“Wales.” His uncle repeated the word as if Oliver had announced a visit to the moon. “You disappeared for days to go toWales.”
“James Hartley is dead.”
The Duke’s expression shifted. James had visited Saxton Castle often enough over the years that even his cold uncle recognized the name. “Hartley? What happened?”
“He was murdered.” Oliver watched his uncle’s face carefully. “The Earl of Penharrow had him killed and made it look like a riding accident. James sent me a letter before he died telling me the truth and asking me to do something about it.”
“So naturally you charged off to Wales alone, like a green lieutenant with something to prove.” The Duke’s voice held equal measures of exasperation and something that, in another man, might have been concern. “And did you? Do something about it?”
“I retrieved a witness. A woman Penharrow had held captive at his hunting lodge.”
The silence that followed was a different quality entirely. Oliver watched his uncle process this, watched the calculation behind those sharp eyes.
“A woman,” the Duke said finally, his voice careful.
“Her name is Megan. He took her as a child. She’s been his prisoner for over fourteen years.” Oliver kept his voice even, though the words still burned like acid in his throat. “She witnessed his crimes. She can corroborate everything James died trying to expose.”
The Duke leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers in a gesture Oliver recognized as his thinking pose. Outside, the wind moved through the castle grounds, rattling the study windows. Finally, his uncle spoke.
“I know Penharrow.”
Oliver stilled. “What?”
“He’s not a solid acquaintance, but I have met him.” TheDuke’s expression was closed, careful. “He’s a man of considerable influence in Wales. Well-connected. Wealthy enough that certain doors remain open to him that perhaps shouldn’t.” A pause. “And dangerous enough that wise men look the other way.”
“Wise men,” Oliver repeated softly.
“Don’t take that tone with me, boy. I’m stating facts, not admiring them.” The Duke stood, moving to the fireplace. “What exactly do you want from me?”
“Guards posted tonight, at the perimeter, the gates, the east wing where Megan and Webb are quartered.” Oliver rose as well, too tired to sit while he argued. “Penharrow’s men tracked us across half of Wales. He won’t simply accept that she’s gone. He’ll come for her.”
“Then let him.” His uncle’s voice was quiet, flat. “Oliver, think clearly for a moment. What exactly do you hope to achieve here? You have a woman with no family, no standing, whose only value is as a witness to crimes that happened in Wales, against a peer who has the money and influence to bury any testimony she might offer before it reaches a courtroom.” He turned from the fire. “Give her money for safe passage. Set her up somewhere quiet in the north and let Penharrow go.”
The words dropped into the room like stones into still water.
Oliver stared at his uncle and felt something crystalize in his chest—cold and hard and absolute.
“Let him go,” Oliver repeated.
“Yes.”
“The man who murdered James Hartley.”
“A man who could destroy this family if you make an enemy of him.” The Duke’s voice didn’t rise, but the edge in it was unmistakable. “James Hartley was a fine young man and I’m sorry for his loss, but he is gone, Oliver. Nothing you do will bring him back. And whatever this woman suffered?—”
“Whatever she suffered?” Oliver’s voice was dangerously quiet.
“—is not your responsibility to avenge. You are the heir to this dukedom. You have obligations that stretch beyond your personal sense of honor. I will not have you jeopardizing three hundred years of this family’s standing for a woman of no consequence and a dead man’s vendetta.”
Oliver looked at his uncle for a long moment. This man who had raised him without warmth, who had molded him into a suitable heir, who had measured every choice Oliver ever made against the Saxton name and found it wanting.
“A man of no consequence,” Oliver said. “That’s what you called him, isn’t it? Years ago, when James first came here with me. A baron’s third son with no prospects and too much idealism. You thought I’d grow out of the friendship.”
“I thought you’d understand that sentiment is a luxury men in our position cannot afford.”
“James understood my position better than any man alive.” The words came out rough, honest, past the careful control Oliver had been maintaining. “He knew exactly what it was to be the heir. The obligation, the loneliness, the particular misery of being surrounded by people who see only the title. He never looked at me and saw the Marquess of Astor. He sawme. And I will avenge him.” Oliver’s jaw tightened. “I will not let his death mean nothing.”
“Noble.” The Duke’s voice was cool. “And foolish. What about the woman? What do you really know about her beyond what she’s told you? If the rumors are to be believed, I suspect she’s Penharrow’s wh?—”
