Page 99 of Project Duke

But he’d never discovered anyone watching the house but him.

That calmed his worries and brought him some happiness, even though seeing his wife’s silhouette behind the curtains at night made his arms ache with the desire to reach out to her, to feel her warm skin under his palm. She was so close and yet so far. He just needed to walk up the stairs and enter the house and find her.

He loved her, goddamn fool that he was. He loved her so much he felt sick without her. He woke up every morning in the narrow bed, his hand brushing against the place where she was supposed to be and finding only cold air.

At the Admiralty, he had inquired after Concord and wrote Calliope a letter. He’d considered delivering it to her himself but the thought of facing her…

She hated him, no doubt. He’d offended her when he’d disrespected her dream. He’d kidnapped her and left her stranded far from home. He’d intended to keep her away from the thing she loved the most.

Not because he wanted to change her but because he loved her and was afraid to lose her.

He wanted to be close to her and the baby he was sure she carried. He wanted to see Calliope grow, touch her big, round belly and hear every little detail of how she felt.

He kept going to the Admiralty.

The day after their breakup, the admiral was found dead, the victim of what was assumed to be an accident when the candelabra fell while he was at the docks. Nathaniel wondered about the other man who had fallen onto one of the candelabra’s spikes and been impaled as well as the one Calliope shot. Had someone removed that body? Nathaniel was quite sure they weren’t real navy officers; they had looked and sounded like thugs dressed in uniforms.

He never suspected his close friend being behind all that—attacking his wife, trying to kidnap his sisters, taking Nathaniel hostage and threatening to kill him. This was the man Nathaniel had thought was a loyal friend. Someone thanks to whom Nathaniel still had a roof over his family’s heads.

The grief of losing Langden first as a trusted friend, then to death made him question everything he knew.

Though he went about his work at the Admiralty as if nothing had changed, Nathaniel kept his eyes and ears open. Who was the man with the walrus-ivory walking stick? What did he have against Spencer? The admiral had known about Calliope snooping around, but did that more powerful man? And was she still in danger?

One week passed.

Then another.

But he didn’t hear anything suspicious. No one approached him or followed his wife or sisters that he was aware of. Everything was quiet.

He settled into a routine. Working at the Admiralty during the day. Then eating at Portside and getting himself beaten in the boxing ring.

On the morning of the seventeenth day, there was a knock on the door of his lodgings. The room, typical of Mayfair bachelor lodgings, had tall, narrow windows that allowed diffused morning light to pour onto the richly polished mahogany floor. The furniture was serviceable and sparse: a four-poster bed with plain hangings, a small writing desk positioned to catch the best of the daylight, and a single well-worn leather armchair by the fireplace. The walls were lined with muted plaster and a solitary framed painting of a hunting scene. It was a place for a man to rest, not to live.

Nathaniel could hardly move a finger without some pain piercing his flesh. Purple, red, and yellow bruises covered his torso like a disturbing painting. Five days ago, he could hardly open one eye; now he sported a black bruise around it. He had a thick lip. And his knuckles were open, with a dark crust covering his wounds.

He hissed in air as he tugged on his shirt and trousers, then opened the door.

At first, he didn’t recognize his sister. She was a pretty young lady dressed like a little duchess, with her curls perfect and a pale turquoise bonnet framing her concerned face.

“Brother…” she gasped.

“Hazel.” He looked into the hallway behind her. “Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

He cursed and grasped her arms, pulling her into the room and closing the door behind her. This painfully reminded him of another female who had come searching for him in a building full of men with no chaperone.

“What were you thinking coming to bachelor lodgings alone?” he said.

She looked around, her gaze taking in the sparsely furnished room with curiosity and a little pity in her eyes.

“What were you thinking?” she demanded. “You are a bachelor no more. You have a wife.”

“I might as well not have.” He swallowed hard and winced as he put on his waistcoat, which touched a particularly tender place under his ribs. He threw a quick glance at Hazel, waiting for her to say a word about Calliope. When she offered none, he asked, “How’s Violet?”

“She’s fine. The stitches were removed.”

He nodded. That was good. “How’s Poppy? How’s…Calliope?”