My Husband Left Me To Die In The Freezing Mud — Then A Duke’s Carriage Stopped
Part 2
The Duke’s suspicion hung heavily in the air after he left the room.
As Brian walked down the grand corridor toward his study, his mind was racing.
He entered his study, where his estate manager was waiting with a stack of ledgers.
Good morning, my Lord, the manager greeted.
I have the reports from Barclay’s and Co. regarding the estate’s investments.
Anything pressing? Brian asked, pouring himself a glass of amber liquid.
Just one matter, my Lord.
A rather large line of credit has been requested from the subsidiary bank we control in the city.
The gentleman is looking to expand his textile mills across Yorkshire.
He offers substantial collateral, newly acquired jewels of French origin, quite valuable.
Brian paused, the glass halfway to his lips.
Who is the man?
A merchant, my Lord.
A Mr. Greg.
Upstairs, in the quiet of the hallway, a maid walked past my partially open door.
She was gossiping with a footman carrying fresh linens.
Says his name is Greg, the maid whispered loudly.
Sent a rider from the village asking if the Duke would meet him regarding a bank loan next week.
Inside the rose room, my blood ran cold.
The heart monitor of my panic flatlined into sheer, paralyzing horror.
Greg was coming to Ashbourne Manor.
The devil was coming to the very sanctuary I had just found.
I threw off the heavy quilt.
I had to run.
Even with broken ribs, even into the freezing moorland, I had to run.
But as my bare feet hit the cold mahogany floor, my legs gave out.
I collapsed in a heap, pulling a silver tray of water down with a shattering crash.
The crash of the silver tray echoed through the cavernous halls of Ashbourne Manor like a gunshot.
Downstairs in the study, Brian was out of his leather armchair in a flash.
Taking the grand staircase with reckless speed, he burst into my room.
He found me crumpled on the floorboards, weeping hysterically amidst the spilled water.
My bandaged hands were clutching my hair.
My breath came in jagged, agonizing gasps that threatened to splinter my fractured ribs.
Megan! he yelled, dropping to his knees.
He reached for me, but I flinched violently.
I scrambled backward until my spine hit the mahogany bed frame.
Don’t let him in! I screamed, my good eye wide with profound terror.
He is going to finish it!
He will kill me and tell the magistrate I was mad!
Please, I beg you, my Lord, hide me.
Brian froze.
His sharp mind instantly connected the jagged pieces of the puzzle.
The bank loan.
The textile merchant.
The French jewels offered as collateral.
The battered woman on the York Road who lied about highwaymen.
Greg, Brian said softly, his voice dangerously low.
The man requesting the line of credit from Barclay’s Bank.
The man with the French jewels.
He is your attacker.
I squeezed my eyes shut, a fresh wave of tears tracking through my bruises.
I gave a single, slow nod.
I am his wife, I whispered, the words tasting like ash in my mouth.
The necklace he offers you.
It was my mother’s.
A relic of the House of Bourbon.
When I refused to sign it over to him, he took his walking stick.
He beat me, stripped me of my coat, and kicked me into the ditch to drown.
A heavy, suffocating silence descended upon the room.
The only sound was the crackle of the hearth and my ragged breathing.
Brian did not shout.
He did not curse.
The fury that possessed him was a glacial, terrifying calm.
It was the demeanor of an apex predator that had just locked onto its prey.
He pays the local constabulary, I choked out.
If you hand me over, the law will compel you to do so.
A husband’s rights.
A husband’s rights do not extend to murder, Brian interrupted, his tone hard as diamond.
He gently reached out and lifted me from the floor.
His touch was shockingly tender given the dark wrath swirling in his eyes.
He set me back upon the bed and pulled the heavy quilt over my shoulders.
the merchant seems to have forgotten the Married Women’s Property Act of 1882.
The jewels you inherited are legally yours.
He has committed attempted murder and grand larceny.
He believes you are dead in a ditch.
He believes he has won.
But he has walked his stolen collateral straight into my bank.
Brian crossed the room and pulled the velvet bell cord.
I am sending a wire to London immediately.
To the inspector at Scotland Yard.
I stared at him, my heart skipping a beat.
You would do this? For a stranger?
You are no longer a stranger, Megan, he said softly.
Rest now.
Let the devil come to my door.
I have a special kind of hell waiting for him.
What was going to happen when my husband walked into the Duke’s library expecting a loan, only to find the wife he thought he murdered waiting for him?
