Page 196 of Of Iron and Moonlight

“Lemierre has an uncanny talent for surviving.” It was the third man.

Kora tilted her head, searching her memory for the voice.

“You need not remind me,” Duskmere said bitterly. “He was meant to be in the carriage with the rest of the derWhittes. Meant to die this summer on a hunt. Yet he still lives. Breathes. Leads the charge against our army.”

Every ounce of air left Kora’s lungs. Duskmere had stood in Emberglade’s halls with smiles and courtesies. All the while, he had arranged the slaughter of the derWhitte family. Had made an attempt on Duncan’s life. Her hand rose instinctively to her sternum, steadying the tremor flaring beneath her ribs.

“His fortune will fail eventually,” Firrigan said coolly.

“If not fortune,” the third man offered, “then leverage.”

“What leverage?” Duskmere asked.

“A threat.” He paused. “Or blackmail.”

“Blackmail is useless. House derWhitte is beloved. Wolmer would dismiss it.”

“Then a threat,” the man replied. “He is devoted to that pretty wife of his. We take her. Hold her. Duncan derWhitte will bend to our will.”

The passage seemed to close in around her as Kora realized who the third man was. The memory of his hand near her cheek, his breath at her lips, turned her stomach. She understood then, he had been on his way to meet Firrigan and Ernst when she encountered him before.

Duskmere gave a dismissive snort. “Seraphine believes it is a passing infatuation. She expects him back in her bed by winter’s end.”

“I would not wager on that,” said Sabine derKyral. “I saw the way he looked at her at your daughter’s wedding. Lemierre is a man undone by love.”

A pause.

“It may be worth testing,” Firrigan said at last. “If he does not care, we lose nothing. If he does, we gain a leash. A behaving duke.”

Kora withdrew from the lattice, moved through the passage, and sealed the panel carefully before slipping from Seraphine’s room. Only when the Duskmere apartments disappeared around the bend did she lengthen her stride. She covered ground quickly, calm enough to resemble purpose rather than flight, the image of an unbothered duchess intact.

At the derWhitte apartments, her key struck the lock twice before finding purchase and turning. She cursed herself for dismissing the staff and forced herself to think through the panic. What was the best course of action?

The loosened floorboard beneath her writing desk lifted easily. She slid the velvet-wrapped dagger and the charred scrap into the hollow, pressing until the seam vanished. Then she forced her hand steady enough to write a note to Merrick. Just in case.

The wax seal went down unevenly, a thin spill at its edge where her grip faltered. She left the note in plain sight. Merrick would find it. He had to.

She checked the doors again. Bolts secure. Latches firm. The casement window remained slightly unlatched for Merrick alone. At last, she sank into the chair near the hearth, where the last embers breathed fading warmth against her forearms.

A knock sounded.

“Who is it?” she called.

“Your Grace,” a quiet voice answered. “Laundry.”

“I am unwell,” Kora replied. “Please return tomorrow.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

The footsteps retreated.

She let her head fall back against the chair. All she had to do was stay unseen until Merrick came. Until evening. A few hours.

Another knock. Light. Polite.

“Who is it?”

“Your Grace.” Terrice’s voice. “You left so suddenly. I wanted to be sure you are well.”