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Chapter Ten

“ E xcuse me,” Eleanor called out, her voice uncertain but clear as she spotted a dark head disappearing between the hedges. “May I speak with the head gardener?”

She stepped off the path, lifting her skirts slightly as she followed the figure deeper into the garden.

A few minutes ago, she had been wandering Everdawn Hall alone, determined to memorize the layout of the place while the sun was still out. She wanted to learn the routes now so she wouldn’t be lost when darkness fell again.

Unlike the draughty London townhouses of her childhood, the ducal estate was not cold. But it carried a heavy stillness, a sense of hollowness that lingered in the air.

The rooms were wide and bare, the corridors echoing despite the bevy of servants carrying flowers, linens, and polished candlesticks. Though the main structure was comforting in its rustic solidity, it felt to Eleanor as though the manor itself had forgotten how to be lived in.

After years spent in a narrow cell or beneath the towering arches of a cold prayer hall, the vastness here unsettled her. She wasn’t used to beauty without purpose.

She had found her way to a terraced platform overlooking the gardens below. The view had stolen her breath, but there were no steps leading down. Frowning, she retraced her way through the manor, passing the library where she’d met her husband.

Her cheeks flushed at the memory. How close they’d stood. How poorly she’d lied.

She had wanted to speak to someone—anyone—who wasn’t him. But each time she opened her mouth, the servants glanced away and moved on, polite but distant. She was the Duchess now, yes, but she was still a stranger. A fallen lady returned to a world that did not know what to do with her.

Finally, after descending two more levels, she found the gardens. Although the hedges were perfectly trimmed and the flowerbeds meticulously shaped, they were dull and lifeless. So rigid. So colorless. Just like the manor.

And then she had seen him—just a glimpse. That untidy head of black hair, vanishing between the hedges. So she followed, demanding to speak with the head gardener.

She wasn’t sure what she expected. Only that she desperately needed to speak with someone who might actually answer her.

The man pulled back from the bramble he had been working on and bowed deeply. “Your Grace, I am the head gardener. Mr. Branson, at your service. What can I help you with?”

“I would like to help out here,” Eleanor said, her fingers already itching to sink into the soil. “Can I borrow some supplies so I can plant a new flowerbed?”

Mr. Branson blinked at her, his eyes darting around as if he was about to be caught. “Supplies, Your Grace? I… Are the gardens not to your liking?”

“They are beautiful,” she was quick to assure him. “You have done a wonderful job, but I wish to help out. The afternoon is long but hot, so we must move quickly.”

“Indeed, Your Grace.” He nodded. “But are you certain? The gardens are my responsibility, and you are the mistress of the house…”

“I do not mean to diminish your expertise, Sir. I would very much like to join you. I quite like gardening.”

The man smiled softly, then nodded again. “Of course, Your Grace. I will be but a moment.”

When he returned, she was already kneeling by a flowerbed, digging up roots and dropping them in a neat pile.

Her fingers knew what to do, even if her mind wandered. Yet it didn’t. It ought to; she had enough to ponder. Charlotte, her parents’ coldness, the Duke’s refusal to cooperate, the emptiness of her future, the fact that she was no longer gardening in St. Euphemia’s but in Everdawn.

Gardening had been her solace in the convent, a silent thing away from the prayer hall and the cold, unforgiving stones against her knees, and the cell she used to sleep in.

The nuns had barely watched her in the gardens. The old Jacobean manor had been surrounded by a crumbling but high wall, not easy to scale. Eleanor had tried once, only to fall into a thorny bush, scraped and bleeding. She had not tried to scale that wall again. She had paid for it dearly.

The gardens had been her safe haven in a place that was inherently unsafe, and although she was protected at Everdawn, she felt herself sliding back into the comfort that greenery provided her.

The scent of damp soil and the fragrance of the flowers soothed her senses, and she did not realize she was humming until a shadow fell over her.

She craned her neck, and the first thing she noticed was how the Duke’s broad shoulders blocked out the early afternoon sun.

“You are… gardening,” he noted, blinking down at her.

Eleanor didn’t stand up, didn’t stop, didn’t do anything but continue plotting her new flowerbed.

“I am,” she answered. “You told me to enjoy my life, and this is what I enjoy, Your Grace.”

When he laughed—not a genuine, amused laugh, but a disbelieving one—she continued her work.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just… look at you. An ever so lowly duchess covered in mud,” he observed, his lips curved in a slight smile.

The comment was not an insult, but…

Heavens, was he teasing her?

Eleanor simply responded, “Better mud than blood.”

At his silence, she looked up again to find his face frozen in surprise. Then, he nodded slowly, his eyes twinkling. “I will leave you to it, then.”

But Eleanor had already returned to her work, once again humming.

Spencer did not wish to think of his wife’s humming as pretty or gentle, but those were the words that came to mind as he walked away from her.

“Better mud than blood.”

His lips curled into a wider smile, both impressed and taken aback. He had been rendered quite speechless by her quick response. Perhaps beneath the layers of vulnerability and scars, there was a witty young woman who had forgotten how to use her sharp tongue.

His remaining question was, what would it take to unearth it?

The warm tone of her skin made more and more sense. It was so out of place on the streets of London, but here it was not. She must have spent countless hours in the gardens of the convent.

Had that been her only reprieve in that hellish place?

She had looked more relaxed than he had ever seen her. Not even in sleep had she looked so peaceful.

Back in the manor, he headed to his study but was stopped by Mr. Fulton, his butler, halfway.

“Your Grace, a package has arrived for you,” he said. “I have left it in the drawing room for yourself and Her Grace.”

Spencer nodded and quickly went to the drawing room, frowning at the wrapped box on the table. A label rested atop it, along with a note written in an unfamiliar hand.

To the Duke and Duchess of Everdawn,

Congratulations on your most unexpected wedding. What a shame the ton could not witness the rise of Her Grace. It may be a dove that represents the Quinleys, but perhaps the Duchess is more of a phoenix.

Furthermore, I must express my curiosity regarding my bride-to-be’s whereabouts. She has not written since she arrived in London, nor did she visit me. Do let me know if she is safe. Absent family can be a hard thing to forgive, both for Lady Charlotte and Lady Eleanor.

Regards,

Henry Lewis, the Earl of Follet.

Spencer read the note, trying not to crumple it as alarm bells rang in his head. So many threats. Threats he wondered how often he had read and overlooked.

The casual mention of the Quinleys’ crest, the slight jab at Spencer’s absence during his sister’s upbringing, and then the knowledge of the Quinleys’ abandonment of Eleanor—it was all deliberate.

A phoenix…

Spencer knew he could not have kept their wedding secret for very long. He had expected word to spread sooner, but he still wished he’d had more time. If Lord Follet was already enquiring about Charlotte’s whereabouts, then he had already begun searching for her.

How many times had Spencer let his sister meet with Lord Follet, thinking him respectable? Thinking him trustworthy?

The possibility of what could have happened had he not been warned would continue to haunt him at night.

It only made him more determined. He had to uncover the darker truth that both Lord Belgrave and Lord Follet had managed to hide for so long.

They knew their game, but Spencer knew how to play just as well.

“If you are dragging me out several miles out of town for mysterious purposes, only to tell me that I was not invited to your wedding, then the least you can do is buy me a drink.”

Theodore Jacobs was one of Spencer’s closest friends, and it was for that very reason—and that reason only —that Spencer allowed him to keep glaring for as long as he had.

Around the two of them, the tavern was crowded and brightly lit, even as darkness fell over the village of Thornshead.

Spencer looked back at his friend coolly. “You may buy your own drink. Or does becoming the Marquess of Avington not pay you well enough?”

“Ha,” Theodore huffed. “It pays well enough… if you understand my meaning.”

Spencer sighed. “Not a lot has changed about you, then.” His mouth twitched in amusement.

In truth, a lot had changed about his friend.

The same age as Spencer, Theodore still held the boyish charm he had possessed back in their Cambridge days. He used to charm ladies who walked past the gates of their university, daring to bat their eyelashes at the boys strolling out in their fine clothes.

His dark curls were swept back with pomade, and his bright blue eyes sparkled when he caught the eye of who he swore would be the next Marchioness of Avington. According to the gossip sheets, every lady in London was rumored to be her, for the man was known for jumping from one woman to another.

“Regardless, I put off business in Avington for this. Do buy me a pint of the Talbots’ finest ale and tell me why I was not invited to your wedding.”

“It was scarcely a wedding,” Spencer muttered, but he eventually nodded, flagging down the barman.

As soon as they were served, he pulled Theodore to a quieter corner, ignoring his protests.

“What in the?—”