Page 27 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

Tonight, she grieved.

And as she walked slowly to her chamber, arms wrapped tight around herself, the echo of Ramsay’s voice lingered.

She had not even said goodbye.

Belson entered without ceremony. “This arrived for you, Your Grace.”

Ramsay took the letter. The handwriting was unfamiliar. Sharp strokes. Unpracticed. No crest, no name, no return.

Ramsay did not like letters.

He liked blunt words, spoken face-to-face. He liked knowing the shape of a man’s mouth when he lied. But this neat parchment, sealed in wax, delivered by Belson on a silver tray, reeked of cowardice.

It was the morning after the disastrous dinner. The silence Ramsay had left in his wake still clung to him like a damp coat. He had risen before the sun, taken his usual tea with no sugar, and sat alone in the library, the fire low and the air stale.

Sleep had not visited him. He had lain awake replaying every glance, every word exchanged around that suffocating dining table. He had watched Eleanor’s face as it fell, and though her eyes never sought his once more, he felt the echo of her gaze like a bruise across his chest.

He cracked the seal and unfolded the parchment.

You walk London’s streets like a nobleman. But I remember what you did in Inverness. Do they know what kind of man you are? Or shall I enlighten them?

There was no signature. No address. Nothing but that single paragraph, scrawled in uneven lines, and a lingering scent of smoke. As though the words themselves were trying to smother him.

Ramsay stared at the page for a long moment.

Then he folded it once, twice, and tossed it into the fire.It did not catch right away. The paper curled slowly, as though reluctant to burn. The edges darkened. The words twisted. But it wasn’t fast enough.

“So it begins,” he murmured.

Belson watched from the doorway, composed as always. “A problem, Your Grace?”

“A coward with ink and a memory,” Ramsay said. He stood, crossing to the mantel, eyes still fixed on the hearth. “They always wait in the shadows before they strike.”

Belson’s expression did not change. “Inverness?”

“Aye.” Ramsay’s voice was low, rough with old rage. “Something I did five years ago. Something they’ve decided to call murder.”

Belson stepped inside, closing the door softly behind him. “Is it untrue?”

Ramsay looked down at his hands. “No.”

The fire popped. The last corner of the letter blackened and disappeared.

“And now, someone’s dredging it up,” Belson said.

He nodded. “Because now, I’ve become someone worth destroying.”

Silence stretched between them.

Belson approached slowly. “Then what will you do?”

Ramsay turned from the flames. His grey eyes were darker than before. “What I should’ve done the moment I stepped off that bloody ship. Secure a duchess.”

Belson blinked. “Your Grace?—”

“I should’ve acted at dinner. But I let pride get in the way. Let myself feel cornered when the truth is, I need her.”

Belson inclined his head. “The Duke of Wharton’s sister?”