Page 88 of Duke of Storme
Someone better.
The lamplit streets of Mayfair stretched endlessly before him, each elegant facade a testament to the ordered world he’d once thought he wanted. But order without warmth was merely emptiness dressed in fine clothes. He found himself pausing outside a milliner’s shop, staring at the delicate bonnets displayed in the window, and wondering if Diana had stopped here during her London visit. Had she looked at these same ribbons and lace, thinking of the husband who’d driven her away?
A church bell tolled somewhere in the distance, marking another hour lost to his stubborn pride. Another hour Diana spent believing herself unwanted, unloved. The weight of that knowledge sat heavy in his chest like a stone, growing heavier with each step he took through the city that suddenly felt more foreign than any Highland moor.
The next morning brought gray skies and a knock at his door that shattered what little peace he’d managed to find. Finn’s London butler entered his study with the carefully neutral expression that usually preceded bad news.
“Your Grace, there’s a gentleman here to see you. Says it’s urgent.”
“I’m not receivin’ visitors–”
“It concerns Her Grace, Your Grace. The Duchess.”
Ice flooded Finn’s veins. “Send him in.”
The man who entered was clearly a tradesman. His clothes were neat but worn. He clutched his cap nervously in work-roughened hands. But his eyes held the kind of sharp intelligence that Finn recognized from his naval days – someone accustomed to observing details others might miss.
“Your Grace,” the man began, “I’m Thomas Fletcher. I drive hired carriages in the city.”
“What does that have to do with my wife?” Finn’s voice cut through the pleasantries like a sword.
Fletcher’s composure faltered slightly. “Yesterday afternoon, Her Grace hired my carriage to visit a sick child in Whitechapel. Little Mary Thompson, daughter of one of your tenants who came to London seekin’ work.”
Of course she had. Even here, even after everything he’d put her through, Diana was still thinking of others, still trying to help where she could. The thought of her alone in one of London’s roughest districts made his blood run cold.
Finn’s blood began to pound in his ears. Diana, traveling alone to one of London’s most unsafe districts. “Where is she now?”
“That’s just it, Your Grace. We never made it to the Thompson lodgings. Street was blocked by construction, so I took an alternate route. That’s when the carriage’s wheel caught a loose stone and we went over.”
The world seemed to tilt sideways. “What happened to my wife?”
“She was thrown clear when the carriage overturned, but she hit her head and arm somethin’ fierce.”
Finn was moving before the man finished speaking, grabbing his coat from the chair and shouting for his horse to be saddled. Fletcher hurried to keep pace as they headed for the door.
“She was taken to an inn—one that’s in a rough area, Your Grace. Might be better to take a carriage–”
“How long ago?” Finn’s voice was deadly quiet.
“Six minutes, maybe seven. She was conscious when I left to find you, but–”
Finn didn’t wait to hear the rest. He burst through the front door just as his groom appeared with Tempest. His black stallion danced impatiently at the reins. Without bothering with pleasantries or proper mounting procedures, Finn swung into the saddle and kicked the horse into motion.
London blurred past in a haze of terror and desperate urgency. He navigated the crowded streets with the single-minded focus of a man whose world had just collapsed. Every second seemed endless, every obstacle in his path a personal affront to his desperate need to reach Diana.
The morning traffic parted before him like water before a ship’s prow, vendors and pedestrians scattering as the wild-eyed Duke thundered through their midst. His heart hammered a rhythm against his ribs that matched Tempest’s hoofbeats – Diana, Diana, Diana – a prayer and a curse all at once.
Let her be alive,he prayed to whatever gods might be listening.Let her be alive, and I’ll spend the rest of my life makin’ up for every cruel word, every cold gesture, every moment I made her feel unwanted.
The Red Lion Inn squatted like a diseased toad between a blacksmith’s shop and a gin house. Its grimy windows and sagging timbers spoke of decades of neglect. But Finn barelyregistered his surroundings as he thundered past, following Fletcher’s shouted directions toward the alley where the accident had occurred.
“There!” Fletcher called out, pointing toward a narrow side street. “Just round that corner, Your Grace!”
Finn hauled on the reins, bringing Tempest to a sliding halt on the slick cobblestones. The overturned carriage sat at an odd angle against the alley wall, one wheel completely shattered, the other spinning slowly in the morning breeze. Debris was scattered across the narrow street – pieces of wood, torn fabric, a single leather glove that made his heart clench with recognition.
And there, sitting on the filthy steps of a ramshackle boarding house, was Diana.
She was alive. Conscious. But even from this distance, Finn could see the dark stain spreading across the sleeve of her green pelisse, could see the way she held her left arm protectively against her body. Her bonnet was gone, her chestnut hair falling loose around her shoulders, and there was a purpling bruise along her cheek that made something murderous rise in his chest.
