Outside the door, unseen by either of them, a shadow lingered a moment too long before slipping away down the corridor. As Rose left the nursery that night, someone watched from the darkened hallway and murmured under their breath, "She remembers too much."

The old stable master, Mr. Pharaoh, asked to speak with the Duke privately. He had carried something heavy for a year, he said, and could not carry it any longer, not since he had seen the boy laughing again and watched the house come back to life. He told the Duke that the wheel on the Duchess's carriage had not simply broken that night. He had inspected it himself the morning before, as he always did, and it had been sound.

But by evening, before Eleanor left for the North Road, someone had tampered with the carriage in a deliberate way meant to look like an accident. He had stayed silent out of fear. "Powerful people," he said, "don't take kindly to stable hands with accusations."

The Duke asked the only question that mattered. "Who had access to that carriage?"

Pharaoh hesitated before answering. "Only family, Your Grace. Only someone who knew the household."

The name settled heavily in the room before Pharaoh even said it. Lord Edmund Ashkam, the Duke's own cousin, next in line for the title should anything happen to both the Duke and Charles.

The Duke felt sick. Edmund had dined at his table, played chess with him on quiet evenings, and sent gifts to Charles on his birthday. The betrayal, if true, ran deeper than he could stomach.

That same week, something changed in Charles. He began waking from nightmares, clutching Rose's sleeve and murmuring fragments he had never spoken before. Pieces of memory long buried finally started surfacing.

One evening, sitting in the garden with Rose, Charles went very still and said in a small voice, "Mama said not to trust Uncle Edmund."

Rose froze. "What else did she say, Charles?"

He struggled, the memory slipping like water through his fingers. "She was scared. The wheels were making a funny noise before... before we went fast."

He did not finish. He did not need to.

Rose brought this straight to the Duke, and together with Pharaoh's account, the picture became undeniable. Eleanor's death was no accident, and the person who orchestrated it had been standing close to Charles ever since, close enough to try again if he ever suspected the truth was surfacing. The Duke realized with cold dread that Rose and Charles were both now in danger simply for knowing what they knew.

He wanted to send Rose away somewhere safe, far from Blackthorne Manor until Edmund could be dealt with. Rose refused. "I made a promise," she told him. "I'm not leaving Charles now. Not when he needs someone steady more than ever."

The Duke understood, even as it terrified him, that pursuing the truth meant turning against his own family. Exposing the scandal could destroy the Ashkam name in front of all society. But protecting his son and the woman who brought his son back to life mattered more than any title.

He began quietly gathering evidence, questioning old staff and sending discreet letters to men he trusted in London. He told no one of his suspicions, not even Edmund, who continued visiting the manor as though nothing had changed, smiling at Charles and complimenting Rose's care of the boy.

Two nights later, Rose did not return from her evening walk to the chapel.

Mrs. Pratt found Charles crying in the nursery, asking where his governess had gone. A search began immediately, servants fanning out across the grounds with lanterns as the temperature dropped toward freezing. Near the edge of the frozen lake, half-buried in snow, one of the search party found something that stopped the entire household cold.

A ribbon. Rose's ribbon, stained dark with blood.

The household believed the worst. Whispers spread that Rose had drowned trying to cross the frozen lake, that the ice gave way beneath her. Mrs. Pratt wept openly. Charles refused to eat or sleep, clutching the wooden sword Rose once fought him with as though it might bring her back.

The Duke refused to believe it. A bloodstained ribbon did not mean a body lost to ice. It meant violence, and violence had a source. He thought of Edmund's calm smile and his easy visits, and something in him hardened into resolve.

For three days, Duke Sinclair barely slept. He rode the estate's edges himself, questioned tenants, paid informants in the nearby village, and refused every suggestion that he wait for the authorities to act. On the third night, an old groundskeeper mentioned an abandoned hunting lodge on the far edge of Ashkam land, a place Edmund had inherited years ago and rarely mentioned.

The Duke rode through the night alone, snow driving sideways, until he found it: a crumbling lodge with smoke curling faintly from its chimney. Inside, guarded by two of Edmund's men, he found Rose alive, bound and bruised, but breathing. Relief nearly buckled his knees before fury replaced it.

Edmund himself appeared from the shadows of the lodge, unsurprised and almost amused. "I wondered how long it would take you."

"Let her go," the Duke said.

Edmund only smiled wider. "Give up this little investigation of yours. Walk away. Tell the world the Duchess's death was an accident and Miss Winthrop lives. Continue digging, and I promise you, cousin, she won't be so lucky next time."

The Duke looked at Rose, at the fear and defiance both burning in her eyes, and understood there was no bargain here he could trust. Edmund had already proven what he was capable of.

So the Duke did something no one expected. He did not fight, and he did not bargain quietly.