Page 71 of His Forsaken Duchess
“Perhaps Ishouldlisten to you more often,” he murmured, the admission gruff but genuine.
Audrey’s gaze met his, steady and knowing. “Perhaps you should,” she replied softly.
Cedric didn’t respond. Instead, he looked at her—reallylooked at her—and realized, with no small amount of reluctance, that she might just be the only person who understood how to navigate the chaos they now faced.
Twenty-Four
In the late afternoon, Cedric looked up from the report he was reading as the door to his office in the House of Lords opened with a confident creak. Belleville strolled in with the ease of a man who had never been troubled by formalities. His hair, as golden and artfully disheveled as ever, seemed to catch what little light filtered through the window.
“You know,” Belleville said, “you are quite terrifying when you look serious like that. The poor report doesn’t stand a chance.”
Cedric set the papers down deliberately and leaned back in his chair, raising an eyebrow. “A fascinating observation, Belleville. Perhaps I should embroider it onto my coat of arms.”
Belleville grinned, unperturbed. “Ah, the Duke of Haremore—the scourge of reports and protector of all ink-stained parchment.” He dropped into the chair opposite Cedric’s desk without invitation, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “How fortunate for England that you are here.”
“Fortunate, indeed,” Cedric drawled, though his eyes remained sharp. “And yet, I suspect you have not come all the way to my office to impart that particular pearl of wisdom. So, what is it?”
The shift in Belleville’s expression was subtle but undeniable. The teasing light in his eyes dimmed, replaced by something harder, more thoughtful.
Cedric frowned, sitting up straighter. “What is it?” he asked.
Belleville exhaled, clasping his hands together as he rested his elbows on his knees. “I came upon something this morning—information passed along from a cousin of mine. The same cousin who happens to share blood with our dear Lord Rashford.”
Cedric stilled, his eyes narrowing. “Go on.”
Belleville’s voice lowered, his usual joviality entirely absent. “Rashford is not in Portugal.”
Cedric’s fingers flexed on the arms of his chair. “What?”
“You heard me,” Belleville said, meeting his gaze squarely. “He’s still in England. Somewhere.”
The words landed like a blow to Cedric’s chest, but his expression remained stony. “Are you certain of this?” His voice was measured, low, but it carried the sharp edge of barely restrained anger.
Belleville nodded. “My cousin is not the sort to lie, and why would he? I was under the impression that Rashford had taken his commission like a proper coward and fled to Portugal with the army. It seems, however, that he has remained here all along.”
Cedric’s jaw worked, tension coiling in his shoulders like a tightly wound spring. “He is in England,” he said, his voice hard, “and yet he allows Lady Lilianna to suffer alone? To endure disgrace and ruin while he hides?”
“It would seem so,” Belleville replied carefully, watching Cedric’s reaction with a touch of wariness.
Cedric rose to his feet abruptly, unable to remain seated. He turned his back to Belleville, staring out the window with narrowed eyes. Below, the streets of London were alive with carriages and pedestrians, but he barely saw them.
“Where is he?” he demanded, his voice clipped.
“I don’t know,” Belleville admitted, his tone regretful. “But I will find out.”
Cedric turned back sharply, his coat shifting with the movement, before he stalked back to his desk. “Do that,” he said, his words clipped and precise. “I want to know where he is, Belleville. Every detail.”
“You shall,” Belleville promised. “Give me a day or two. My cousin will know more.”
Cedric inclined his head curtly, forcing his temper back into its cage. He owed Belleville a great deal—both for the information and his discretion. “Thank you.”
Belleville waved a hand dismissively, though his expression softened. “Think nothing of it. I know you, Cedric. You are not the sort to leave a mess uncleaned.”
Cedric didn’t reply. He simply glanced down at the gold watch he pulled out of his waistcoat pocket, the polished surface catching the firelight as he flipped it open. The time was later than he had expected.
Damn.
“I have to go,” he said, tucking the watch back in his pocket as he reached for his coat. “My wife is waiting for me to dine with her family.”
