The Duke’s Borrowed Lie: He Whispered, “Kiss Me, and Let Him Believe We Share a Secret”—She Never Expected One Desperate Kiss to Save Her Family and Change Their Lives Forever

PART 6

The days that followed settled into an uneasy hush — the kind that comes before a storm rather than after one. Vain kept largely to himself, his absence from gatherings noted and whispered about.

“He is planning something,” Isolda said to Allaric one afternoon, walking through the estate’s private gardens, far from curious ears. “A man like Vain does not simply retreat after being cornered publicly.”

“Josiah agrees. He has learned Vain sent an urgent letter to London, to a solicitor known for handling matters best kept quiet.”

“Then we must move faster than he does,” Isolda said. “We have Nathaniel’s confession. We have the forged documents themselves. Why not go to the magistrate immediately?”

“I considered that. But Josiah advised caution. If we act without every piece secured beyond doubt, Vain’s solicitor may find some technicality — some way to cast suspicion back onto Nathaniel, or onto us. We need proof that ties the forgery directly to Vain’s own hand.”

Isolda considered this. “Nathaniel copied the false figures onto the official documents. But someone must have supplied him with the sums to copy in the first place. Vain would not have simply spoken numbers aloud and trusted him to remember correctly. There must have been something written — some record of the false amounts before they became official. Men like Vain often keep such records, believing themselves too clever to ever be caught.”

Allaric’s eyes sharpened. “Nathaniel might know where such drafts were kept, if they exist at all. It is worth asking him directly.”

They found Nathaniel settled now in a small cottage under the protection of two trusted men, some color returned to his cheeks though a nervous weariness still clung to him.

“Drafts,” he said slowly, after Isolda explained what they sought. “Yes. Lord Vain insisted I destroy them once the final documents were complete. But I confess I did not entirely trust him to keep his word about my safety. I kept a small selection hidden, in case I ever needed proof of my own innocence.”

Isolda’s heart leaped. “Where are they now?”

“Sewn into the lining of an old coat,” he admitted, looking faintly embarrassed. “Left behind in my former lodgings, in a trunk I could not carry when I fled.”

“We must retrieve it immediately,” Allaric said. “If Vain’s men discover it first, any hope of proving direct authorship vanishes entirely.”

That afternoon, Allaric, Isolda, and Josiah traveled discreetly to the village to seek out Nathaniel’s former landlady, a sharp-eyed widow named Mrs. Adeline Fenwick.

“The trunk. Yes, I kept it,” she said, after Allaric explained their errand with careful diplomacy and a generous offer of coin. “It is in the attic, still gathering dust. That poor young man left owing me nothing, having settled his account before he fled. I kept his things out of simple kindness.”

She led them up a narrow staircase to a cramped, dust-choked attic. After several tense minutes of searching among discarded furniture and long-abandoned boxes, Josiah dragged a small trunk into the weak light filtering through a single grimy window.

“This bears the initials Nathaniel described.”

Within it, beneath a layer of neatly folded but threadbare clothing, they found the coat. Allaric worked the seam of the lining loose, and there, folded tightly and yellowed with age, lay several sheets of paper covered in handwriting that was unmistakably not Nathaniel’s careful clerk’s script, but a bolder, more confident hand — one Allaric recognized immediately.

“This is Vain’s handwriting,” he said, his voice tight with barely restrained fury. “I have seen it on correspondence between our families for years. This proves he personally drafted the false figures in his own hand before ever bringing them to Nathaniel to copy.”

Isolda felt a surge of triumphant relief. “Then we finally have everything we need.”

Josiah took the papers from Allaric’s hands before they had even left the attic stair. “Begging your pardon, your grace, but you’ll not want to be the one carrying these on the open road. If Vain has eyes anywhere between here and the estate, better they watch you carry nothing at all.” He wrapped the sheets in oilcloth and stowed them deep in his own saddlebag, then named a longer route home along the river lane rather than the direct road — a small precaution that struck Isolda, in the moment, as faintly excessive.

They thanked Mrs. Fenwick generously and returned to the estate as evening settled over the countryside, Allaric and Isolda by the direct road, Josiah peeling off toward the river lane alone, a cautious optimism lending itself to the journey home.

Then, as their carriage rolled through the estate’s gates, the coachman suddenly called out a sharp warning.

“Your grace — riders ahead, blocking the drive.”

Allaric leaned forward, peering through the window, and Isolda felt her stomach drop as she recognized the figure at the head of the small group of horsemen. Lord Edric Vain sat astride his horse in the gathering dusk, his expression cold and resolved, flanked by two men Isolda did not recognize.

The carriage rolled to a stop. Allaric stepped out first, positioning himself between the carriage and Vain’s approaching riders, his hand resting near a pistol Isolda had not realized he carried beneath his coat.

“Vain,” Allaric said, his voice hard as stone. “This is a strange hour for a social call.”

“I am not here for pleasantries.” Vain dismounted slowly, his eyes flickering toward the carriage window. “I understand you have been busy today, your grace. Digging through attics and boarding houses in search of proof against me.”

“You seem remarkably well informed for a man who claims innocence.”

“I have my sources. And they inform me that whatever you believe you have found will amount to nothing once my solicitor finishes his work. Forged documents can be challenged as easily as they were created, particularly when the original accuser is a dismissed clerk with a documented history of financial trouble.”

“And the drafts written in your own hand?” Allaric said evenly. “Will your solicitor explain those away as easily?”

Genuine alarm flickered across Vain’s composed expression — quickly masked, but not quickly enough. Isolda understood at once that they had found something he believed destroyed entirely.

“You are bluffing,” Vain said, though his voice lacked its usual confident edge.

“Am I?” Allaric did not reach for his coat. The papers themselves were already miles behind them, locked in Josiah’s saddlebag and bound for the estate’s strongroom by a road Vain did not know to watch — a precaution Josiah had insisted on the moment they left Mrs. Fenwick’s attic. “I have no need to show you what you already recognize by description alone, Vain. Sewn into the lining of a coat you told a frightened young man to burn. You should have checked that he obeyed.”

Vain’s face drained of color. “You are lying.”

“I think not. Those pages will be presented to the magistrate at the earliest hour, along with Nathaniel Price’s sworn testimony. Your scheme is finished, Vain.”

Vain’s hand moved suddenly toward his own coat, and for one terrifying moment Isolda feared he intended violence. Allaric’s hand was already on the pistol at his belt before Vain’s had cleared his coat, the two of them frozen a bare second in that standoff, and whatever desperate impulse had gripped Vain seemed to falter beneath the sight of it.

“This is not finished,” Vain said again, though the words carried far less conviction than before, fury now tinged unmistakably with fear. He mounted his horse swiftly, his companions following, and within moments the three riders vanished down the darkening drive.

Isolda stepped down from the carriage the moment it was safe, hurrying to Allaric’s side, her hands trembling with the aftermath of fear.

“Are you unharmed?”

“I am. But that confrontation confirms what I feared. Vain is growing desperate, and desperate men make dangerous choices. We must go to the magistrate tonight, if possible.”

Allaric nodded, his expression resolute despite the worry etched across his features. “Josiah, ready the horses. We ride for the magistrate’s residence at first light. Isolda — I want you to remain here under my mother’s protection until Vain is formally accused and stripped of whatever power he still believes he holds.”

She wanted to argue, as she had at every turn since this journey began. But something in his fierce protectiveness, combined with her own exhaustion, convinced her this was a battle he needed to face with the law behind him rather than her presence beside him.

“Be careful,” she said instead, reaching up to press her palm against his cheek. “Whatever happens tomorrow, promise me you will be careful.”

He turned his face into her touch. “I promise. And Isolda — whatever the magistrate decides, none of it matters nearly so much to me as your safety does.”