The Duke Asked 30 Women the Same Question — The 31st Gave the Answer That Silenced the Room

Chapter 5

The duke stared at the packet.

Outside the door, footsteps retreated again — this time running.

Marin turned toward the sound. The duke did not. His eyes remained on the hidden papers, and in a voice colder than winter, he said, “Then someone in this house has just learned that the thirty-first woman was not invited here by accident.”

He did not touch the oil cloth at once.

That frightened Marin more than if he had snatched it open. Powerful men liked proof when it served them. They feared proof when it demanded something from them. And Marin had spent enough years near drawing rooms, servants’ doors, and debt collectors’ desks to know that truth was rarely welcomed by those who could afford silence.

But the duke only stared at the packet as if it were not paper — as if it were a grave.

“Where did you get this?”

“My father hid it before he died.”

“Where?”

“In the binding of my mother’s prayer book.”

His eyes moved to the small book in her hand. “You carried it into this house.”

“I have carried it everywhere for six years.”

“Why come today?”

Marin gave a bitter smile. “I did not come for you. I came because Lady Whitmore’s aunt needed someone to hold her shawl and endure her temper. I did not know about your interviews until we arrived.”

“You expect me to believe chance brought you into this room?”

“I stopped believing in chance the night my father’s body was returned to us with river mud in his hair and ink under his nails.”

The duke’s face hardened. She saw the effect of those words, though he tried to hide it. He had been trained by rank to reveal nothing. But grief had its own rebellion. It moved once in his jaw. Once in his hand. Once in the way he turned toward the window and back again.

“My brother Cassian died the same week,” he said.

“I know.”

“Your father knew him?”

“My father worked for him.”

The duke reached for the oil cloth.

Marin caught his wrist.

It was a boldness that should have ended her. No companion touched a duke without permission. No poor woman seized the wrist of a man who could ruin her with one letter. But he did not move.

“Not here,” she said.

“Why?”

“Because Sir Osrich has keys to every door in this house except the chapel and the family vault.”

A pause. The duke did not ask how she knew that. The fact that he did not ask told her he was beginning to understand.

He took the packet, returned the letter to his coat, and crossed to the wall behind his father’s portrait. He pressed a carved rose in the frame. A panel opened soundlessly.

Marin stared despite herself.

“A passage,” she whispered.

“My grandfather built it to hide from creditors. My father used it to hide mistresses. I use it to hide from fools.” He looked at her. “This house has a talent for concealment. So do you.”

He led her through the panel into a narrow corridor lit by a single lamp. The air smelled of dust, stone, and old secrets. The walls were close enough that Marin had to gather her skirts. Behind them, the panel shut, cutting off the blue room, the silk chairs, the rejected ladies, and the dangerous ears of Ravenshade House.

They emerged in a small chapel that looked abandoned. No candles burned. No flowers decorated the altar. A cracked stained-glass window scattered cold blue light across the stone floor. The duke locked the door from the inside.

“Now,” he said.

Marin unfolded the oil cloth. Inside were six ledger pages, two rent rolls, and a list of names.

The duke bent over them. At first, his face showed nothing. Then he read the first column. Widow Anne Bell — relief paid. Second column. Received: none. Third column. Marked: deceased.

His eyes moved down. Thomas Reed — coal allowance paid. Received: none. Cottage seized. Martha Ren — winter bread fund paid. Received: none. Child punished for theft.

The duke stopped.

“There,” Marin said softly.

He touched the name. Tobias Ren.

“The boy in your question.”

The duke closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the man in the chapel was not the cold duke who had dismissed thirty women. He was something more dangerous. A brother. A witness. A man who had finally been handed the shape of his enemy.

“My brother found this,” he said.

“Your father found it first. He was sent to inspect irregular estate accounts in the north. He believed it was ordinary theft. Then he discovered the same pattern across three properties tied to your family. Tenant relief funds recorded as paid, never delivered. Widows marked dead while still living. Orphans sent to parish houses that did not exist. Rents collected twice. Land seized from families who had already paid.”

The duke’s voice was barely audible. “And Osrich was not alone. He had protection.”

“Whose?”

Marin hesitated. The chapel seemed colder.

“Lord Rogby.”