Page 43 of When He Was a Duke
Arabella lowered her voice. “Most of his wealth doesn’t come from his lands. It never has.”
Rose stilled. “What are you saying?”
“I had my suspicions,” Arabella said. “So I asked around—carefully. Men talk, especially when they’ve had too much to drink. Or when they’re in my bed.” Her tone was dry, but her eyes were sharp. “And I listened.”
“And?” Rose’s voice was barely above a whisper.
Arabella’s jaw tightened. “He’s a smuggler, Rose. One of the most powerful in the region. French brandy, mostly.”
Daphne gasped.
Rose said nothing. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Deep down, some part of her had known. The locked doors. The uninvited visitors. The money that flowed far too easily.
Arabella’s gaze softened. “I couldn’t understand why your Season was such a failure. You’re a viscount’s daughter. You should’ve had suitors lined up. But from what I heard, the rumors started before your first debut. Just whispers—but enough to keep decent families away.”
Rose exhaled all at once, her body sagging under the weight of it. “So it was him,” she said hollowly. “He poisoned the well and then blamed me for it.”
“You poor thing,” Daphne whispered. “You deserve so much better.”
“The worst part was believing it,” Rose said. “That there was something wrong with me.”
“But, again, why White?” Lydia asked, beginning to pace near the unlit hearth. “Of all the men—”
“It’s obvious,” Arabella said grimly. “White isn’t just his friend. He’s his business partner. The marriage is a safeguard. It ties White to your father permanently.”
Rose’s stomach turned. “So I’m insurance that the partnership will remain. Father must not trust White fully. He wants to make sure they’re connected in more ways than one.”
“Exactly.”
Rose took a long sip of sherry, trying to still the shaking in her hands. “All those nights I sat alone, thinking no one wanted me. Andall along it was him. It was always him.”
“I should like to kill them both,” Daphne muttered, cheeks flushed with fury. “I’ve never had a violent thought until today.”
“I was a fool not to see it sooner,” Rose said. “I’ve been so naïve. So accepting.”
Suddenly, a sharp pain lanced through the side of her head—then a voice, soft and urgent, echoed in her mind.
I know what you’ve done.
She stiffened, breath catching.
The room tilted. Shadows flickered. Candlelight danced along the walls like specters.
I know what you’ve done.
Arabella touched her arm. “Rose?”
She blinked rapidly, trying to surface. “I’m… I’m fine.”
“Rose, you’ve gone pale,” Daphne said, alarmed.
But she wasn’t fine. Not even close. Because she recognized the voice now.
Her mother’s voice.
Mummy.
And if her mother was trying to tell her something from beyond the grave… then the truth about her father didn’t end with smuggling.
