Page 96 of Cold November Rake

Everly shrugged. "You didn't. She ran off, didn't she? He got worried once you embarked on your journey to Norway, lost a lot of sleep and gained a few gray hairs, he did. But it all turned out well."

"Turned out well?" Sutton thundered. He jumped to his feet, the chair giving a loud scrape against the floorboards, and towered over his cousin. "He sabotaged my marriage on the off chance of gaining the dukedom in a few decades?"

Everly's smile was languid. "He would not have to wait decades."

Sutton swallowed.

Because he planned to kill him off.

Sutton raised his head and met his father's worried gaze.

"Go," he said.

Sutton nodded and stalked toward the door. "Dash! Have my mount prepared. Now!"

"I would go with you," the duke said, "but I am afraid I shall slow you down. Whitlow won't hurt her on the road, surrounded by outriders and servants, but once they reach Sutton Hall⁠—"

"I know." Sutton clapped his father on the shoulder, and added as he rushed out the door, "Get Everly to the magistrate."

The coach had a head start, but he knew the road, and he knew every shortcut across the downs that a loaded coach could not take.

He swung up on his horse and drove his heels into its flanks.

Hold on, Temperance, he thought. Please, God. Hold on.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Sutton Hall

2nd February 1820

Dear Sutton,

I have returned to Sutton Hall. I have decided that this shall be my home and my fortress, and I would prefer that you not impede my solitude.

It is best that all our correspondence go through your trusted man of business. This letter is dictated to him and written in his hand.

Signed,

Countess

[Written in Whitlow's hand]

Two drops in the tea, my lady, and you will sleep like a child," Whitlow said, handing Temperance a little brown bottle.

Temperance was already prepared for bed.

She had been ill the entire journey—a rare experience for her—which only strengthened her belief that she was indeed with child.

Now, in her bedchamber, she looked down at the steaming cup on the bedside table. "That is not tea, Whitlow. It is chocolate."

"Oh." He shrugged. "It should work similarly either way. Sutton asked me to give this to you. He was frightened out of his wits for you, and he would never forgive me if I let you suffer."

Temperance turned the bottle between her fingers. "Thank you, Whitlow. I shall."

"Let me do this for you," he insisted, plucking the bottle from her fingers. Before she could protest, he plopped two drops into the cup.

Bile rose in her throat.