Page 111 of The Duchess Curse

“I’m sorry, no.” Diana put both hands at the small of her back and stretched.

It couldn’t be that easy. “The message. What is it?”

Diana blushed. “It’s odd. And rather personal. I don’t think she meant to leave a message originally. I told her what I told you. That I have traced her father’s family back six generations to the first earl. And that the Pottingers have excelled at the art of the arranged marriage. But I also told her that after you left the other day, I started looking into the… barren branches of the Pottinger family tree, children that died early or produced no offspring. I told her what I’d found—there have been a horrendous number of unexpected deaths. The marriages that aren’t arranged seem to end badly.”

Bran cursed. That little finding would only fuel Guin’s fear.

“There’s a curious pattern, too,” Diana said. “Up until four generations ago, marriages were not so lucrative and tragedies were not so plentiful. Something must have changed though because at a certain point, every marriage is a gain, and any marriage that is not… Frankly, it seems rather sinister.”

“I agree. What was her message?”

Diana pulled a folded slip of paper from her pocket and handed it over. “I suggested she write it down.” Her blush returned.

Bran took the note and unfolded it, read.

My Bran,

I hope you hate me for leaving. That hate might keep you safe until I return with a cure. When I do, I plan on atoning, earning my forgiveness. I learned how best to earn it from you. I wish I did not love you. And I am overjoyed that I do.

Your Guin

He refolded the paper and slipped it into his waistcoat pocket, close to his heart. “Thank you for delivering this.”

Diana waved away his gratitude. “You and Guin helped me when I needed it. I am more than happy to return the favor.”

“How are you going to find Lady Guinevere?” Temple asked.

Was he going to search for her? She’d told him to wait, to fill his days with hating her. A thing he could never do. He was nothing if not her shadow, and he would follow her everywhere, even into death.

“I’m not sure I can find her,” Bran said. “I’ve been to the docks, to everyone she trusts, and there’s not been a single sighting of her.”

“Maybe you’re looking in the wrong places. People she trusts are more likely to help her than to tell on her.”

One of Bran’s many problems.

“But,” Grant continued, “you’re neighbors with men who own railways and ships and who owe her no loyalty at all. But the duke… everyone always courts the good regard of a duke, fears his political influence more than another man’s muscle. It might be better worth your time to talk to them.”

The alchemist was right. Bran might not be able to find Guin hiding in the shadows. But the duke could find her in the light of day.

26

A SINGLE SNOWY MORNING

Guin tapped a finger against a window so old the glass was warped. She traced the circle within the wooden frame and watched the snow fall. She’d only gotten as far as Reading before it had begun to come down like rain—fast and thick and hampering all travel.

The mail coach she’d been on had stopped at the Hestia coaching inn and stayed put, waiting for greater visibility that did not seem likely to arrive anytime soon. Her stomach rumbled. She was hungry but nervous, and that had kept her from eating much or leaving her room for the past two days. Not enough space or time between her and Bran.

She wasn’t naïve. He would come for her. It was only a matter of time. The snow would slow him, though it slowed her, too. He had waited for her long enough, with determined patience, and he would not wait any longer. Truthfully… She didn’t want him to wait. She wanted to discover the cure and save him on her own. She wanted to cut down the danger before it reached him. She wanted him to heal.

But she wanted him beside her, too. She’d return to London after this trip, check his wound, share ideas, then they could set off together—wherever they needed to go to save him. To save them.

Another grumble from her belly, but she tried to focus on her notes. A list of her memories, a recounting of her family’s story. Everything she’d ever known about the curse. And some new information she’d recently acquired.

That’s why she’d headed west from London. Bath might offer answers or evidence. At the very least, returning to her childhood home would remind her why it was important to wall off her heart, to not hope for love, not fight for it.

Silly old fears.

That old lesson was too threadbare to wear now. Or her heart had grown too large. Whatever the cause, the fear no longer fit the same way. Oh, it was still there, but she wanted to fight it tooth and nail, dagger and pistol and potion.