Page 17 of The Spinster's Resolve

T his could not be true, Grace thought. With a pounding heart, she ran to her morning room, where all the newspapers were kept. She rifled through them, scanning the obituaries—and there it was. The announcement of the Duke of Armitage’s demise, just as Charlotte had written. Normally, she kept up with the London papers, but with all the work involved in settling into their new home, she had paid little attention to outside affairs.

It dawned on her—Mr Stone had been lying all this time!

When they first met, he had spoken as though the Duke were alive and well, but he was dead. Had he played a role in the murder, as Charlotte’s letter suggested? Was he the missing man of business who had absconded with the family heirlooms? Why had he come here? Was he covering his tracks—or someone else’s? Had Averton sent him to dispose of evidence? Or worse, was he Averton? Had she unwittingly helped him in his schemes?

Her stomach twisted. None of it made sense. He could not be that evil, could he?

Horrified and terrified in equal measure, Grace paced the morning room, trying to steady her thoughts, but the more she tried, the more questions arose. Why was he investigating the missing girls if he had come to cover up a crime? Why would he draw attention to something he meant to conceal? Perhaps he was one of the Bow Street Runners sent to investigate? She could not make sense of it all, but she had to find out the truth.

Then she remembered—the locked drawer. She had to pry it open.

That morning, when she checked the safe, she saw the master key to all the rooms. She would have to search his room. He was not due to return until tomorrow—this was her only chance. Without wasting another moment, Grace raced back to Skye Manor.

Darkness had begun to settle as she arrived, but the moonlight was bright enough to illuminate the well-worn path. Unfortunately, upon entering the house, she was waylaid by Heather and Mrs Merriweather. She could not tell them what she had discovered—not yet. Not until she was certain. Until then, she would have to feign calmness. It was agony waiting for them to retire for the night, but at last, she heard the household quieten. Just to be sure, she waited another half an hour before making her move.

She went first to the study. Setting her candlestick down, she took a crowbar to the drawer, broke the lock, and yanked it open. Her hands stilled as she spotted a ducal seal—and letters bearing familiar handwriting. Her handwriting.

The letter she had sent to the Duke, thanking him for sponsoring her sister, was there. Mr Stone had intercepted the Duke’s letters.

Her breath caught. Forging a ducal seal was a capital offence.

With shaking hands, she retrieved the master key and hurried to his room.

Moving as quietly as possible, she made her way through the darkened corridors. Reaching his door, she hesitated on the threshold. It felt as though she were about to cross a line she could never uncross. But now was not the time for scruples. She turned the handle and stepped inside.

His scent still lingered in the air. Her heart clenched at the memory of their last conversation, the warmth of his touch, the husky timbre of his voice. But now, what had seemed like a dream was turning into a nightmare. Fighting the prickle of tears, she forced herself to search the room.

It was sparsely furnished—just a bed, a large armchair by the fireplace, and a scattering of books. This morning, she would have been curious to see what he had been reading. Now, she could hardly bear to look.

She rummaged through his belongings but found nothing of significance. Deflated, exhausted, and no closer to discovering his true identity, she turned to leave. In her weariness, she stumbled against the armchair, dropping her candlestick. The room was plunged into darkness.

She cursed under her breath. Fortunately, moonlight streamed through the window, and as her eyes adjusted, she decided to abandon the search for tonight. Then, the door handle turned.

Mr Stone stepped inside.

Her breath hitched, her heart hammering like a trapped bird. She snatched up the candlestick, gripping it like a weapon. She braced herself for a fight.

‘Grace?’ His brows drew together in surprise. ‘What are you doing here?’

Her voice trembled as she thrust the candlestick in front of her. ‘Who are you?’

He stared at her for a long moment before taking a step closer.

‘Stay back, or so help me, I will use this!’ she warned.

He halted, holding up his hands in mock surrender, though the glint in his eyes betrayed his amusement.

‘Grace, put the candlestick down. I will not harm you,’ he said gently.

‘I will decide when to put the candlestick down, sir. Now tell me who you are because I know you are here on false pretences! The Duke is dead, and you have been deceiving us all this time!’

‘I will tell you,’ he replied, his tone patient, ‘but I find it hard to hold a conversation while being threatened with bludgeoning.’

She did not waver. ‘Stay where you are!’

‘You think I am a murderer?’ His expression darkened, anger flashing in his eyes.

Before she could react, he moved—fast. With one swift motion, he wrenched the candlestick from her grip and wrapped his arm around her, pinning her against him.

She struggled, thrashing against his hold. ‘Help!’ she cried, though she knew no one would hear her from this part of the house.

She fought harder, trying to knee him, but he anticipated her move, pressing her tighter against him. She struck his chest with her fists, but he remained unmoved, his grip unyielding.

‘Be still, sweet,’ he murmured, his voice low. ‘You are testing my resolve with all this squirming.’

Her eyes widened at his words. Heat coursed through her. Her breath caught as an unfamiliar sensation stole over her, weakening her limbs. She was acutely aware of the hard planes of his chest, the warmth of his body against hers. Her legs threatened to give way, but his arms held her firm.

No. She could not succumb to this madness.

Summoning her defiance, she tilted her chin. ‘Let me go. You are an imposter and a deceiver.’

To her fury, he smiled.

She glared at him, her breath shallow with indignation.

Chuckling, he loosened his hold just enough to free one hand—then, to her utter shock, he reached up and plucked a pin from her hair.

Her long tresses tumbled free, cascading in dark waves down her back.

Mr Stone’s hazel eyes darkened, flickering with something dangerous—something unmistakable.

Desire.

For the first time, she realised—she was no longer wearing her disguise.

Her anger faltered—slightly.

He tilted his head, his voice dropping to a smooth, lilting murmur. ‘Careful who you call a deceiver. From where I stand, you’ve been concealing quite a bit of yourself.’

Grace bristled. ‘I may have disguised myself, but I did so for my protection. You, however, have no such excuse, sir! Now, unhand me!’

Summoning all her strength, she shoved against his chest.

This time, he let her go.

With an air of deliberate ease, he strode to the nearby table and lit several candles, their golden glow flickering across the room. Shadows danced along the walls, stretching and curling like ghosts.

When he turned back to face her, his expression was unreadable—his gaze, unwavering.

He crossed his arms and leaned against the table, his eyes slow and assessing as they roamed over her.

A quiet exhale left his lips. ‘There you are,’ he murmured. ‘I knew you would be beautiful, but I had no idea just how much.’

His gaze lingered, trailing over her as if committing every detail to memory. ‘I can see why you chose to disguise yourself—and I must say, rather cleverly done.’

Grace's breath hitched, but she quickly smothered any reaction. She had no time for his idle compliments.

He tilted his head slightly. ‘What if I told you that I, too, have concealed my identity for my own protection?’

A chill swept through her.

Her heartbeat thundered in her ears as suspicion and disbelief warred within her. ‘What do you mean?’ she demanded. ‘Who are you?’

His gaze locked onto hers. ‘My name is Gabriel Arthur Stone Averton.’

The name struck her like a physical blow.

Averton.

Her lips parted, but no words came. The name carried weight—dangerous, damning weight.

She took an unsteady step back. Panic surged within her. She frantically glanced around, searching for an escape, her mind racing with the terrifying possibilities.

‘Are you—’ Her voice faltered. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to ask, ‘Are you the murderer?’

‘Calm down,’ he urged. ‘I am not the killer.’

Before she could bolt, he stepped into her path, catching her arms in a firm yet gentle grip.

‘I am the Duke of Armitage.’

A stunned silence fell between them, thick and suffocating.

‘You lie,’ she whispered. ‘The heir was abroad when his family summoned him to return. He was a month’s journey away! But you—you were here at Skye Manor barely two weeks after the Duke’s death. That is impossible.’

He released her. ‘I see you have been investigating the matter quite thoroughly,’ he noted. ‘Yes, my family did send for my return, but I was already making my way back to England before my father’s death. I received an alarming letter from him—just days before he was killed.’

Her mind reeled, struggling to reconcile this revelation. Could it be true? Could he truly be the elusive Duke of Armitage? He had been living among them as an ordinary man, hiding in plain sight.

‘How am I supposed to believe anything you say?’ she demanded, shaking her head in frustration. She took another step back, needing to put distance between them.

‘I know it is a great deal to take in,’ he admitted.

Reaching into his inner coat pocket, he retrieved a heavy gold signet ring and a folded letter. The ducal seal gleamed in the candlelight.

‘When you come to London, my family and friends can confirm my identity,’ he said, his voice softening, though his eyes remained sharp, assessing her reaction.

He extended the letter towards her. ‘This was written by my father.’

With trembling fingers, Grace took it.

‘I received this letter before his death,’ he continued. ‘And enclosed within it was your letter.’

She stiffened. ‘My letter?’

‘Yes. Thanks to you, my father discovered that his man of business—Barnes—was running a racket under his very nose for years.’

Grace’s breath caught. Her vision blurred for a moment.

‘You see, father confronted Barnes after reading what you had written. That was when Barnes confessed that he had been working with a member of our own family—engaging in illegal dealings across our Estates.’ His voice darkened. ‘Barnes agreed to reveal the name of this traitor, their methods, and all their accomplices in exchange for money and protection. Father agreed to do so on the condition that he provided evidence.’

He moved towards the window, staring out at the moonlit landscape, his profile rigid with barely suppressed emotion.

‘But before Barnes could return with the evidence he promised—he disappeared.’

His next words were quieter, laced with something that sounded dangerously like sorrow.

‘My father sent for me immediately,’ he went on, his tone heavy with regret. ‘In his final letter to me, he mentioned that both Barnes and Gibbs had been recommended to him by one person.’

Grace’s heart pounded. She spoke barely above a whispering, ‘Who?’

He turned to her then, his expression grim—a look she now understood to mean grief.

‘Father didn’t name him in the letter,’ he said, his voice taut. ‘He wasn’t certain whether he should suspect this person yet. But he did mention this—’ He took a slow, measured breath before continuing. ‘This family member had been urging him for years to purchase Estates near the coastline. Father suspected it was because he had set up a smuggling operation across these lands.’

Grace swallowed hard against the lump rising in her throat. As he spoke, the truth settled over her with an unforgiving weight—he was Lord Armitage, the new Duke. There was no denying it.

A sharp pang of grief threatened to overwhelm her, but she forced herself to keep her composure, stifling the sob that clawed at her throat. The person standing before her was no longer Mr Stone—the man she had fallen in love with.

He did not exist.

Before her stood the Duke of Armitage. A stranger.

Oblivious to Grace’s heart quietly shattering, Lord Armitage continued, ‘Again, it was only a suspicion—but one he was preparing to prove.’

He inhaled deeply and hesitated, as though bracing himself for what he had to say next. Then, exhaling slowly, he said, ‘My father was poisoned.’

Grace gasped. So what Charlotte had written was true. Her hands tightened around the letter, her heartbeat hammering in her ears.

‘Every night, my father had a habit of taking a small glass of brandy before bed,’ Lord Armitage said, as his voice became raspy. ‘He kept a decanter in his study—only he drank from it.’

A dark shadow crossed his features.

‘It was laced with poison.’

Grace could not speak.

Lord Armitage turned back to the window, his posture tense, his hands curling into fists.

‘I returned to England too late.’

A heavy silence filled the room.

She could see the tension in his frame, the barely controlled grief. He had lost both his father and his brother. He had no one to share his pain, no one to console him.

‘I am so sorry for your loss,’ she said softly.

Tentatively, she stepped forward and placed a hand on his arm.

At her touch, he turned to face her.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

But in his eyes, she saw something too raw, too deep to be put into words.

He cleared his throat and looked away. When he spoke again, his voice was harsher.

‘By the time I reached England, my father had already been buried. I could trust no one. I had no idea which family member had betrayed us—I only knew he was a man. That was all.’

His jaw clenched.

‘Therefore, I decided to keep my return a secret until I uncovered the truth. Only my sister and a few trusted Bow Street Runners know I am here. I was working with them to gather evidence about these Estates, but someone has been covering their tracks. Every other Estate we investigated yielded nothing—no tangible proof of any wrongdoing. This was the last one left, the only one yet to be examined.’

Grace could barely process what she was hearing. ‘How do you know you can trust your sister or these Bow Street Runners?’ she asked, her voice sounding strangled to her ears.

A steely expression crossed his features. ‘These Bow Street Runners are not just officers—I served with them in the military. Let us just say I would trust them with my life.’

‘And your sister?’

His lips quirked into a wry smile. ‘If I cannot trust my sister—who was more like a mother to me than my own—then I would not want to live in a world where such a soul could be corrupted.’

Grace felt the same way about Heather and nodded in understanding. ‘Have you informed your sister about our findings?’

‘No, and I wish to keep it that way. I do not want her falling victim to this killer. She has no idea that we are looking for an Averton.’

Grace understood. After losing his father and brother, of course, he would be protective of his only sister.

‘Coming here under an alias turned out to be the right decision. Because of you, I now know the traitor is an Averton—I never imagined it could be someone so close to my own family. I had assumed it would be someone on my mother’s side—there are enough unsavoury characters there—or a distant relative.

‘Our investigations have also confirmed my father’s worst fears: these Estates are being used for smuggling. A cunning plan, really. No one would suspect a Duke of criminal dealings—it deflects all suspicion from the authorities. But this Averton was careless here. He failed to erase the mess Gibbs left behind. Still, much remains unknown.’

‘Perhaps Mr Barnes will be found,’ Grace suggested, hopeful. ‘He might still provide the information he promised your father.’

He shook his head. ‘I received a telegraph from the Bow Street Runners—this was why I had to leave for London so abruptly. They found Barnes. He had been stabbed to death and left in an empty property in London, one owned by Armitage Holdings. The wounds were similar to those on Gibbs. There was nothing on his person that could help us now.’

Grace exhaled sharply, swallowing her disappointment. Another lead—another dead end.

He turned to her, his gaze earnest. ‘I know I hid my identity from you and deceived you, but given the circumstances, I hope you can forgive me.’

Grace took a moment to consider his words. ‘In truth, if I were in your place, I would have done the same. I have no right to judge you—I disguised myself, too,’ she said with a small, hesitant smile.

His lips curved in response. ‘Ah yes, your disguise. A brilliant plan. It might have worked—if we hadn’t been working so closely together. Despite my best efforts, I was impressed by how stubbornly you clung to it.’

Grace cringed. ‘How did you know?’

He chuckled, stroking his jaw, clearly amused. ‘I had my suspicions from the start. Half the village described you and your sister as local beauties, and I must admit, I was surprised when I first saw you.’ His lips twitched. ‘Forgive me for saying so, but I thought either the entire village was blind, or something was amiss. Let’s just say I was intrigued when I first saw you standing in the study that day.’

Grace groaned as realisation dawned. ‘Of course—you mentioned how the staff and tenants held me in high esteem!’

‘Yes. But the true moment of confirmation was when you were drinking your tea. The rice powder rubbed off... and revealed a rather attractive pair of lips.’

Grace’s face burned with humiliation. She wished the ground would swallow her whole.

‘The second clue,’ he continued, utterly relishing her embarrassment, ‘was when I lifted you onto my horse. I felt... what I can only describe as cushioning around your waist.’ His eyes gleamed with laughter.

He was enjoying this far too much. The brute!

Seeing her pained expression, he sobered, schooling his features into something approaching respectability. Clearing his throat, he said, ‘I am sorry for all those times I teased you. Forgive me.’

Grace shook her head, defeated. ‘I am sorry too. I suppose we both tried to deceive each other—unsuccessfully, I might add. And I do apologise for attempting to bludgeon you with a candlestick.’

He laughed outright. ‘I doubt you could have reached my head, but still—apology accepted. If it is any consolation, I was going to tell you everything in the morning.’ For a fleeting moment, she almost allowed herself to believe he was still just Mr Stone—the man she had grown to trust.

But he wasn’t.

His true identity had been revealed, and with it, an undeniable truth: they belonged to different worlds. Worlds that could never come together.

She felt like a fool for not realising it sooner.

His effortless confidence—of course, it had come from years of privilege, an upbringing steeped in wealth and power. His perfect diction and refined knowledge had been shaped by the best education money could buy. His charm and easy manners had been honed in the ballrooms of the elite.

How had she been so blind? How had she allowed herself to be swayed by his attentions, his compliments, when she should have known they were merely the practised words of a man raised among the titled?

And yet... she could not fault him.

He had made no promises. He owed her no loyalty—he hadn’t even known she existed before coming here.

She had let herself believe he felt something for her.

But now, she doubted even that.

Charlotte’s letter had said he was engaged.

A betrothed Duke had no business making her heart race.

Her foolishness, her heart, shattered as reality set in.

There was no hope. No future.

Nothing she could do.

She wanted to cry, wanted to let the despair consume her—but not here. Not in front of him.

She had to leave.

With an aching heart, she fled the room, leaving a very confused Duke in her wake.