Page 27 of The Spinster's Resolve

A week had passed since the unhappy events, and the ladies of the household remained subdued. The Duke seemed endlessly occupied during the day, and Grace was relieved that she hardly saw him. Although, if she were to be honest, she had also been avoiding him studiously. Whenever he entered a room, she would promptly leave. Her heart was still raw with pain.

Her melancholy worsened at night, when she would cry softly into her pillow, muffling the sound so no one would hear. On a couple of occasions, she had heard him knocking on her door, but she lacked the strength to face him. She feared she might give in—that she might accept being his mistress. For days now, she had been contemplating returning to Skye Cottage and leaving Heather under the care of Mrs Merriweather and Lady Elizabeth.

During the day, she sought refuge in the library, but even that sanctuary was lost when he walked in one afternoon.

‘Miss Skye, I have been trying to speak with you.’ He blocked her path, preventing her from leaving.

Grace sighed. She could not avoid this conversation forever.

‘I need to speak with you also...’ she admitted, resigned.

‘You do?’ He stepped closer, his eyes searching hers. ‘I was beginning to feel as though you were going out of your way to avoid me.’

She remained silent, unwilling to confirm what he already knew. He reached out, gently lifting her chin. Forced to meet his gaze, she was once again ensnared by the vivid colours within them—the hazel embers, framed by lashes far too beautiful for any man. His perfectly chiselled face bore the faintest shadow of stubble, a reminder of how much time had passed since she had last allowed herself to look at him.

All she had to do was reach out. She could touch him.

But she did not.

Instead, she stepped back.

‘Maybe I was,’ she admitted, forcing a weak smile. ‘But I cannot be an ostrich any longer. I wish to leave and return to my cottage. I was hoping you would continue sponsoring Heather, and Mrs M will stay with her, of course. As for Skye Manor... I know you transferred the deeds into my name, but I cannot accept it. Not after what you offered.’

He looked hurt. ‘I did not give you the deeds for any favours. You insult me if you think that was my intention. Skye Manor is your ancestral home. I merely returned what was rightfully yours. If your father could have, he would have done the same.’

‘Regardless of your intentions, Your Grace, I still cannot accept it from you. I... I—’

Her voice broke.

Tears threatened to fall, and she gulped, fighting against the lump in her throat. She stepped away, as though even his presence caused her unbearable pain.

But he followed.

‘I want you to stay,’ he said, pleading. ‘I need you to stay.’

Her heart clenched. His expression was strained, his composure barely held together.

‘I will not let you go anywhere...’ he murmured, cupping her face in his large, warm hands.

Shaken by his words, she reacted. Her temper rose, and all her pent-up emotions gave way.

‘You have no right to keep me against my will. I wish to leave.’ She pulled away from his hold. ‘I have told you before—I will not be your mistress, no matter how tempting the offer!’ Her hands went to her hips, her breathing quickened, and her face flushed with anger.

The Duke simply took her in, and with a deep sigh, he replied, ‘You look magnificent when you are angry...’ He smiled.

Grace’s fury exploded.

‘Oh, you odious, horrible, obnoxious man! How dare you take my pain as a source of amusement? If I were an heiress or held a title, you would not mock me so.’ She wanted to punch that smile off his face. ‘I am leaving.’

She was about to stomp off, but he grabbed her arm and pulled her towards him, forcing her to look at his face once again. Her heart felt as though it would burst through her chest at any moment.

‘How tempted are you?’ he asked, narrowing his eyes and cocking an eyebrow. ‘I thought the other day you were voicing just how distasteful you found London gentlemen who kept mistresses. What if I were to tell you that I have no mistresses? Would that be a comfort to you?’

She broke free from his grasp.

‘It would make no difference to me what you did with your life, Your Grace,’ she said, the last two words laced with as much contempt as she could muster. ‘I wish you the best with your life and hope you find someone to marry who will put up with your atrociousness. I wash my hands of you, sir!’

She twirled around again to make for the door.

‘Grace, I need...’

He stepped in front of her, blocking her retreat, and was about to pull her into an embrace when a loud knock on the door sounded, and Lady Elizabeth walked in.

Grace withdrew quickly, turning her back towards Lady Elizabeth, not wanting to draw attention to her blotchy face. Hastily, she wiped away her tears. The Duke frowned, displeased at the interruption.

Lady Elizabeth’s eyebrows were raised, and a small smile twitched at her lips, but she did not comment on their tête-à-tête .

‘I am sorry, Gabriel, Grace, for interrupting your, er... reading, but I simply cannot tolerate the moroseness that has settled over this house. It has been a week since Edward was arrested, and I am fed up with all the tittle-tattle. Why Mrs Jefferson must pry and ask Jane and me inappropriate questions is beyond me—it was the last straw. I lost my temper with the lady, and I do not regret it.’

‘Miss Skye has decided to return to her home. She is feeling homesick.’

Lady Elizabeth visibly paled.

‘You cannot mean it, Grace. You have been such a comfort to all of us. I would not be able to get through all this without you. Gabriel, you must contrive a way to keep her here,’ she pleaded.

‘I was trying to do so, Eliza, but she has given me a good idea. Perhaps a couple of weeks at our country Estate would do the trick. We can escape all the gossip and unpleasantness, and Miss Skye can enjoy a little countryside air. We shall return once the season is in full swing for Miss Heather. Hopefully, by then, all the incessant gossiping will have died down, and the ton might find another scandal to latch onto.’

‘Capital idea, brother! I knew you would find a solution. What say you, Grace? Perhaps we could visit the famous Skye Manor too whilst we are at it. You have mentioned it so many times—I feel as though I have a connection to the place myself.’

Grace was cornered.

‘I... I... of course, Lady Elizabeth, I would be honoured if you visited.’

‘It is settled then. I shall make the arrangements,’ said the Duke with a triumphant smile. Grace could only concede to his high-handedness. She did not have the heart to refuse Lady Elizabeth.

‘We should celebrate our quick thinking and arrange a picnic, Eliza! How about tomorrow?’ he suggested, his tone filled with excitement.

Grace’s temper flared internally, but she managed a grimace.

The Duke, ever aware, flashed another bright, almost maddening smile.

‘I know! We could visit Vauxhall Gardens—it will be delightful!’ cried Lady Elizabeth, launching into a frenzy of ideas about the impromptu country visit.

Grace quietly excused herself, slipping away from their whirlwind.

THE IDEA OF A PICNIC was an undeniable success, much to Grace’s chagrin.

‘Yes,’ agreed Lady Jane, her voice laced with contentment. ‘We could all do with something to lift our spirits. How about it, my love?’ She turned adoringly towards Lord Gerrard.

The couple wished for a long, peaceful curricle ride together.

‘Perhaps we should invite Harry,’ Lady Jane continued. ‘It was not his fault that his brother betrayed us all like that.’

The ladies, deeply sympathetic, rallied around Lord Harry, who had been in a profound state of depression since the revelations. Lady Elizabeth, especially, could not bring herself to shun him for his brother’s sins. She had been the first to invite him for tea, but when he resisted, she went out of her way to visit him and persuade him to attend the picnic. After much cajoling and pleading, Lord Harry finally agreed to join them.

The day was as beautiful as promised. Lady Jane and Lord Gerrard took their phaeton as expected, while Mrs Merriweather and the Skye sisters opted for one coach. Lord Harry and Lady Elizabeth travelled in another. The Duke had been called away to town on urgent business at the last minute and, to Grace’s relief (and slight disappointment), was unable to attend.

Upon arrival at Vauxhall Gardens, which consisted of several acres of trees and shrubs with attractive walks, they found an opening perfect for picnicking, and the servants set everything up. The chosen spot, beneath a grand oak tree, was utterly charming.

Lord Harry appeared miserable, but Elizabeth was quick to his side.

‘Come, cousin, time to shake off your doldrums. Join us in a round of badminton,’ she encouraged, her tone warm and persistent.

Reluctantly, he agreed and took his place on her team against Lord Gerrard and Lady Jane. The game was far from graceful, with Lord Harry struggling to move without his walking stick. His limp made it difficult, but Lady Jane was equally clumsy, so the teams were more or less even.

The other ladies sat contentedly on a blanket, enjoying their cold meats and drinks. Grace, astonished at Lord Gerrard’s spectacularly ungraceful fall—landing squarely on his backside and into the picnic baskets—could not help but chuckle. Embarrassed, he sprang to his feet like a startled hare, pretending nothing had happened. The only giveaway was his beetroot-red complexion and sheepish grin.

As the servants were a short distance away, Grace got up to tidy the mess left behind. She began stacking the baskets but froze when she noticed something unusual at the bottom of the pile.

Heather, who had come to help, saw the shift in her sister’s expression.

‘Gracy, what is the matter? You look as though you have seen a ghost!’ she asked, concerned.

Grace did not respond immediately, her gaze fixed on the object before her.

There, on the grass, lay a blade that had come loose from Lord Harry’s cane.

As she took in the sight, it became clear: his walking stick was not just a simple support but a concealed weapon—a swordstick. A slim, sharp blade was hidden within. Her mind reeled at the implications of this discovery.

Heather peered closer, her eyes widening with realisation.

‘Oh my, I have read about these in the gentlemen’s fashion plates! It is beautiful! Have you ever had to use it, my lord?’ she asked naively, her eyes fascinated by the piece.

Lord Harry turned sharply at her question, his expression momentarily hardening before he regained his composure.

‘Ah, it was a gift from my late father. He wanted me to have it for protection, but thankfully I have never needed to use it. I almost forgot it was in there!’ he replied, attempting to brush off any suspicion with a casual tone.

However, Grace’s gaze had already fallen upon the initials B.A. engraved on the blade. A bone-deep chill slithered through her, leaving her rigid, every muscle locking in place. She realised, with mounting dread, that she was looking at the murder weapon.

She hesitated, then asked, ‘What do the initials B.A. stand for?’

Her words hung in the air, and she immediately regretted her question. Lord Harry’s sharp gaze fixed on her, scrutinising her face as though weighing her thoughts.

After a long pause, he finally answered, ‘Ben Armitage. My father’s initials.’

Lord Gerrard, approaching to take a closer look, chuckled.

‘Just like Uncle Ben to give you a gift with his initials on it. Usually, one engraves the initials of the person receiving the gift, does one not?’

Lord Harry managed a half-smile, his voice tinged with bitterness.

‘Quite so. My father was always self-absorbed.’

Before the conversation could continue, Lady Elizabeth, ever the competitive spirit, clapped her hands.

‘Come, now! Let us not waste time. I am ready for the next round!’ she urged.

But Grace’s mind was spinning.

How could Lord Harry have the murder weapon?

Had his brother borrowed it and returned it to him? That seemed unlikely, as he always carried it wherever he went. She had never seen him without it.

She could not reconcile how he could have been involved in Mr Gibbs’s murder and yet still have captured Melissa. It did not make sense.

Perhaps they had both been involved.

She needed to speak to the Duke—of all days, he had to have an urgent business call!

Frustration bubbled within her, but there was no time to waste. She had to check something first.

As the picnic began to wind down and the party prepared to head back home, Grace made a calculated move. She arranged to sit in the same carriage as Lord Harry, knowing it would provide her with a moment to observe him more closely.

Heather, feeling particularly fatigued, chose to join her sister in the same carriage, leaving Mrs Merriweather to travel with Lady Elizabeth.

Still mesmerised by the swordstick, Heather could not help but exclaim, ‘Gracy, do you think I could get one of these?’

Lord Harry laughed.

‘La, child, what would you need one for? I only have this because of my limp. Otherwise, I would not bother.’

‘Ah, true,’ Heather replied without much tact. ‘But I saw one hidden in a parasol once! Perhaps that would be more appropriate?’ She glanced at Grace for approval, but Grace’s focus remained firmly on Lord Harry.

Feeling a spark of curiosity and tension, Grace asked, ‘Do you go anywhere at all without it, my lord? Surely you do not use it all the time?’

‘Indeed, I do, Miss Skye. It never leaves my side.’

His eyes held a subtle challenge, one that made Grace uneasy.

‘You must have other such canes,’ she continued, her voice steady despite a cold, suffocating dread coiled around her ribs. ‘Carrying the same one around all the time must get boring.’

Lord Harry leaned back in his seat, never breaking eye contact.

‘I am a creature of habit, Miss Skye. I do not have any other canes to my name.’

Grace suddenly felt the weight of her words.

She had pressed too much.

‘Such a poor dear, you must suffer a great deal because of your leg,’ cried Heather, her tone soft with sympathy. ‘I cannot imagine.’

Grace quickly seized the opportunity to change the subject.

‘I know a very good doctor, a family friend. I insist you let me make an appointment with him for you. He practises in London, and I am sure he could help you. When I broke my leg as a child, he fixed it without a problem. I will not take no for an answer—I shall make the appointment tomorrow.’

‘What are you—ouch!’ Heather’s attempt to interject was swiftly cut off by a painful pinch from Grace on her arm, a clear signal to keep quiet.

Heather, surprised, fell silent as the entire carriage grew still.

Then—Lord Harry tilted his head back and let out a loud laugh, breaking the tension.

‘My goodness, Miss Skye, you’ve got me. I suppose the blade gave me away?’

He unsheathed the sword, his grin wide.

‘She saw the blade, did she? I should have silenced her permanently while I had the chance.’

His tone darkened, his eyes hardened, and the smile on his lips turned utterly cold.

Heather, still unaware of the full extent of the situation, let out a startled yelp as Lord Harry pointed the sword in her direction. His gaze had turned cold and calculating.

Terrified, Grace reached for the carriage door, desperately trying to get the coachman’s attention. But Lord Harry’s previously weak leg seemed to regain full strength and flexibility in an instant. With a swift motion, he extended it, blocking her escape.

‘No, no, no, Miss Skye,’ he taunted. ‘I thought you loved your sister. In my humble opinion, drawing attention to ourselves would only encourage me to thrust this into her.’

His voice was soft—too soft. The kind of softness that made the hairs on one’s neck rise in warning.

Grace stilled, her breath caught in her throat.

Heather whimpered, pressing herself against the seat, her wide, terrified eyes darting between the glinting blade and Grace’s face.

Lord Harry sneered at the sight.

‘That’s better,’ he mused, adjusting his grip on the swordstick. ‘You are both quick learners. Such a pity...’

Then, in a sharper voice, he barked out of the window, ‘James! Take us to my country Manor.’

‘Aye, me lord,’ came the obedient response from the coachman.

The carriage veered sharply off the main road.

Grace’s heart pounded against her ribs. The country Manor. Isolated. Remote.

No one would hear them scream.

‘Wh-wh-what will you do with us?’ Heather stammered, her voice trembling as she clung to Grace’s arm.

Grace could barely contain her own panic, but she fought to keep her voice steady. She needed to buy time. To make someone—anyone—realise they had gone the wrong way.

‘You will not get away with this. The Duke will come for you. He will figure it out—he will know it was you all along,’ she said, willing her voice to sound more confident than she felt.

Lord Harry let out a cruel, hollow laugh.

‘So sure of yourself, aren’t you, my pet?’ he drawled mockingly. ‘I am counting on it.’

The carriage rattled along the uneven path, each jolt intensifying Grace’s growing dread.

She had to keep him talking.

The words tumbled from her lips, a desperate mix of fury and terror. ‘You murdered Gibbs and had all those girls kidnapped. Did you poison the Duke’s father? Were you responsible for the carriage accident that killed Lord Gareth? And what of the man of business? How many people have you killed, Lord Harry?’

Grace’s mind worked furiously, piecing together the puzzle.

A slow, sinister smile spread across his face, his dark eyes glinting with malice.

He said nothing.

Only silence.

The only sound was the rhythmic roll of the carriage wheels against the road. But it felt as if a thousand years had passed.

He was enjoying this.

He was savouring every second of fear he had instilled in them.