but because of the calculated intent behind them. She’d noticed when he left her at their engagement ball that he had always been adept at finding someone’s utility, at seeing people not as individuals but as tools to be manipulated.

“So,” he said, adjusting his grip on the pistol, “if you help me, I will not shoot you.”

Juliana lifted her chin slightly, a subtle act of defiance in the face of his threat. “What makes you believe I will help you?”

Geoffrey’s expression hardened, the facade of civility slipping to reveal the cold calculation beneath.

“Because,” he said, each word precise and measured, “first I will shoot you, and then I will shoot anyone who comes to check in on you.” He paused, his eyes narrowing. “Including your lovely sisters.”

The mention of her sisters sent a wave of cold dread through her, stealing her breath more effectively than any physical blow could have.

She had accepted the risks that came with involving herself in the mission, but her family was innocent in this. The thought of harm coming to them because she refused to cooperate was unbearable.

“You wouldn’t,” she breathed. But even as the words left her lips, she knew with a terrible certainty that he, in fact, would.

“Oh, I assure you, I would.” His tone remained conversational, as though they were discussing nothing more consequential than the weather. “So, Julie, what shall it be? Your cooperation, or a series of unfortunate tragedies that will leave your family significantly diminished?”

Juliana swallowed hard, her throat constricting painfully. “What do you want from me?”

Geoffrey’s smile returned, a cold curve of victory.

“Ah, I thought you might see reason.” He gestured with the pistol. “What I need from you is quite simple, really. I require your late father’s personal belongings.”

Juliana furrowed her brow slightly in confusion. “My father’s belongings? What do you need them for?”

“More specifically, a chest of confidential documents.”

Juliana stilled, her mind racing. Her father’s documents had indeed been moved to the dower house after his death, stored away like so many other remnants of his life. If she knew anything about this mission, she knew that Geoffrey was hopping from one army office’s house to the next, looking for something in their studies.

“I know they’re not at Ridgewell House,” Geoffrey continued, clearly reading her thoughts. “Your uncle would have mentioned them by now if they were in his possession. Which means they must be here, among the rest of your father’s affairs.” He stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. “And I know you were intimately involved in cataloging his possessions after his death. You know precisely which chest I’m referring to.”

She did. The cedar chest with brass handles and her father’s initials inlaid in the lid. It had always been locked, the key kept on his person till his death, after which it had passed to her as the eldest daughter.

She had never opened that chest, respecting her father’s privacy even in death. But she knew where it was—tucked away in her mother’s private study, beneath a window seat that concealed a small storage space.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she lied, but the slight tremor in her voice betrayed her.

Geoffrey sighed, a sound of exaggerated patience.

“Come now, Your Grace. We both know that is a blatant lie.” The pistol pressed more firmly against her temple. “Shall I remind you what’s at stake? Your life. Your family’s lives. All balanced against the simple act of retrieving a box.” His voice dropped, a whisper meant for her ears only. “Is it really worth their blood?”

She didn’t have to think of the answer to that sick question.

No. No, it was not.

She could not sacrifice her family, no matter how important those documents seemed to be. In the end, they were nothing but pieces of parchment when compared to the lives of her mother and sisters.

Juliana met his gaze, allowing him to see not fear, but resignation. “No,” she said quietly. “I know where it is.”

Geoffrey’s expression softened into something resembling satisfaction. “A wise decision. Now, if you would be so kind as to lead the way.”

Juliana hesitated only a moment before turning toward the door. “Follow me,” she said, her voice hollow with resignation.

Geoffrey kept the pistol aimed at her back as she led him through the dimly lit corridors of the dower house. The silence pressed around them, broken only by their footsteps and the occasional creak of aged floorboards.

Juliana’s mind raced, desperately seeking a solution, a way out of this nightmare. But with Geoffrey so close behind her, with his pistol cocked and ready, what other choice did she have?

They descended the main staircase, the moonlight filtering through windows casting elongated shadows over the polished wood. Juliana led him toward the east wing, where her mother’s private study was located. Each step felt like a betrayal—of her father, of Vincent, of herself. But the alternative was unthinkable.

“You’re being very cooperative,” Geoffrey remarked mildly as they approached the study door. “I appreciate that.”

God take this blasted man.

Rage began to bubble underneath her skin.

“I’m doing this to protect my family,” she replied coldly. “Don’t mistake it for anything else.”

Geoffrey chuckled, the sound sending a shiver of disgust down her spine. She could not believe that she had once been promised to this…this snake of a man.

“Spirited as ever. I can see why Vincent finds you so…diverting.”

Juliana’s hand faltered on the door handle, his words striking her like a physical blow. The casual cruelty of the insinuation, the reduction of her marriage to mere entertainment, ignited the already seething river of rage in her blood.

“You know nothing of my marriage,” she hissed, turning to face him despite the risk, her eyes blazing.

Geoffrey raised an eyebrow, seemingly amused by her defiance. “Don’t I?” He gestured with his pistol. “Open the door, dear Julie. We’ve wasted enough time on pleasantries.” His tone was cold, devoid of his earlier amusement.

With reluctance, Juliana turned the handle and pushed the door open, revealing the intimate space her mother had claimed as her own.

Bookshelves lined one wall, and a small writing desk was positioned near a window that overlooked the garden. Beneath another window, a cushioned seat concealed the storage space she sought.

“The chest is there,” she said, nodding toward the window seat. “Under the cushion.”

Geoffrey smiled, a predator’s expression of triumph. “Retrieve it for me, if you would be so kind.”

Juliana moved woodenly to the window seat and lifted the hinged lid to reveal the hidden compartment beneath. There, just as she remembered, sat her father’s cedar chest, the brass handles gleaming dully in the moonlight that streamed through the window.

As she bent to lift it, a floorboard creaked in the corridor outside—a soft sound, but in the stillness of the night, it might as well have been a thunderclap.

Geoffrey’s head snapped toward the door, his body tensing. “Who else is here?” he demanded, his voice a harsh whisper.

“No one,” Juliana answered quickly—too quickly. “The house creaks at night. These old buildings?—”

“Silence,” Geoffrey hissed, moving swiftly to position himself behind her, one arm wrapped around her waist while the other pressed the pistol to her temple once more. “If one of your husband’s men has decided to check on you, I’m afraid I’ll have to act on my threat.”

Vincent’s carriage rattled along the cobbled path at a pace that bordered on reckless, the horses pushed to their limits by his urgency. The rain had begun to fall, a fine mist that clung to the windows and transformed the moonlight into a blurry glow.

He leaned forward, peering through the glass as the dower house came into view, its windows dark save for a single light on the second floor. His men should have been visible—stationed at strategic points around the property, maintaining a vigilant watch. Yet, as the carriage drew closer, he saw no sign of them.

A cold certainty settled in his gut, a premonition that had saved his life more times than he could count. Something was wrong.

“Stop here,” he ordered the driver, his voice cutting through the rhythmic patter of rain.

The carriage slowed to a halt some distance from the house, far enough to avoid revealing his arrival. Vincent descended without waiting for the step to be lowered, his boots sinking slightly into the rain-softened earth.

“Remain here,” he instructed, his eyes already scanning the perimeter of the property, again searching for any sign of his men.

He moved with the silent efficiency that had made him one of the Crown’s most valuable assets, skirting the main path in favor of the shadows cast by ancient trees. The rain had intensified, a silver curtain through which the house appeared as a looming silhouette.

It was at the rear of the property that Vincent found the first evidence of his fears: one of his men sprawled unconscious beside the servants’ entrance, a dark stain matting his hair where he had been struck.

Vincent knelt down and pressed his fingers to the man’s neck. A pulse—faint but steady. The man had been knocked out but not killed. A small mercy, but one that did nothing to alleviate the dread that had taken root in Vincent’s chest.

Norfield was here.

Vincent rose, drawing his pistol from his pocket. The weight of it was familiar, a grim reminder of the life he had led before Juliana.

Before her, he had moved through the world as a shadow, detached and calculating. Now, with her safety at risk, that detachment was impossible. Every nerve in his body thrummed with urgency, with the desperate need to reach her before it was too late.

He entered through the kitchen door, which stood ajar—another sign that something was amiss. The house was quiet, unnaturally so, as though holding its breath in anticipation of what was to come. Vincent moved through the corridors with practiced stealth, his footsteps silent on the wooden floorboards, his senses alert for any sound that might reveal Norfield’s location.

And then he heard it—voices, muffled but distinct, coming from a room he’d never had the privilege of visiting. He recognized Juliana’s voice. It was strained but steady. But the other voice…it belonged to a man, having a smooth, controlled cadence he recognized all too well.

Vincent took the stairs two at a time, no longer concerned with stealth. Every moment that passed was a moment in which Juliana remained in danger—a thought that drove him forward with a desperation he had never felt before.

He felt it even more keenly now—he had indeed been a fool to send her away, to believe that distance would keep her safe. Somerton was right. By separating them, Vincent had only made her more vulnerable.

The thought filled him with cold fury, directed not at Norfield but at himself.

As he approached the study door, he heard Norfield’s voice more clearly.

“Retrieve it for me, if you would be so kind.”

Vincent paused, his hand on the door handle. He needed to assess the situation before acting. If Norfield had a weapon aimed at Juliana—and Vincent had no doubt that he did—bursting in could prove fatal.

He took a deep breath, steadying himself. Then, with deliberate care, he pushed the door open and stepped into the room.

The scene before him confirmed his worst fears. Norfield stood in the center of the study, one arm wrapped around Juliana’s waist, the other holding a pistol to her temple. At their feet lay a cedar chest, its brass handles gleaming in the lamplight.

For a moment, the three of them remained frozen in a tableau of tension—Vincent in the doorway, his weapon raised; Norfield and Juliana in the center of the room, their expressions a study in contrasts.

Norfield’s face contorted with surprise, which was quickly masked by cold-blooded calculation. Juliana’s eyes widened, relief and fear battling for dominance in her gaze.

“Vincent,” she breathed, his name a prayer on her lips.

Norfield’s arm tightened around her waist, the barrel of his pistol pressing more firmly against her temple. “Ah, the Duke of Blackmoor,” he said, his tone deceptively light. “How considerate of you to join us.”

Vincent kept his weapon trained on him, his gaze steady. “Release her, Norfield,” he commanded, his voice low and dangerous.

Norfield laughed, a sound devoid of humor. “I think not. In fact, I believe it would be best if you leave us to our business. Lower your weapon and back away, Blackmoor.”

“That’s not going to happen.” Vincent’s tone was flat, implacable.

Norfield’s expression hardened. “Then I’m afraid we find ourselves at an impasse. One that could end quite tragically for your duchess.”

The barrel of his pistol shifted slightly, a subtle reminder of the threat he posed.

Vincent’s gaze flickered to Juliana’s face. Despite the fear in her eyes, there was a determined set to her jaw that he recognized all too well. She was thinking, planning, not surrendering to terror.

Her eyes darted briefly to the desk beside them, where a paper-knife lay among scattered papers. The gesture was subtle, but in the heightened state of awareness that had descended upon him, Vincent caught it immediately.

He gave an imperceptible shake of his head, trying to convey the danger of such an action. Geoffrey was too close, too ready. Any sudden movement on her part could prove fatal.

But Juliana’s gaze remained fixed on the paper-knife, her intent clear in her stubborn expression. Vincent felt a surge of both pride and terror at her courage—or perhaps it was her recklessness. At that moment, he recognized her as his true match, just as fearless, just as determined to protect those she cared for.

Norfield, however, was not as oblivious as they might have hoped. His gaze shifted between them, reading the silent exchange with the practiced eye of a spy.

“How touching,” he remarked, his voice laced with contempt. “Such devotion, such…coordination.” His arm tightened around Juliana’s waist. “But I’m afraid I must insist on your departure, Blackmoor. Or I will be forced to demonstrate just how serious I am.”

Vincent remained motionless, his mind racing through possibilities, calculating risks and outcomes with the precision that had kept him alive throughout the years. There was no clear path, no solution that guaranteed Juliana’s safety. But surrender was not an option—not with Norfield, who had already proven himself capable of murder.

“I won’t ask again,” he warned, his finger tensing on the trigger. “Leave now, or I will put a bullet in your duchess’s pretty head.”

Vincent held his ground, his gaze unwavering. “You won’t shoot her.”

“No?” Norfield arched an eyebrow. “And why is that?”

“Because she’s your leverage,” Vincent replied, taking a measured step forward. “Kill her, and you lose your only advantage.”

Norfield’s smile tightened. “Perhaps. But there’s a significant difference between a fatal shot and a merely…debilitating one.”

His gaze flicked briefly to Juliana’s shoulder, a deliberate indication of his intent.

Juliana’s eyes met Vincent’s from across the room, and he could see all the emotions in them. There was fear, yes, but also determination, trust—a trust he felt he did not deserve—and something deeper. Something that looked a lot like…like love. Her love for him.

And in that silent exchange, a plan began to form in his mind. It was not a perfect plan, not even a good one, but it was the only chance they had.

Vincent lowered his weapon slowly, a gesture of apparent compliance. “Very well,” he said, his voice carefully controlled. “I’ll go.”

Norfield’s expression shifted to one of satisfaction, a slimy smugness that no doubt delighted him.

Vincent took a single step backward, his eyes never leaving his wife’s. In that gaze was a promise, a signal. His lips barely moved as he murmured a single word, so softly that it was barely a breath.

“Now.”