CHAPTER 18: CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The dinning area was bathed in cheerful morning light.

The atmosphere at the table was, as it had been for two weeks, thick with a silence that felt heavier than the solid silver cutlery. Maids served poached eggs and kippers, their footsteps silent on the thick rug. Rowan, at the head of the table, read The Times. Carcel, to his right, was a picture of focused concentration, his attention devoted entirely to the plate of food before him.

Ines sat to her brother’s left, the perfect, proper lady. She unfurled her linen napkin, the crisp fabric making a soft, civilized sound. She laid it across her lap with practiced grace. She had slept terribly. Her mind had replayed the encounter in the library, the dark hallway, the brush against him, until she wanted to scream.

Now, sitting across from him, she felt a familiar, vibrating tension in the air. He had not looked at her. He had not said good morning. He was, as he had been for fourteen days, a cold, handsome, impossibly large statue who just happened to eat breakfast.

Rowan finally folded his newspaper, the rustling sound making Ines jump. He set it aside and turned to her, his expression softening from its usual severity to one of brotherly concern.

"Ines," he began, "how is your health these days? I must apologize; I haven’t been present during the doctor’s last few visits."

Ines felt Carcel’s presence, though he did not look up. He was listening. She was certain of it.

She manufactured a small, reassuring smile for her brother. "I am quite well, Rowan. Truly." She took a delicate sip of tea. "The doctor said I am to stay away from emotional stress, as always, but that I am making quite a remarkable recovery. Those were his exact words, I believe."

Her heart. It was the one thing she could not write about, the one thing she could not control. A small, fluttering, unreliable thing that the doctors warned would be her end if she were not "careful." And "emotional stress"—like arguing with her brother and getting overly angry, having conversations with dull men at the ball and being too annoyed—was the worst thing for it.

Rowan nodded, his face relaxing in a warm smile. "That is wonderful news. Truly." He picked up his fork. "I will be out with Carcel for most of the day, speaking with the investors. It is a critical meeting, so we might return quite late. Don’t stay up waiting for me."

Ines nodded, a wave of profound relief washing over her. A whole day. A whole evening. The house would be hers again. The siege would be lifted, if only for twelve hours. "Of course. I wish you both success."

They ate for several more minutes in that strained, civilized silence before Rowan and Carcel excused themselves to prepare for their day.

Ines, feeling lighter than she had in a fortnight, practically skipped to her room to change. She donned her favorite gardening apron and hat, retrieved her basket and gloves, and headed for the foyer. The sun was shining. Her roses were waiting. She was, for the first time all day, genuinely happy.

She was just about to open the front door when Edith hurried from the main hall, her face slightly flushed.

"My lady," Edith called, stopping her.

Ines stopped in her tracks, her hand on the door handle. "Yes, Edith? What is it?"

"My lady, the Duke of Carleton wishes to see you. In the library."

Ines’s happiness vanished, replaced by a cold, sudden dread. She stared at Edith. "He wishes to see me?"

"Yes, my lady. He said it is urgent, and he would like to meet you now."

Urgent? What did he want now? She looked toward the stairs, confused and annoyed. Isn’t he supposed to be preparing to leave with Rowan? Why is he asking for me? What could possibly be ’urgent’?

Her heart gave a nervous, unhealthy flutter. Emotional stress.

She turned back to Edith, her face a mask of neutral calm. "Very well. Take me to him."

Edith curtsied and led the way. Ines followed, her gardening basket still hanging from her arm. The walk to the library felt a mile long. Her mind raced. What does he want now?

Edith stopped at the library door, which was slightly ajar. She knocked softly.

"Enter," Carcel’s deep voice commanded from within.

Ines opened the door and walked in, clutching her basket like a shield. Edith followed, a proper chaperone, and stood just inside the doorway.

Carcel was not in the window seat. He was standing behind her desk, the one she used for her "diary." He was not resting on it casually; he was occupying it. He was dressed for his day out, his dark coat and cravat immaculate. He looked severe, and powerful, and not at all pleased.

"Duke Carcel," Ines said, her voice perfectly level, though her heart was doing a frantic little dance against her ribs. "You are looking for me?"

His dark eyes met hers. They were cold. "It would be better to send your maid out," he said, his voice quiet. "It is better if just the two of us talk."

Edith gasped, a tiny, scandalized sound. Ines’s own breath caught.

What?

Edith suddenly felt terribly out of place. She looked from the duke to her mistress, her eyes wide with alarm.

What is wrong with him today? Ines’s mind shrieked. Has he gone completely mad? Doesn’t he know the rules? Unmarried men and women, in an enclosed space? Alone? With the door shut? This is ruin! This is the act of a cad!

Or... a colder thought followed... is there something Edith shouldn’t hear? Why? What does he want to say that is so secret?

She exhaled slowly, trying to calm her racing pulse. "But still, Your Grace," she began, her voice trembling slightly, "if it is just the two of us, it would be highly improper..."

Her words were cut short.

He did not raise his voice. He did not argue. He simply moved his hand.

He reached into the inner pocket of his coat. He pulled out a single, folded piece of paper. It was her paper. The fine, cream-colored vellum she had paid a fortune for.

He unfolded it. He did not look at it. He just held it up for her to see.

Ines’s eyes widened in pure, abject horror. She recognized it. She recognized her own frantic, sloping handwriting from the night before.

No. No, no, no, no.

Her hand flew to her mouth, a desperate, instinctive gesture to stop the shocked sound that was threatening to escape.

It was a page. A page from her manuscript. It must have fallen. Last night, in the hall. When I brushed against him... when I ran... it must have slipped from the book.

She could see the words, even from across the room. She knew exactly what that page contained.

’...His finger penetrated into her moist and soft inner flesh...’

The blood drained from her face. She felt dizzy. She felt sick.

Carcel looked at her, his face a grim, unreadable mask. He slowly, deliberately, folded the incriminating paper.

"You understand now, right?" he asked, his voice calm, but with an undercurrent of steel. "So, close the library door."