A Scandal By Any Other Name-Chapter 189 - Hundred And Eighty Nine

The grand, quiet halls of Hamilton House felt entirely different that evening. The energy that usually buzzed through the manor, the sound of servants rushing, the crisp commands of the housekeeper, the lively chatter from the drawing room, was completely muted.

In the master bedchamber, the velvet curtains had been pulled back, allowing the pale, silver light of the moon to spill across the rug.

Rowan stood by the tall glass window. He was dressed simply in a dark blue robe tied loosely at his waist and opened at the collar. The thick white bandage was still wrapped securely around his head.

He leaned his broad shoulder against the cool wooden frame of the window. He stared out into the dark London night, looking past the iron gates of his estate, past the gas lamps flickering on the street corners. He was looking toward the countryside.

He had spent the entire day confined to this room. The doctor had been furious when he found Rowan out of bed that morning, threatening to drug him if he did not stay perfectly still. Rowan had complied, but only because Delaney had asked him to.

But now, the house was quiet, and his mind was racing.

He thought to himself, the worry gnawing at the edge of his thoughts like a persistent, hungry dog.

Did she arrive safely? He knew the journey to the Kingsley estate took several hours. He knew the roads were rough, and the weather had been cold. He had prepared to send his best, most trusted guard, Hamish, to follow her. But simply knowing someone was watching her was not enough to settle the deep, protective anxiety burning in his chest.

Is she well? He closed his eyes, pressing his forehead against the cool glass. He pictured her facing her greedy uncle. He pictured her walking back into the house where she had been treated like a servant. He hated the thought of her being under that roof for a single second, let alone till everything is over.

"I should have gone with her," Rowan murmured to the empty room. His voice was a low, frustrated rumble. "I should have dragged Cole Kingsley into the street."

He knew it was impossible. He knew walking into the Kingsley estate looking like a bruised, battered prize fighter would only ruin her carefully laid plans. But the logical part of his brain was currently losing a terrible battle against his heart.

He missed her.

It had only been ten hours since she had walked out of his bedroom door, but the absence of her quiet, steady presence felt like a physical weight pressing down on his lungs.

He missed the soft sound of her voice. He missed the clever, challenging spark in her hazel eyes. He missed the way she made the entire, chaotic world seem perfectly still.

A sharp, sudden knock came on the door.

Rowan did not turn around immediately. He let out a long, slow breath, trying to push the deep yearning back behind his usual mask of cold, aristocratic authority.

"Enter," Rowan commanded, his voice returning to its normal, firm tone.

The brass handle turned, and the heavy door swung open.

Carcel entered inside. He was still wearing his dark, tailored day clothes, though his cravat had been slightly loosened, indicating a long, exhausting day of work. He carried a leather folder under his arm.

Carcel stopped just inside the room. He looked at his brother-in-law standing by the window, staring out into the dark. Carcel knew that look perfectly. It was the exact same look he used to wear when he was pacing the floors, waiting for Ines to finally realize she loved him.

Carcel offered a small, knowing smile.

"Are you thinking of Miss Kingsley?" Carcel asked. His deep voice broke the quiet silence of the room, completely lacking any teasing tone. It was a genuine, brotherly question.

Rowan finally pushed himself away from the window frame.

He left the window and turned to Carcel. He did not bother to deny it. There was absolutely no point in lying to a man who had already figured out the entire truth. Who had already experienced it before.

"I am," Rowan admitted plainly. He walked slowly toward the center of the room, favoring his bruised ribs slightly. He stopped near the large, dark desk that sat near the fireplace. "I am thinking of the absolute nightmare she is currently walking into."

Carcel nodded his head in complete understanding. He walked over and set the heavy leather folder down on the polished surface of the desk.

The atmosphere in the room immediately shifted from personal longing to serious, dangerous business.

Carcel spoke, his voice dropping low, ensuring the sound did not carry out into the hallway. "Vance and I have been tearing through the city records all day. We have spoken to every clerk, every harbormaster, and every retired guard who worked the docks twenty years ago."

Rowan’s eyes narrowed sharply. He leaned his hands flat against the top of the desk, ignoring the dull ache in his head. "And?"

Carcel let out a heavy, deeply frustrated sigh. He ran a hand through his dark hair.

"We couldn’t find anything substantial against Lord Farrington," Carcel admitted, his tone laced with bitter disappointment. "Or against Lord Hawksley regarding the original silk scam. That man covers his tracks incredibly well. Every piece of paper linking them to the poisoned shipment has been burned, shredded, or completely erased from the royal ledgers."

Rowan stared down at the leather folder. The news was exactly what he had feared. Men like Farrington did not become powerful Earls by making sloppy mistakes. They built fortresses of silence and bribery.

"Vance found a few minor discrepancies in the tax records," Carcel continued, tapping the folder with his long finger. "A few missing numbers. But it is entirely circumstantial. It is not enough to take to the House of Lords. If we accuse an Earl of treason based on a few missing shillings, the courts will laugh us out of the room, and Farrington will use the insult to trigger the penalty clause of the marriage contract immediately or hasten the marriage."

Carcel looked at Rowan, waiting for a strategic response. He expected the Duke of Ford to begin analyzing the problem, searching for a new legal angle.

But Rowan wasn’t listening.

His mind was not in the dusty archives of London. His mind was miles away, traveling down a dark country road toward a house filled with cruel, desperate people. The thought of Delaney sitting down to dinner with the man who had paid for her parents’ murder made his blood run completely cold.

Rowan pushed himself off the desk. He stood up straight, his broad shoulders squared.

He spoke, his voice hard and entirely focused on a completely different objective.

"I want to send a guard and a footman to the Kingsley estate," Rowan announced.

Carcel blinked, slightly taken aback by the sudden shift in conversation. "But Hamish is already preparing to leave for the Kingsley’s estate."

"I know," Rowan replied, beginning to pace slowly across the thick Persian rug. His bare feet made no sound, but his movements were filled with a restless, powerful energy. "But only Hamish isn’t enough."

Rowan stopped pacing. He stared blankly at the dark fireplace.

"To protect Delaney," he added softly. He spoke more to himself than to Carcel, whispering the words like a sacred vow. "I need eyes inside that house and outside too. I need someone who can pull her out the very second things turn dangerous."