Page 74 of The Lion Duke's Proposal
The study was cold. He had not had the fire lit yet, a luxury he rarely required before ten o'clock, and the morning light leaked through the tall window gray, flat, and entirely practical.
It was a sullen atmosphere, which suited his current frame of mind far better than the warm, lavender-scented, curtained room upstairs.
Cuthbert's letter lay exactly where he had left it four days ago, resting on the right side of the heavy mahogany desk. He picked it up, the thick parchment stiff between his fingers.
The solicitor had made undeniable progress. A verified sighting near Aldgate, a contact at the Tavistock Inn who had confirmed Viscount Norish was indeed still resident in the city, and a tactical suggestion on how to proceed that was careful, precise, and urgently required a response.
He had left it untouched for five days.
He read the legal script again, his features hardening. He set the page down, took up his quill, and dipped it into the inkwell. Without giving himself another second to hesitate, he wrote his reply, the nib scratching loudly against the paper in the quiet room.
The following morning, he was fully dressed and downstairs long before Julia ever came down.
Mrs. Hartley appeared at the study door at half past eight, carrying the morning correspondence.
Leander did not look up from his ledger, and she dropped it on the table.
Mrs. Hartley withdrew with a quiet dip of her chin. Leander immediately stood, grabbed his heavy wool coat and his top hat, and went out into the damp London morning before he could do anything as ill-considered as going back upstairs first.
Cuthbert's office was located on the Strand, a mere fifteen minutes on foot if the thoroughfares were clear. They were not clear, choked with coal wagons and fruit vendors, but he walked anyway. The biting frigid air was useful, the deafening noise of the city was useful, and the constant, demanding forward motion of it was especially useful indeed.
The only alternative to this walk was standing frozen in the grand entrance hall of his own house, fully aware that directly above him, Julia was still sleeping.
He lengthened his stride, walking faster against the wind.
Cuthbert was already at his desk, which was the only way Leander had ever found the man, day or night. The solicitor looked up when Leander pushed open the heavy oak door.
"Your Grace," Cuthbert said, adjusting his spectacles. "Shall we begin?"
"Yes," Leander said.
He sat down in the leather chair opposite the desk. He placed his hat on the seat beside him, squared his shoulders, and forced himself to think about Henry. Henry, who had been owed somuch better than a broken life, and about a solemn promise that Leander had made to a dying man and had not yet kept.
He thought, briefly and entirely without meaning to, about the quiet room that smelled of lavender four streets away.
Then, he broke the wax seal on the file before him and opened the letter.
Chapter Twenty-One
His space beside her on the bed was cold when she woke.
She lay perfectly still for a moment, her eyes fixed on the plaster moldings of the ceiling, listening intently to the heavy silence of the house.
There were no footsteps muffled by the carpet in the corridor. No rustle of linen or quiet movement from the adjoining dressing room. The velvet curtains were fully drawn, locking out the day, and the chamber possessed the distinct, stagnant quality of a room that had been left entirely alone for some time.
She sat up, the silk sheets sliding off her skin. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked loudly, its gold hands pointing to half past nine.
She dressed without ringing for her maid, and fastened the buttons herself with quick, practiced fingers, pinned up her strawberry-blonde waves with whatever bone hairpins she couldreach on the vanity, and went downstairs. She and Leander had been sharing his bedroom since the first night she slept there, and this was the first time she was waking up alone.
The breakfast table in the morning parlor had been laid for one.
Mrs. Hartley appeared from the direction of the kitchens, holding a fresh pot of hot water.
“Is there any message for me?”
"None, Your Grace. His Grace left the house at half past eight and left no message."
Julia looked down at the table. The single porcelain setting. The silver pot of tea was already poured and cooled.
