"You are not going anywhere," Richard said, dipping a steel-nibbed pen into the inkwell. He did not look up. "You are going to walk into the adjoining bedchamber. You are going to strip off those rags. You will find my heavy winter riding cloak in the wardrobe. Put it on."
"Richard, I am writing a letter to Magistrate Hail," he continued, his tone brokering absolutely no argument. "He is an old friend of my father's and despises Gregory just as much as we do. We are going to lock this house down. We are going to find proof of what he did to that ship."
He finally looked up, his gray eyes suddenly alive, burning with a terrifying, singular focus. "You hid in the dirt for 7 years, Genevieve," he said. "Your watch is over. Now I am going to hunt him."
The bedchamber adjoining the study was a mausoleum of masculine grief.
Genevieve stood just inside the threshold, the heavy oak door clicking shut behind her. The room was freezing. The heavy drapes were pulled tight, suffocating the daylight. The air smelled of old wood ash, stale brandy, and the sharp, clean scent of bergamot that she instantly recognized. It was Richard's scent.
She walked slowly toward the washstand in the corner. Her cheap leather boots made soft, hesitant scuffs against the bare floorboards. She felt like an intruder. For 7 years she had survived by erasing her footprint, by being entirely forgettable. Now every movement in this grand, silent room felt deafening.
A porcelain jug sat beside a wide basin. The water inside was ice cold. Genevieve didn't care. She reached behind her neck and fumbled with the crude knotted ties of her apron. The rough canvas fell to the floor with a heavy thud.
She unbuttoned the cheap gray linen dress, letting it pool around her ankles, stepping out of it until she stood shivering in her thin cotton shift.
She caught her reflection in the tall pier glass beside the wardrobe. She stopped. She had avoided mirrors for years; mirrors belonged to a vanity she could no longer afford.
The woman looking back at her was a stranger. Her collarbones jutted sharply against her pale skin. Her shoulders were broader, corded with the lean, dense muscle earned from scrubbing stone floors and hauling buckets of coal. Her ribs cast faint shadows. The jagged scar on her jawline was pink and angry in the dim light. She looked like a stray dog that had survived a hard winter.
She dipped a linen cloth into the freezing water and brought it to her face. She scrubbed viciously. She washed away the flower dust, the soot, the grease of the kitchens. She washed her neck, her arms, her chest. The cold bit into her skin, leaving it flushed and raw. It was a baptism of necessity. The scullery maid was dead. The Duchess was supposed to be dead, too. She didn't know who was left standing in this freezing room.
She moved to the massive oak wardrobe. The hinges groaned as she pulled the heavy doors open. Inside hung a row of Richard's clothing: dark wool coats, crisp white linen shirts, heavy riding leathers. The sheer abundance of it, the pristine condition of the fabrics, made her stomach clench.
She reached out and touched a sleeve of superfine wool. It was soft—so impossibly soft. She found the heavy winter riding cloak he had mentioned. It was black wool lined with dark fur, designed to withstand the brutal northern winters. She pulled it from the hanger and wrapped it around her shoulders.
It was massively heavy, swallowing her frame entirely. It fell to her ankles, trailing slightly on the floor. The fur collar brushed against her damp cheeks. It smelled like him.
She pulled the cloak tighter around herself, burying her scarred hands in the deep pockets. She took a slow, steadying breath. Then she turned and walked back to the study.
Richard was at the desk. He had finished the letter. A stick of red sealing wax was smoking over a small brass spirit lamp. He pressed his heavy gold signet ring into the hot puddle of wax, holding it there for 3 seconds before lifting it.
He looked up as the door clicked open.
Genevieve stood in the doorway, drowned in his black cloak. Her dark hair was damp at the roots, hanging loose and heavy over the dark fur collar. Her face was scrubbed clean, pale and stark in the firelight. The vulnerability in her eyes was masked instantly by a rigid, defensive posture.
Richard felt a painful tightness in his throat. He set the signet ring down. "You look half drowned," he said softly.
"The water was freezing," she replied. She walked toward the fire, claiming the heat. "Who is the letter for?"
"Magistrate Hail. I am sending Caldwell to deliver it."
Genevieve turned her head sharply. "Mr. Caldwell, the steward? He has run this estate while I have been incapacitated," Richard said, the admission tasting bitter on his tongue. "He is loyal. He hates Gregory. And he is discreet."
"Discretion is a luxury we no longer have, Richard. I was recognized in your kitchen by Mrs. Abernathy," she countered, walking around the desk. "A woman who has served this family for 30 years."
"I will deal with the staff."
"You cannot threaten them into silence."
Genevieve shook her head, the heavy cloak swaying. "Rumors are like water. They will find the cracks. Gregory pays informants in the village. By tomorrow, a stable boy will trade the gossip for a pint of ale, and the whisper will reach London."
"Which is why we are locking the estate down."
"You cannot lay siege to your own home," she said, staring at him. "People will notice."
"Let them." He stepped closer. The heat from the fire radiated between them. "I spent seven years being a ghost, Genevieve. It is time I reminded the county exactly who I am. I will summon Caldwell. You will remain in this room. You are not to be seen until I say so."
It wasn't a request. It was a command.
Genevieve's chin tilted up, a flicker of defiance cutting through her exhaustion. "I am not a soldier in your regiment, Richard."