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

Chapter 7

Marin’s heart stopped.

The East Archive held the estate records. The old rent rolls. The only proof beyond the pages in her hand.

Sir Osrich had not run away. He had gone to burn the truth.

She grabbed the ledger packet. The duke turned to her. “Stay here.”

“No.”

“This is not a request.”

“And I am not one of your thirty obedient women.”

For one blazing second, anger flashed between them. Then the duke seized a cloak from the chapel hook and threw it around her shoulders.

“Then keep up.”

They ran.

Through the hidden passage. Through a narrow servant stair. Into a corridor filling with smoke. The house had erupted into chaos. Maids carried buckets. Footmen shouted. Guests spilled from drawing rooms in confusion and fear. The rejected women and their mothers clutched pearls and demanded carriages.

At the far end of the corridor, orange light pulsed beneath an archive door.

The duke ran toward it.

Marin followed. Then she saw him.

Sir Osrich.

He stood halfway down a side passage, calm as ever, holding a leather case against his chest. For one second, his mask slipped. He looked at Marin with a hatred so pure it stole the air from her lungs.

Then he turned and disappeared through a service door.

“Your Grace!” Marin shouted.

The duke looked back. She pointed. “Osrich has the ledgers.”

The duke did not hesitate. “After him.”

They plunged through the service door into the rain.

The back courtyard of Ravenshade House had turned to black glass. Rain fell in sheets, soaking the stones, flooding the gutters, turning the world into a wash of gray and shadow. Sir Osrich Vale moved faster than any man his age should have moved. He crossed between the stables and the laundry court with his leather case beneath his arm, his coat whipping behind him, his boots striking puddles hard enough to send water over the stones.

Ahead of him, a carriage waited in the narrow service lane.

Not the duke’s carriage. Not one marked with any crest. A plain black carriage, ready, prepared.

“This was planned,” Marin gasped, running beside the duke.

The duke’s face was hard. “Rogby.”

The carriage door opened. A man inside leaned forward, hidden mostly in shadow.

Sir Osrich reached for the handle.

“Vale!” the duke shouted.

The steward froze. Only for a second. Then he turned with a small, tired smile, as if the chase had bored him.

“Your Grace,” he called through the rain. “I advise you to return to your guests. Houses with frightened aristocrats require management.”

“Put the case down.”

“I fear that would be unwise.”

The duke stepped forward. Two men emerged from the carriage — not servants. Hired muscle. Their faces were hard, their hands empty but ready.

Marin’s pulse hammered.

The duke saw them and smiled without warmth. “Rogby sends cowards now.”

The man inside the carriage finally leaned into the lantern light.

Lord Rogby. Silver-haired, elegant, untouched by rain. A man whose face had been welcomed in palaces, clubs, and royal boxes. He looked not angry but disappointed, as if the duke had behaved with poor manners.

“My dear Ravenshade,” he said, his voice smooth as silk over a blade. “You always had your brother’s theatrical streak. Cassian mistook suspicion for intelligence, too.”

At the sound of Cassian’s name, the duke went still.

Marin felt the danger in that stillness.

Rogby noticed and smiled. “Yes, there it is. The old wound. So useful. So easy to press.”

Sir Osrich held the leather case tighter. Marin stepped forward before the duke could speak.

“What is in the case?”

Rogby’s eyes slid to her. At first, he seemed amused. Then he looked more closely. Recognition came slowly.

“Ellery,” he said. “The clerk’s daughter.”

Marin’s blood ran cold. “So you remember him.”

“I remember many inconvenient men.”

“You killed him.”

“No, Miss Ellery. Poverty killed him. Weakness killed him. The foolish belief that ink can stand against power killed him.”

The duke moved. The two hired men moved too. Rogby lifted one gloved hand.

“Careful, Ravenshade. A brawl in the mud with witnesses. How primitive.”

Behind them, servants had begun gathering beneath the eaves. A few guests too. Lady Arabella. Her mother. The old countess. Footmen with buckets. Maids with smoke on their aprons. The fire inside had been contained, but no one had returned indoors. They were all watching.

Rogby’s eyes flicked over the growing crowd. Then his voice changed. It became smooth, public, perfect.

“Your Grace appears overwrought. Perhaps from the shock of the fire. Sir Osrich was saving estate records from the archive. A loyal servant deserves thanks, not threats.”

Sir Osrich bowed slightly.

Marin almost admired the speed of it. Already they were rebuilding the lie in front of everyone.

The duke looked at the leather case. “Open it.”

Sir Osrich smiled. “Estate papers are private.”

“I am the estate.”

“And I am its steward, bound to preserve confidential records from smoke, rain, and emotional young ladies with family grievances.”

Several people murmured. The old countess seized her chance. “There. I said the girl was trouble. She has always had a fanciful mind. Reads too much. Talks above herself.”

Marin’s cheeks burned — not with shame, with fury.

Rogby leaned back in the carriage. “This is easily settled. The girl leaves. Sir Osrich secures the records. You return to your guests and choose a wife from women suited to your station.”

The duke said, “I have already chosen.”