Page 6 of How to Bewitch a Duke
Moments later, Greaves, his long-suffering butler, entered. “Your Grace?”
“Send for Mr. Stratton. Have him brought directly to me.” He handed him the missive. “And see that he receives this. It is of the utmost importance.”
Greaves gave a crisp bow. “At once, Your Grace.” He took the missive and left Lucian alone to his thoughts. He had must to plan, to see completed. He would not let Isla go. When he went to her he would finally claim her. He would offer everything to her and pray she did not turn him away again.
Stratton was key to his plan. The investigator was the best inquiry agent in all of London—discreet, ruthless, and with a particular interest in uncovering the secrets of the nobility. If anyone could confirm what Lucian suspected, it was him.
Lucian moved to the hearth and stared into the cold grate; his arms folded tightly across his chest. He was done running. Done sacrificing everything for the sake of a ghost. If he was ever to claim the future, he so desperately wanted—with Isla by his side—he needed to see Michael’s machinations ended. Permanently.
An hour passed before Stratton was shown in, a lean man in a modest coat with shrewd eyes and an unsettlingly calm demeanor. “Your Grace,” he said, bowing slightly. “You requested my presence?” Luckily, the man had been close by. A convenience he had learned before the wedding. It was what had given him the idea to see this all through. He took a chance that the man would come to him and be interested enough to want to complete this mission Lucian had for him.
Lucian didn’t waste time. He laid out the details—the suspicions, the threats, the attempted murders that had never been proven. And finally, the demand. “Find him. I was told he died in Calais two months ago. I need to know if that’s true.” He had his doubts. It was why he had kept some distance between him and Isla. The ton believed her soiled because her mother was rumored to be a descendant from witches. Lucian had never seen her that way, but he had acted as if it was why he had ended their relationship. It had been a useful rumor even though he hated relying upon it. The real problem had always been his uncle. An issue he had not fully believed until he could not ignore the truth of it.
Stratton inclined his head. “Very good, Your Grace. I’ll begin at once.”
It took two weeks. Two bloody long weeks. He had wanted to seek Isla out but he knew he couldn’t. Not with so much uncertainty hanging over his head. He could not offer her anything, promise her nothing, and he could not claim her. Not when he could not fully give himself to her. Not when he could not give her what she demanded—everything. She deserved to have all of him.
Stratton looked grim and satisfied in equal measure as he met Lucian’s gaze. “He’s alive,” he said without preamble. “Living under the name ‘Mr. Lyle Morland’ in a disreputable corner of Devon. He faked his death and fled the Continent after a string of debts and a rather inconvenient affair with a French official’s wife. I have a list of his aliases, financial dealings, and former associates. Your uncle has been a busy man, Your Grace.”
Lucian closed his eyes briefly. The knot in his chest loosened—but only slightly. Of course he had been living a disreputable life. His uncle had never been the man Lucian believed him to be. He had been such a doting uncle in his youth. What had changed him? When had he decided murder something reasonable? At least he knew why he had been presumed dead in Calais. He had to fake his death to escape the crimes he had committed there. “Thank you, Stratton. Your work has been invaluable.”
Stratton rose. “What do you wish to do next?”
Lucian stared out the window again, but this time, his expression was resolute. “I wish to ensure that man never harms anyone again.”
Because there was something to fight for—someone. He had given up too easily before. Lucian would not live a half-life anymore. He was not whole without Isla at his side. He would handle his uncle once and for all, and afterward he would go directly to Isla. He would lay his heart at her feet and beg her for forgiveness. He would not give up until she agreed to be his wife. He could see Isla in his mind’s eye—her proud posture, her fierce eyes, the way her voice had trembled when she had told him it was too late. It wasn’t too late. Not yet. But if he wanted to claim her, to build a life unmarred by shadows, then he needed to free himself from the past once and for all.
Michael Oliver’s time had run out. Lucian turned from the window, fire burning in his chest. The future he wanted would not come without cost. But this time, he was ready to pay it. He would have to travel to Devon if that was where his uncle could be found. But he would have to handle the situation carefully. He was not his uncle. Lucian was no murderer, but he could not allow the man to have the freedom to live his life as he pleased. Not when he threatened Isla in the past, and not when he could easily end her life.
Lucian turned from the window with a decisive step, his fists clenched at his sides. There was no longer any room for hesitation. The truth had been unearthed, and now it must be dealt with. He would see to it that his uncle—Michael Oliver, or Lyle Morland, or whatever false name the bastard now wore—would face justice. Not for revenge. Not for vengeance. But for protection. For peace.
For Isla.
“Make the arrangements,” Lucian said, his voice low and firm. “I will leave for Devon within the day. Quietly. I don’t want word of this spreading until it’s over. I want no one to know where I’ve gone.”
Stratton gave a curt nod. “I’ll see to it personally, Your Grace.”
As the investigator departed, Lucian strode toward the hearth, dragging a hand through his hair. He was tired of shadows. Tired of secrets. He had lived beneath the weight of them for too long. All to protect the people he loved. But it was time to bring it into the light. He could not see Isla yet—not while this threat still lingered like a serpent in tall grass. Not while he still carried the stain of failure from the day he let her go.
But soon. Soon, he would return to her with nothing hidden, nothing half-lived. He would tell her everything: the truth of his silence, the reason he had turned her away, and the cost he had borne in doing so. If she could not forgive him, he would accept that. He would have no other choice… But he would not let her believe for one moment longer that she had been unwanted, unloved, or forgotten.
He sat at his desk and began to write—to give instructions for the estate in his absence, to put affairs in order. He hoped it would be a short journey—a few days, no more. He prayed it would be enough. That the law—or at the very least, a well-placed solicitor—might be persuaded to act swiftly when presented with the evidence Stratton had uncovered.
He thought again of Isla, of her standing in the garden on the night of the masquerade, proud and trembling beneath her mask. Her voice, brittle with hurt, her eyes brimming with pain. He had put that pain there. And he would spend the rest of his life trying to ease it. He would go to Devon and face the demon from his past. He would rid himself—and Isla—of the man who had haunted their lives. And when he returned, he would not be the same man who once broke her heart.
He would be hers. Entirely. Lucian sealed the last letter, stood, and moved to the tall window once more. Outside, the sun was sinking behind the hills, casting the sky in hues of violet and gold. Soon, he thought. And for the first time in years, hope bloomed in his chest like spring after a long winter. He turned from the window, summoned his valet to order his trunks packed. When he returned home, he would finally be free and able to claim Isla. He only prayed he was not too late…
Five
The winds in Devon were sharp and bracing as Lucian Oliver, Duke of Thornridge, stood in the shadowed lane outside a ramshackle stone cottage. Ivy strangled the windows, the roof sagged with neglect, and smoke from the hearth curled weakly into the late afternoon sky. This was the hiding place of the man once known as Michael Oliver, the his treacherous uncle—a man who had once held him on his knee, taught him to ride, and, as Lucian had discovered in the most devastating of truths, had murdered his father and plotted Lucian’s downfall.
The confrontation would, hopefully, be swift, brutal in its honesty. There would be no bared steel, no dramatic struggle. Only the grim certainty of evidence laid bare and the look of bitter recognition in the old man’s eyes as the magistrate’s men closed in. Lucian remained still—his expression carved from ice, as the cottage was surrounded. It had not take much convincing on his part to gain the magistrate’s assistance. One they knew that the man inside was a criminal, wanted in two countries, they had no qualms about apprehending him.
A large, burly man pounded on the door, his thick Cockney accent unmistakable as he bellowed, “Open up, or we’ll come in after ye—and you won’t like our methods, I promise ye that.”
The door remained closed. His uncle was not going to come out of that hovel willingly. He could not be living the grand life he’d imagined for himself. When he had committed murder, he had hoped to be living the life of a duke, not a pauper. He could still have had a good life. One filled with comfort and the loyalty of his family. Lucian had seen how his father had adored his younger brother.
But that had not been good enough for Michael. Instead, he betrayed that love and ended his own brother’s life. For greed and power, and it had gained him nothing. Because he had failed in his attempts to kill Lucian. Not that Lucian had been skilled or even aware what his uncle had been trying to do in the beginning. It had been sheer luck that had saved his life.
