"No," he agreed, his voice dropping to a gravelly murmur. He reached out, his hand hesitating for a fraction of a second before his fingers grazed the heavy fur collar of the cloak, resting lightly against her shoulder. "You are my wife, and I will burn this country to ash before I let you walk out of my sight again."
She didn't pull away from his touch. She simply looked at him, her hazel eyes unreadable.
He dropped his hand and turned toward the heavy bell pull near the door. He gave it two sharp, violent tugs.
The hunt had officially begun.
Mr. Caldwell was a man carved from old mahogany: stiff, unyielding, and entirely devoid of unnecessary emotion. He had served the Dukes of Ashbourne for four decades.
When he entered the study, he did not look at the heavy velvet curtains, nor at the roaring fire. His eyes went straight to Richard. Then he saw the woman by the leather armchair wrapped in a man's riding cloak.
Caldwell stopped dead. The silver tray he held, intending to clear the morning glasses, trembled violently in his gloved hands. The crystal tumbler rattled against the metal—a jarring, frantic sound in the quiet room.
"Sir," Caldwell whispered, his voice cracking. He stared at Genevieve, wrapped in the oversized black cloak, her dark hair tumbling over the fur.
"Shut the door, Caldwell," Richard commanded. He did not raise his voice, but the tone demanded absolute obedience.
Caldwell stepped backward, pulling the heavy door shut, his eyes never leaving Genevieve. The old steward looked as though he might faint. His face, normally a ruddy, windbeaten pink, had drained to a sickly gray.
"Your Grace," Caldwell stammered, looking between Richard and the woman. "I... I do not understand. The staff... Mrs. Abernathy is in the kitchens. She is hysterical. She claims... she claims she saw a ghost."
Richard finished for him. He picked up the sealed letter from the desk. "She did not. She saw my wife."
Genevieve offered the steward a small, tight smile. "Hello, Mr. Caldwell. I apologize for the disruption to the household."
Caldwell swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing sharply. "Duchess... you are... you are alive." It was not a question, but a desperate attempt to process reality. "We held a funeral. I ordered the black crepe myself."
"A necessity, I am afraid," Genevieve said quietly.
Richard stepped forward, handing the sealed letter to the steward. "Caldwell, I need you to ride to Magistrate Hail's residence immediately. Do not send a boy. You will go yourself. Hand this directly to him. If he is not there, you wait until he returns."
Caldwell took the letter, his hands still shaking slightly. "Yes, Your Grace. But the house... the staff is terrified. They are packing their bags. They think it's witchcraft."
"Let them pack," Richard said ruthlessly. "But no one leaves. You will instruct the gatekeeper to lock the main iron gates. Padlock them. Station two of the most reliable groundskeepers at the perimeter wall. If anyone attempts to leave the property, they are to be detained."
"Sir, you cannot imprison the staff," Caldwell protested weakly, finally dragging his gaze away from Genevieve to look at his master. "It is against the law."
"I am the law on this land," Richard snarled, his patience snapping. "Someone tried to murder the Duchess seven years ago. The threat is still active. I will not have an informant slipping out of the scullery to alert her cousin in London."
Caldwell stiffened. The mention of murder acted like ice water, instantly snapping the old man out of his shock. His posture straightened. The trembling stopped. He looked at Genevieve again, this time with a hard, protective assessment.
"Lord Gregory," Caldwell stated. It was a known fact among the senior staff that Gregory was a parasite.
"Yes," Genevieve said. "If he learns I am here, he will not hesitate to silence me permanently."
"He will have to go through the estate staff first, Your Grace," Caldwell said, his voice lowering to a gritty baritone. He tucked the letter firmly into his inner coat pocket. "I will lock the gates. I will speak to the senior staff. I will tell them the truth. The loyal ones will stay and fight. The cowards can be locked in the wine cellar until this is resolved."
Richard felt a grim smile tug at the corner of his mouth. "See to it, Caldwell, and bring Hail back with you. Tell him to bring his pistols."
Caldwell bowed deeply—deeper than he had in 7 years. "At once, Your Grace."
When the heavy door clicked shut behind the steward, the silence returned to the study, but the atmosphere had shifted. It was no longer a room of mourning. It was a war room.
Genevieve let out a long, shuddering breath and leaned her forehead against the cool marble of the fireplace mantel. "He will lock them in the wine cellar. He is entirely serious."
"Caldwell is a vicious old bastard when provoked," Richard agreed, walking over to a large mahogany cabinet. He unlocked the bottom drawer with a small brass key. "It is exactly what we need right now."
"Locking the estate down buys us time, Richard. It does not solve the problem." She turned her head to look at him. "Gregory is in London. He is insulated. He has lawyers, thugs, and the St. Claire money. We have a disgruntled steward and a bewildered magistrate. If we accuse a peer of the realm of attempted murder without proof, he will laugh at us, and the courts will dismiss it as the ravings of a hysterical woman who abandoned her husband."
"我们 will find proof."