Page 84 of A Duke to Steal Her
“He’s still trying to shield me,” she whispered.
“Your husband,” Vincent said quietly, “is many things. But he’s not indifferent to your welfare.”
Emily folded the papers with hands that only shook a little. It didn’t change anything. Ambrose had made his choice clear enough. But it eased some small part of her heart to know that even in his rage, he’d thought to protect her reputation.
“Emily,” Juliana said gently, settling beside her on the settee. “You know you can stay here as long as you need. But sooner or later, you’re going to have to talk about what really happened.”
Emily looked at her sister. Kind, perceptive Juliana, who’d always been able to see through her careful facades.
For a moment, she was tempted to let it all spill out: the pain, the betrayal, the devastating realization that the man she loved would always choose his dead sister’s memory over their living marriage.
Instead, she smiled the perfect, practiced smile she’d learned at Wicklow Academy.
“There’s nothing to discuss,” she said brightly. “Ambrose and I simply had a disagreement. It will resolve itself in time.”
Juliana’s eyes narrowed. “Emily?—”
“Would you like me to help with the children today? I find myself with quite a lot of free time.”
The deflection worked, as Emily had known it would. But she could feel Juliana’s worried gaze following her as she excused herself to dress for the day, maintaining her composure with the same rigid discipline that had once earned her praise from her teachers.
After all, she’d spent years perfecting the art of pretending everything was fine.
It seemed that particular skill would serve her well once again.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The knock on Ambrose’s study door came at half past ten in the morning, when the London fog still clung to the windows like a shroud.
He’d been staring at the same ledger page for an hour, the numbers swimming before his eyes as his mind replayed Emily’s words from the night before.
He had wanted to call her back, to explain that she was wrong, that she’d become more essential to him than breathing. But the words had lodged in his throat, trapped by twelve years of guilt and the weight of a promise made to a dying sister.
“Enter,” he called, expecting his butler with the morning correspondence.
“Your Grace,” his butler said, stepping into the room with obvious reluctance. “There’s a gentleman here to see you. He…he appears to have been in some sort of altercation. Claims to be Jonas Flint.”
Ambrose’s blood turned to ice. “Send him in. And see that we’re not disturbed.”
“Very good, Your Grace.”
When Flint limped through the doorway moments later, Ambrose felt his world tilt. The man’s face was a map of bruises, his left eye swollen shut, his clothes torn and stained with what looked suspiciously like blood.
“Christ,” Ambrose breathed, rising from his chair. “What happened to you?”
Flint managed a rueful smile that tugged at a split lip. “Lord Peirce has some very unpleasant associates, Your Grace. Seems they didn’t much appreciate the Conde’s business success.”
“Sit down before you fall down.” Ambrose guided the injured man to a chair, his mind racing. “How did they find you?”
“Near as I can tell, Peirce got suspicious when too many of his ventures started failing. He hired some men to investigate the Conde’s background.” Flint winced as he settled into the chair. “Took them a while, but they’re thorough, I’ll give them that.”
Ambrose poured two glasses of brandy, handing one to Flint before taking a large swallow of his own. The liquor burned, but it couldn’t touch the cold fury building in his chest.
“What did you tell them?”
“Nothing useful. But they weren’t particularly interested in conversation.” Flint touched his swollen jaw gingerly. “Spent three days in a warehouse by the docks before I managed to get free.”
“Peirce will know everything now.”
