Page 59 of The Duchess Trap
Catherine hesitated, gaze drifting toward the window where light poured in gold and steady.
“Not all the time,” she said softly, “but I do miss his presence when he is not near me.”
“You have it?”
The man across the table spoke low, his voice roughened by smoke and cheap gin. The tavern’s dim lamplight cut through the haze, gleaming faintly on the iron buttons of his coat.
A Bow Street Runner. Hard-eyed, pragmatic, not easily impressed.
Duncan set the folded packet down between them. “Every account. Dates, sums, names. Felton’s entire web.”
The runner’s gaze flicked toward it, cautious. “You’ve done half my job for me, Your Grace.”
Duncan leaned back in his chair, the worn wood creaking beneath his weight. “Then finish it.”
A corner of the man’s mouth twitched. “We will. But if we’re to bring him down proper, we’ll need one more voice. Someone close to the dealings. One who can speak to the coercion itself.”
Duncan’s jaw tightened. “You mean a victim revealing themselves.”
“Aye.” The runner glanced at the papers again. “Your evidence shows he preyed on gentry debt, forced the desperate into ruin. That’s clear. But the court will want more than numbers on a page.” He met Duncan’s eyes squarely. “They’ll want a testimony. Someone with a title. Someone who can bleed in public and not flinch.”
Duncan exhaled slowly, the candlelight catching the hard line of his cheekbone. “Lord Portsbury.”
The runner’s brows rose. “Your wife’s father?”
Duncan gave a single curt nod.
“Well,” the man said after a pause, “his name carries weight, even if his habits don’t. If he’ll sign a statement, it’ll lend us legitimacy. But he’ll have to do it sober.”
“He will,” Duncan said, though even as he spoke, he knew it would not be easy.
Portsbury’s debts had been carved into his bones; Felton’s reach had extended so far that by the time Catherine realized the scaleof it, the ruin had already set in. Duncan had settled it quietly, but the stain remained.
The runner studied him for a long moment. “And what if Lord Portsbury doesn’t have the belly for such a task? Do you have a second gentleman to take his place?”
Duncan nodded. “Hargrave.”
The investigator’s eyebrows shot up, indicating his astonishment. “You got Hargrave to talk?”
“He vowed to speak, if I could provide the necessary proof.” Duncan waved his hand at the stack of documents that lay between them. “I have held up my end of the bargain. I see no reason for him to turn tail now.”
“You have not missed a step, have you, Your Grace?” He tipped his head to the side and regarded Duncan with genuine interest. “You’ve reason to want Felton destroyed, haven’t you?”
Duncan’s expression did not shift. “More than one reason.”
Something in his tone made the other man lower his gaze. “Then you’ll have my full cooperation, Your Grace. I’ll draft the warrant when we have the testimony. Bring me Portsbury’s account within the week.”
Duncan rose. “You’ll have it.”
The runner gathered the papers, tucking them into his coat. “God help the bastard if he falls into your hands first.”
Duncan’s mouth curved, though it wasn’t a smile. “God won’t be quick enough.”
When Duncan stood and strode away, the tavern air clung to him: smoke, sweat, the stale scent of spilled ale. He pushed through the door, the hinges groaning in protest, and stepped into the narrow street beyond.
He adjusted his gloves, jaw set, and started toward the waiting carriage. His steps were measured, his shoulders broad beneath the cut of his coat, the kind of quiet power that made men instinctively clear his path.
And yet his thoughts refused to obey him.
