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

Chapter 6

The duke’s head snapped up.

Rogby was not a servant. He was not a clerk. He was a royal favorite, a court adviser, a man whose hand appeared in parliamentary loans, military contracts, and noble marriages. He had stood beside the duke’s father at state dinners. He had offered public condolences when Cassian died.

“You understand what you are accusing him of?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have proof?”

“My father did.” Marin’s fingers tightened over the ledger pages. “These are only the ones he could save. There were more pages. There are more books.”

“Where are the rest?”

“I do not know.”

“Who does?”

She swallowed. “Sir Osrich.”

The duke’s laugh was quiet and empty. “The man has kept my house standing for eight years.”

“No,” Marin said. “He has kept your house blind.”

That silenced him.

Outside the chapel, thunder rolled, though the morning had begun clear. Marin looked toward the window. The blue light had turned gray.

“When my father died, my mother begged me to burn the pages. She said truth was a luxury for people with guards at their doors. Then she died too. And I discovered that poverty has no privacy. Every landlord, every creditor, every charitable woman with a cruel mouth thinks grief belongs to them if they can pay for your bread.”

The duke watched her carefully. “That is how you became companion to Lady Whitmore’s aunt.”

“Yes.”

“And all these years, you said nothing.”

“I said it once.”

“To whom?”

“A magistrate.”

“What happened?”

“He sent me away. The next day, our rooms were searched. The day after that, my mother was dismissed from her sewing work. A week later, a man followed me from church and told me that girls who carried dead men’s papers often joined them.”

The duke’s face darkened.

Marin lifted her chin. “So I learned silence. Not because I had nothing to say. Because I wanted to live long enough to say it where it could not be buried.”

The duke looked at the ledger pages again. “Today you said it in my house.”

“You asked the question.”

“I asked thirty women, and none of them heard the boy.” For the first time, he looked wounded. “I asked because Cassian told me to. I thought he meant I would recognize conscience. I did not know he meant I would recognize a witness.”

“He meant both.”

The duke’s eyes lifted.

“A woman who would whip the boy to protect order would never open the ledgers,” Marin said. “A woman who would feed him for applause would never ask who starved him. A woman who would ask her husband first would never stand between power and the powerless. Your brother did not ask you to find a wife. He asked you to find someone who would not help this house lie.”

The words landed harder than she expected. The duke turned away. For a moment, he was silent.

Then he said, “I failed him.”

Marin did not comfort him. That too seemed to surprise him. Most people rushed to soothe powerful men when their pain entered the room. She let him stand with it.

At last, he turned back. “What do you want?”

The question was simple. It was also dangerous. Marin could have asked for money. Protection. A position. Revenge.

“A public hearing.”

“No.”

The duke’s refusal was immediate. She stared at him.

“If we go public with six pages and grief, Rogby will crush you by sunset. Osrich will vanish. The remaining ledgers will burn. Every tenant named here will be threatened into silence. No.”

“Then what?”

“Tonight, Rogby dines here.”

Marin went still. “You invited him.”

“He invited himself when he heard I was choosing a wife. Men like Rogby like to stand near decisions before they become official.” The duke’s eyes sharpened. “And Sir Osrich will be present. He is always present when accounts are discussed.”

“What are you going to do?”

The duke folded the ledger pages back into the oil cloth. “I am going to ask the question again.”

“At dinner?”

“Yes.”

“In front of him?”

“In front of everyone.”

“That is reckless.”

“That is why it may work.”

“No.” Marin’s voice was sharp. “Recklessness is what rich men call danger when poor people must bleed for it.”

He looked at her with sudden respect. “Then advise me.”

The words unsettled her more than anger would have. No duke had ever asked her advice. No man of rank had ever said it as if he meant it.

“If you ask the question, Rogby will answer safely. Osrich will say nothing. The ladies will laugh. Nothing changes.”

“Unless?”

“Unless you make them believe the boy is alive.”

The duke stilled. “Tobias Ren died in the parish house fever.”

“Yes. But they may not know that you know that.”

“And why would that frighten them?”

“Because if they stole relief funds, seized his mother’s cottage, and falsified records after his death, then a living Tobias Ren would be proof the ledgers lied.”

“You want to create a ghost.”

“I want to make guilty men speak before they know what they are confessing.”

For a long moment, the chapel held only the sound of rain beginning against the glass. Then the duke laughed once. This time, it was real.

“Miss Ellery, you are wasted as a companion.”

“I have been wasted in many rooms, Your Grace. That does not mean I was idle.”

Before he could answer, a bell rang sharply from somewhere above. Once. Twice. Three times.

The duke’s expression changed. “What is that?”

Marin already knew — not because she had lived in this house, but because she had lived in fear. “That is not a house bell.”

Footsteps thundered beyond the chapel door. A servant shouted. Then another.

The duke moved to the door, opened it, and caught a footman by the collar as he nearly ran past.

“What happened?”

The young man was pale.

“Fire, Your Grace. In the East Archive.”