Page 48 of My Ruthless Duke

Getting even the name out of the pub from Matthew had been difficult. He had tried to stand there and gloat, to boast that he had been right all along even though Cordelia’s only words to her cousin had been that she wanted the name of the pub and how he came to have the information that he did. He had been rather glib on his sources, and she still was inclined to disbelieve him just because he refused to be open and honest with her.

Neither he nor her husband seemed to be any better than the other.

Thankfully, Penelope had been willing to come with her to find out the truth of the matter for herself. There was no guarantee that the woman she was looking for was even still in employ here, but she had been given a name and she had to try. No matter how uncomfortable it might be. She deserved the truth.

“Yes, I am certain.”

“I do not love the idea of spending longer in this pub than we have to,” Penelope admitted in a small voice.

“I agree.” Cordelia nodded and boldly walked into the pub. She had never been inside of such a place before. Nearly everything was furnished in wood, with little to nothing on the walls. There was a small lifted stage area that was presently unoccupied, but she was certain that it had lively music in the evenings. The single bar had a surly looking gentleman with a long beard who glared at them without any semblance of a proper greeting. Penelope pulled closer to her side as Cordelia looked around the room.

“We are looking for a Miss Rebecca, is she here?”

The man behind the counter did not pause cleaning the glass in his hand long enough to speak. Instead, only his small eyes drifted to the side door that must have led to the kitchens. Thankfully, a woman walked out only a moment later.

“MissRebecca? Who is asking?” The woman demanded the moment she was in the room.

“I am,” Cordelia answered, but she was slightly put off by the sarcastic tone that the woman was using. Why was she so defensive?

“And you are?”

“I… well. I am the Duchess of Davenport.”

It felt strange to use her formal title in such a place as this.

“I have no business with no titled ladies.”

“Are you Rebecca? I promise I only need a moment of your time. Please, I just have a couple of questions to ask you,” Cordelia explained, but the woman was not convinced.

“It will cost ya,Your Grace.”

Cordelia and Penelope exchanged a glance. This was fully out of their depth, but what choice did they truly have if they wanted answers? “All right.”

Rebecca nodded them toward a dingy-looking table. Penelope seemed hesitant to sit, but neither wished to be rude so they joined her.

“If it is money that you are after…” Cordelia started, but the woman shook her head.

“I do not want your money, this is putting me at risk. I want something that matters,” she explained flatly.

Cordelia pulled off her pearl earrings, holding them out to the woman in front of her. “Is this enough?”

Rebecca took them, eyed them, and then put them in her pocket. “What can I do for you?”

“Well, I just hoped to ask you about something that might be rather uncomfortable that happened two years ago…”

Rebecca’s brow arched, clearly not understanding what she was referring to. Cordelia reached over, took Penelope’s hand and squeezed it tightly to give herself strength to keep talking.

“A lot of things happened two years ago; you are going to have to be more specific. Or else I have work to do.”

“Two years ago, a man attacked you in an alleyway… or, I was told that was what had happened. I do not mean to bring up a painful memory, but I was hoping that you could shed some light on the subject. You see, the man who interrupted the attack–”

“Do you know him?” Rebecca asked quickly. “I did not get his name. Do you know where he is? I have wanted to… thank him for what he did for me that night.”

All hesitance and pretense of detachment was gone from the woman’s face instantly.

But she had just confirmed that she had, indeed, nearly been taken advantage of in the alleyway. Dorian had told her the truth. The sour feeling in her stomach only grew as she sat here, hoping that it would magically be the wrong man or a case of mistaken identity or something of the sort.

“Well, he was–is–my husband and I…”

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