Page 167 of Stolen By the Heartless Duke

“Your Grace,” he said with a respectful bow. “Mr. Deverell is expecting you.”

Jane offered a polite nod. “Thank you.”

He led her through the quiet house. Too quiet. Normally a townhouse bustled with activity. Housemaids dusted furniture, footmen crossed corridors with trays, somewhere a cook barked instructions below stairs.

Today she heard almost nothing. Only the steady echo of their footsteps. Her unease grew.

They reached a spacious drawing room at the rear of the house. Sunlight filtered through tall windows, illuminating expensive carpets and polished mahogany furniture. Zachary stood beside the fireplace, one hand resting casually upon the mantel.

He smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. “You came.”

“You wished to discuss the estate.”

“So I did.”

The butler stepped inside behind her.

Before Jane could speak again, Zachary turned toward him. “That will be all.”

“Sir?”

“You and the rest of the household may have the remainder of the day off.”

The butler hesitated. “As you wish, sir.”

Jane frowned. “The entire household?”

The butler offered no answer. He merely bowed and withdrew. The heavy oak door swung shut. A loud click echoed through the room as the lock turned.

Jane’s stomach tightened. Slowly, she turned. A man emerged from the shadows beside the doorway. He was elegantly dressed in a dark coat and gloves, his expression calm enough to be unsettling.

One arm restrained her mother against his chest. His gloved hand covered Lady Wynten’s mouth, silencing the frightened cry trapped behind it. Her mother’s eyes brimmed with tears.

Jane froze. The room seemed to tilt beneath her feet. Her gaze flew to Zachary. He did not appear surprised. If anything, he looked almost... expectant.

The stranger noticed her confusion. A faint smile curved his lips.

“At last,” he said smoothly. His voice carried the effortless confidence of a man accustomed to being obeyed. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Your Grace.”

Jane’s pulse thundered in her ears. The man inclined his head with impeccable courtesy despite the terrified woman imprisoned in his grasp.

“My name,” he said, “is Phineas Strachan.”

Jane reacted without thinking. “Mother!”

She rushed forward. Before she had taken two full steps, Strachan calmly withdrew a pistol from beneath his coat. The movement was smooth.

He lifted the weapon and rested the barrel against Lady Wynten’s temple. “Another step,” he said pleasantly, “and I shall redecorate this parlor.”

Jane stopped so abruptly that her skirts swayed around her ankles. Every muscle in her body locked.

Her mother let out a muffled cry behind the gloved hand covering her mouth. Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks as she stared helplessly at her daughter.

Jane’s own heart hammered so violently she thought it might break through her ribs.

Strachan smiled. “There we are.” His tone was almost conversational. “I had hoped you possessed more sense than the men I’ve dealt with recently.”

Jane kept her eyes fixed on the pistol. “What do you want?”