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Chapter Twenty-Seven

E leanor woke as she had woken far too many times over the last three years—to a cold, stone room and the creak of a wooden door.

For a moment, she was convinced it was all a dream: Spencer, Everdawn, her marriage. All of it was a truly beautiful dream. But now she was back in the convent, a deep ache in her spine and legs and?—

And a woman next to her, slumped.

A woman who stirred.

A woman who Eleanor had thought desperately about while at the convent. But now she was there, and Eleanor’s eyes welled with tears, for she knew it wasn’t a dream.

“Charlotte,” she whispered.

There was a rope around her wrists, digging into her skin. She trembled at the sight of the old, cold rooms, but her heart had long steeled itself against these memories. She was stronger now, even if she was still scared.

I have escaped before; I can do it again.

Charlotte stirred slightly, her head lolling back and hitting the hard wall behind her. Her eyes flew open, blue and terrified as she looked around. “Eleanor? Eleanor, where are we?”

“It is all right,” Eleanor whispered, grateful that her voice didn’t tremble. “We are at St. Euphemia’s.”

Charlotte’s eyes widened. “S-St. Euphemia’s? Heavens, Eleanor, we must?—”

“It is all right,” Eleanor repeated more urgently, wanting her friend to remain calm. “It is all right. We… we planned to be here tonight, after all.” Her light-hearted attempt fell flat, but she tried anyway. “Our plan was simply sped up.”

But Charlotte didn’t seem consoled, and Eleanor was quickly distracted by the sound of footsteps on stone, the drag of gowns across the floor as the nuns approached the room. Her heart rate spiked, and she watched the door as she had always done, braced and ready.

It was Sister Martha and Sister Susan who entered, those cruel smiles she had never thought she would see again plastered on their faces.

“Eleanor Barnes,” Sister Martha crooned. “How you have fallen even further than when you last came to us. A duchess in our fine establishment. The Lord looks fondly upon you to grant a second chance at repentance.”

“Let us go,” Eleanor snapped, her voice breaking. “Let us go, Sister Martha.”

The sisters ignored her.

Sister Susan tapped her cane on the floor in warning, and Eleanor flinched, remembering its bite.

“Do not hurt us,” she pleaded. “Or at least release Charlotte. Please , she has done nothing to be involved in this.”

“We have it on good authority that is not true,” Sister Martha told her.

“What a delight for us to save such sinners. Obedience can be such a salvation, Your Grace , and many girls have found peace here. In God, in praying their sins away. Tell us, did your sins wash away when you left, clinging to the Duke of Everdawn? The Lord sees all, Eleanor.”

She stared her down as if her story since leaving St. Euphemia’s was written all over her body.

Perhaps it was, but Eleanor did not care.

She lifted her chin. “And the girls who leave here? Never to be seen again? Where do they go, Sister Martha?”

Sister Martha’s eyes narrowed, and Sister Susan tapped her cane harder, impatient. But then the sound was joined by another set of footsteps, and suddenly Eleanor was thrown back to that day months ago when Lord Belgrave entered her room in the convent.

He walked in now, his smirk already in place. She tensed, waiting for his taunts, but he merely glanced at her before moving toward a huddled Charlotte.

“It is time,” he said.

Eleanor wasted no time in launching herself between them, thrown off-balance by her bound wrists.

“No!” she shouted. “No, no, do not touch her!”

“Move, Eleanor,” Lord Belgrave snapped. “Do not make this more difficult than it has to be. You are aware of her fate.”

Eleanor didn’t take a moment to think—did not want to think, for she knew she’d do anything to save her friend tonight as she once had. “Take me instead.”

Lord Belgrave reared back, an eyebrow rising in surprise.

Before he could say anything, she continued, “Take me in her place, Lord Belgrave. I am the one who escaped you, after all. I am the one you could never truly catch. I am the perfect bait, not Charlotte. You want to catch my husband, do you not? He will come for us—you know he will. You know he has been investigating you; he is so very close to exposing your whole operation. One word from him and it all crashes down. Take me, and he will fight for me, and you can end him for good. You may silence him and keep your operation safe.”

Lord Belgrave studied her, silently assessing her words.

Eleanor met his gaze and did not flinch.

“Please,” she begged. “Please let her go. You do not want her. It was me from the beginning, was it not?”

Lord Belgrave smiled slowly, and it sent a chill through her. He stalked toward her, lifting a hand to her face. Still, she did not flinch.

He moved as if to caress her, but then he struck her head, and she cried out in surprise.

The last thing she heard was Charlotte’s screams.

Spencer stormed into St. Euphemia’s through the back entrance, not caring about the commotion he made. Anger fueled him as he began his hunt.

“Where is she?” he demanded, right as he approached a nun he had last seen in Quinley House. “Where is my wife, you wretched woman?”

But before she could answer, he heard a whimper, and he tore down the hallway toward it as constables flooded into the convent behind him. He heard a hard cry from the nun behind him.

“Do not take her yet,” he ordered, before following the whimpers to a small cell.

Inside, he found Charlotte huddled in a corner. The key was hooked on the wall outside, just cruelly out of reach.

In his rage, he almost yanked the door off its hinges. Charlotte cried out, throwing herself into his arms and collapsing against him.

“Spencer,” she sobbed. “Spencer, he-he took her! He took Eleanor. Lord Belgrave. She made him take her instead of me to make sure you came.”

Spencer tilted her face up to check for injuries, but her eyes were clear.

“I am fine,” she insisted. “Please, please, go after Eleanor.”

He nodded, before stalking back to Sister Martha. “Where has he taken her?” he snarled. “ Tell me .”

Fear flickered in the woman’s eyes.

“Th-The Hartswood Wharf,” she whispered. “It is not far from here. His ship is docked there, Your Grace.”

Spencer was already moving, shouting over his shoulder, “The three of you, stay here to ensure she does not flee.”

And then he was gone, flying out into the night with the rest of the constables, his mind focused on his wife. He would get to her in time. He had to.

He blinked back the image of bloodied long hair, dead sunken eyes?—

No.

No, he would not lose her.

Eleanor woke up once again to a pounding headache and the sound of water sloshing.

Somewhere, wood groaned, and she realized that she was swaying. Back and forth, back and forth.

Her head ached harder with the movement, her stomach churning as she looked around.

Her heart sank when she realized she was on a ship. Her hands were still bound, and she whirled around, searching for something to cut her bonds. But there was nothing. Nothing but an empty cabin on a ship.

Terror shot through her. Had they already set sail? Did they rock in a bay or the middle of the sea?

Her breath came harshly through her nose, and she closed her eyes, trying to calm herself. She only opened them again when a door groaned open and Lord Belgrave entered the small space, making it seem far smaller.

His smile was smug as he watched her.

“Eleanor,” he said. “You are awake. For a moment, I feared I had struck you too hard. I was prepared for such a thing, of course. Your husband, however… I do not think he would have been. Although he did leave you alone, I hear? So perhaps you are not so dear to him, after all.”

“Belgrave,” she hissed. “He will come for me.”

“Oh, he may, or he may not, but it will be too late, regardless. See, I am good friends with the dock guards here at Hartswood. They know to keep their mouths shut if I weigh their tongues down with enough coin. Once we set sail, you will vanish into the shadows—swallowed like all of the others.”

We have not yet set sail.

And as long as it remained that way, she had a chance.

Eleanor glared at the bastard. “To think I ever thought we would have a content life together.” She laughed derisively.

“How terrible of me. How blindsided . You are a coward, Lord Belgrave. A lonely, cowardly man who must entrap women into his orbit. A man who must threaten a lady out of fear.” She shook her head.

“I am no longer scared of you, Lord Belgrave. My husband will come for me, and you will find those shadows you send women off to hungry for your presence.”

Lord Belgrave moved closer to her, looming over her. He laughed, the sound rough and jagged. “How spirited you have become with your new title.”

He brushed a finger over her jaw, and she forced herself not to look away, not to flinch.

But gunshots soon shattered the heavy silence, and she gasped. Her heart leaped into her throat, her eyes fixed on Lord Belgrave. He stiffened.

They have nothing to do with him .

Taunting words were on her lips, but she didn’t get to say them before the cabin door was smashed into pieces.

Rain soaked Spencer, and thunder cracked overhead as the storm swept through the countryside.

He stood in the doorway, his eyes fixed on Lord Belgrave.

He stalked toward the man.

Get your hand off my wife .

But he didn’t speak. He just watched the fear grow in Lord Belgrave’s eyes. It was not nearly enough, for how much fear the cad had put into the heart of every woman whose life he had ruined, but Spencer found satisfaction in it all the same.

He stopped before Lord Belgrave, cocking his head, and then swung—only to stop when the man cried out and shoved Eleanor in front of him, using her as a shield.

“Stop!” Lord Belgrave cried. “Stop, or you will hurt her! Have you not caused her enough pain?”

But Spencer didn’t take the bait. He quickly pulled Eleanor out of the way, pausing long enough to see her nod.

Lord Belgrave threw a hand up, the other rooting in his pockets for a knife. Spencer kicked the man’s wrist, forcing him to release the weapon, and then used the momentum to slam him to the floor. The man’s shout of fury was enough to split the small cabin in half.

The two fell to the floor with a crash, and Spencer didn’t think. He just punched, and punched, pouring out all of his fury and desperation, the helplessness he had felt upon finding that trail of blood in his house—the very place he had finally begun to consider his home.

He rained blow after blow, dodging Lord Belgrave’s pathetic attempts, only catching a few punches to his ribs or his jaw. He had fought his way through life; the pathetic Earl was used to other men doing his dirty work for him.

Finally, he landed one final punch, knocking Lord Belgrave out cold. The Earl’s head lolled back on the floor, his heartbeat weak but there.

Spencer spun quickly, his knuckles bruised and his hands undeserving of even going near Eleanor, but he reached for her all the same. She quickly took his wrists, and he saw the defiance flaring in her eyes along with her tears.

She fell into his embrace, shaking, clinging to him.

“I told him you would come,” she whispered.

Spencer’s heart broke as he held her tighter. His wife had never deserved such a fate, but he had saved her. He had gotten to her in time. The thought that he may have failed terrified him.

“I always will,” he promised.