Page 106 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

Lady Fraser clutched the side of the carriage. “What on earth?—?”

“It wasn’t a warning,” Ramsay said. “It was bait.”

“What was?”

“That letter. That damn letter.”

He was already yanking off his gloves, breath coming too fast, mind racing through the implications.

Lady Fraser blinked at him. “You think Callum is here? In London?”

He pressed his palms to his eyes then dropped them and looked straight ahead. “He wanted me gone. And I played right into his hands.”

“What do you think he’s after?”

Ramsay didn’t answer.

He was already picturing Eleanor alone in that house. Unprotected. Heartbroken. And Callum—Callum watching from a distance, waiting for the perfect moment to make his move.

His pulse roared in his ears.

If anything happened to her?—

He slammed his hand on the carriage wall again. “Faster!” he shouted to the driver.

Lady Fraser was still watching him, but this time, she didn’t say anything. She simply reached across the bench and put a hand over his, and for once, he let it stay there.

Twenty-Five

The ride back from Kitty’s house was quiet.

Eleanor sat stiffly in the corner of the carriage, shawl clutched too tight in her lap, her eyes unfocused as the streets passed in a blur. Her conversation with Kitty circled like smoke in her mind. The warmth of Kitty’s hand. The weight of her voice. The comfort of being heard without judgment.

But the ache hadn’t lessened. Not really.

She was still hollow. Still furious. Still terrified that he had meant what he said—that he didn’t want her, not enough to stay.

Her fingers tightened around the edge of the window. She was so caught up in her own thoughts that she almost didn’t see it.

Then she blinked—and went still.

Penelope was outside. She was just past the garden wall, standing beside the small pony Ramsay had chosen for her—Muffin. Belson wasn’t with her. Neither was her governess. But someone else was.

A man.

Tall, dark hair. Well-dressed but not like anyone she recognized. His coat was a dark shade of green, his boots polished. He was crouched beside the pony, one hand on Penelope’s saddle, the other gesturing idly as if telling her some amusing story.

Eleanor’s stomach dropped.

Before the carriage even rolled to a stop, she yanked the door open and almost jumped out of the carriage.

“Your Grace—!” the footman called.

But she was already out, skirts lifted as she hurried down the path, breath catching in her throat.

Penelope spotted her first, her eyes widening in surprise. The man caught that and turned slowly.

He rose to his full height with the same unsettling calmness she’d seen in card sharps and courtiers—people who always knew how the hand would end before the first card turned.