The Duke Married Her for Money and Planned to Keep His Distance—But Six Hours After Their Wedding, His “Gentle” Bride Fought Three Armed Highwaymen to Protect Him, and He Realized He Could No Longer Imagine a Life Without Her

PART 3

“The parasol was already present,” Varity said.

Lady Ma stared at her. “Are you hurt?”

“Only sartorially.”

“What?”

“My hem.”

Lady Ma sank onto the sofa. “I knew the blue was too delicate for travel.”

Gareth pressed his fingers to his brow. “Aunt. What it was—”

Varity sipped the soup and looked pleased. “This is excellent.”

Mrs. Pennock straightened as if she had been knighted.

Lady Ma looked between the ruined gown, the bent parasol, and the bride’s calm face. “My dear. Are you in shock?”

“I think I would know.”

“You were attacked by armed men on your wedding day.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re eating soup.”

“That is how one survives the interval between danger and dinner.”

Lady Ma turned to Gareth. “She is very composed.”

“Yes,” Gareth said.

Varity’s spoon paused. It was the first time he had said it with respect.

The tack room questioning began after supper. Varity insisted on attending. Gareth refused. Varity listened politely, and attended anyway.

The three men sat on stools, hands bound, watched by two grooms and the footman with a bandaged shoulder. Their names — given reluctantly — were Pel, Griggs, and Nance. Pel had the pistol and a bruised wrist. Griggs had the cudgel and a new respect for hat pins. Nance had been the one Varity tossed over the milestone, and seemed personally offended by gravity.

Gareth stood before them. Varity sat on a feed bin with a bowl of soup.

Pel glared. “Ain’t answering to her.”

Varity lifted the spoon. “That is convenient. I asked nothing.”

“She broke me hand.”

“I bruised it. Feels broke. That may be shame.”

The grooms looked away.

“Who hired you?” Gareth asked.

No answer. Varity ate another spoonful. “Good soup,” she said.

Griggs stared at the bowl. Varity looked at him. “Hungry?”

“No.”

His stomach growled.

Varity handed the bowl to the groom. “Give him some.”

Gareth turned to her. “You are feeding my attackers again.”

“Your attackers are unprincipled, not indigestible.”

“That is not a legal category.”

“Perhaps it should be.”

Griggs accepted the bowl after trying to look as though he despised kindness. He failed. Hungry men usually did. After three minutes and half the soup, he spoke.

“Didn’t get a name.”

Pel cursed him. Varity leaned forward. “Did you get a place?”

Griggs looked at Pel, then at his bowl. “Soup one. Old mill beyond Howwick.”

Gareth knew it. The mill sat on disputed land near the western boundary. His father had promised it to three different people, taxed it twice, and repaired it never. Smugglers used it some years. Poachers used it in rain. Lovers used it when desperate or foolish.

“Who met you?” Gareth asked.

“Gentleman,” Griggs said. “Face covered. Good boots. Paid half.”

“What were you told to do?”

Griggs hesitated. Varity held out her hand for the bowl.

“Frighten His Grace,” he said quickly. “Ruff him a bit. Take papers, if he carried any. Leave the lady alone.”

Varity’s brows rose. Gareth’s stomach hardened.

“What papers?”

“Don’t know.”

Pel spat on the floor. “You talk too much.”

Varity looked at him. “You spit indoors too much.”

Pel lunged as far as the rope allowed. Gareth moved. Varity did not. She only lifted a hat pin from her sleeve. Pel sat back.

“You keep that everywhere,” Gareth said.

“Not in church.”

“Comforting.”

“I have a smaller one for church.”

By the end of the questioning, Gareth knew enough to be uneasy. Someone wanted papers. Someone knew his route. Someone had ordered the men to avoid Varity — which meant they either underestimated her, or needed her untouched. Neither possibility comforted him.

He sent for the magistrate, doubled the guards, and ordered the old mill watched.

Varity walked back with him through the dark stable yard. The rain had stopped; clouds moved fast over the moon. Her torn hem brushed the wet stones.

“You should sleep,” he said.

“So should you.”

“I have work.”

“So do I.”

“What work?”

“Learning which floorboards creak. Which servants are afraid. Which doors lock badly. And why someone attacked you six hours after a marriage they apparently wanted completed.”

Gareth stopped. “You noticed the timing.”

“Yes. Most would assume ordinary robbery.”

“Most did not watch a man with a pistol avoid shooting the new bride while demanding documents.”

She was right. Again.

“You are not what I expected,” Gareth said.

“That may be the kindest thing you have said to me.”

“It was not meant kindly.”

“Then improve.”

The first letter arrived before noon. It was addressed to Gareth in an elegant hand. No seal. No signature. One line inside:

Marriage gives you her dowry, not safety.

Gareth read it twice. Varity stood beside his desk, because she had ignored his suggestion that she take tea with Lady Ma.

“Well,” she said. “That is unfriendly.”

“You find everything concise.”

“It saves panic.”

She read the note and frowned. “This person thinks my dowry matters most.”

“It does matter, to the estate.”

“Yes. To the attack, perhaps not.”

“Explain.”

“If someone wanted to stop the marriage, they chose poorly. The attack came after it. If they wanted to steal settlement documents, they chose loudly. If they wanted to scare you, they told the men not to hurt me.”

“Why?”

Gareth leaned back. He had spent most of his adult life in that room, repairing damage dead men had made. No woman had ever stood at his desk and taken danger apart as if sorting thread.

“They need you alive,” she said. “Or innocent.”

“Why?”

“That is the useful question.”

“You have a very irritating calm.”

“I worked hard for it.”

The answer held weight. He did not press. He opened a locked drawer and removed the marriage settlement.

“May I?” Varity asked.

He gave it to her. She read slowly, her lips moving once over a phrase. He watched her expression change from concentration to distaste.

“My father signed this.”

“Yes.”

“Did you read this clause?”

“I read every clause.”

“And you still married me?”

“Which clause offends you?”

“The one that transfers the Eastern Mill rights to Rookmir — if I die childless within five years.”

Gareth’s hand stilled. “That clause was removed.”

“No. It was removed in my copy.”

Varity looked up.

Silence drew tight between them.