Page 10 of The Feared Duke’s Found Family

Fanny’s heart gave a violent, terrified leap as the last crunch of Lysander’s boots faded around the corner.

The tall, dark hedges pressed in on her from all sides, their shadows blacking out the gravel path. Panic spurred her into motion before her mind could catch up. She gathered the heavy wool of his cloak in her fist, holding it tightly over her ruined bodice, and bolted down the path after him.

“Your Grace!” she called out, her voice barely more than a frantic whisper against the dark leaves.

Silence answered her, save for the faint, steady sound of boots stepping over damp gravel somewhere ahead. Fanny turned the sharp corner of the boxwood wall, her slippers sliding slightly on the wet earth.

“Wait!”

She locked her eyes on the broad, shadowy silhouette moving ahead of her, keeping her distance just enough to follow the rhythmic crunch-crunch-crunch of his stride. Every time he turned left or right through the dizzying turns of the maze, she followed the whisper of his heavy wool coat against the rose branches.

Up ahead, the dark hedges gave way to a sudden, gentle wash of golden torchlight.

Fanny rounded the final bend, her breath coming in ragged hitches, and almost ran straight into his back. The duke had stopped dead on the gravel apron just outside the entrance of the labyrinth, his broad frame framed by the open air of the grounds.

He didn’t turn around immediately, but his shoulders shifted as he heard her light, frantic footfalls halt two paces behind him.

Fanny stood under the soft amber light of the terrace lanterns, her chest heaving beneath the weight of his cloak, her amber eyes wide as she tried to catch her breath.

He slowly turned his head, his dark gray eyes catching the flickering torchlight as he looked down at her. His face remained an unreadable mask of stone, but he offered no taunts, nor did a smirk grace his lips.

He might have led her out of the labyrinth.

Yet as Fanny stared up at him, she could not shake the feeling that following him had only led her deeper into something she did not know how to escape from.

Five

The clock in the corner of the study ticked with heavy, mechanical precision, each stroke cutting through the silence of Hilgrove Manor.

Lysander sat alone in the wingback chair by the dark hearth, a crystal tumbler of amber brandy resting loosely in his hand. He had not changed out of his evening dress. His high collar was unbuttoned, his neckcloth loosened, but his posture remained rigid, his broad back pressed against the leather. He did not drink. He stared into the unlit fireplace, watching the dark soot on the bricks.

He flicked his left wrist, opening the hunter-case of his pocket watch.

The hands marked twenty minutes past two in the morning.

Lysander’s thumb ran along the smooth silver edge of the timepiece. He waited. The quiet of the country estate was absolute, heavy with the weight of thick stone and carpeted corridors, yet it held no peace. He knew the rhythm of his house better than the servants did.

Three minutes later, it came.

A sharp, piercing shriek tore through the silence of the upper floor, a high, frantic scream of pure terror that cut straight through the floorboards.

Lysander was moving before the echo died. He set the brandy glass on the side table with a hard, decisive snap, then pushed out of the study, his long strides carrying him down the grand staircase three steps at a time. He did not light a candle. He knew every inch of the pitch-black corridor, his boots making no sound on the heavy runner as he reached the nursery wing at the end of the east hall.

He threw open the door to Michael’s bedchamber.

The room was bathed in pale, cold moonlight streaming through the tall sash window. Near the foot of the brass bedstead, seven-year-old Michael lay crumpled on the hardwood floor, clutching his forehead, his small legs tangled in his nightshirt. On the rug nearby, a small wooden nightstand lay overturned, a spilled cup of water pooling across the floorboards. In the corner, the nursery maid scrambled up from her armchair, blinking away sleep, her cap lopsided.

“Your Grace!” she gasped, her face draining of color as she caught sight of Lysander’s broad, dark figure looming in the doorway. “I… I only closed my eyes for a second.”

Lysander didn’t look at her. He stepped into the room, his jaw set, his dark gray eyes locked onto his son.

“Your sole duty in this house, Mrs. Claggett, is to ensure that the boy does not leave his bed when he sleeps,” Lysander said, his voice dropping into a low, deadly register that vibrated off the stone walls. “He has sleepwalked three times this fortnight. You were hired to remain awake.”

“Your Grace,” the woman squeaked, backing up until her spine hit the wardrobe, her hands trembling against her apron. “I am so terribly sorry.”

He dropped to one knee beside the boy. Michael was sobbing hysterically, his tiny frame shaking as he pressed his palm against a red, swelling bump above his left temple. His dark eyes were wide, unblinking, and vacant, staring right through Lysander as if he were still trapped in the terrible nightmare that had dragged him from sleep.

“Don’t go!” Michael shrieked, his voice breaking on a ragged sob as his small boots kicked uselessly against the floorboards. “Don’t go! Please! Don’t leave me in the dark!”