London, May 1885

Sabrina donned her gloves, prepared to leave the house, when a feminine voice halted her in her tracks.

"May I steal a moment of your time, Lady Grantchester? Or better still—might I accompany you on your stroll?"

Lady Caroline stood before her, a touch of anticipation lighting her gaze, as though she bore some matter of great importance that could not be shared within the confines of Westhill's walls known to grow ears and eyes when least expected. Sabrina had intended to request a carriage and make her way toward Damon Gray's estate, but, considering how rarely she encountered Caroline these days—let alone had the opportunity to converse with her—she acquiesced.

The pair soon set off along the usual path of Sabrina's walks, where they could glimpse Henry and Lenore in the garden. Their arms were linked, and they appeared deep in lively discourse. Sabrina's brow furrowed instinctively at the sight, prompting Caroline to inquire,

"Are you aware that Lady Amwych is now His Grace's secretary? I overheard him telling the dowager how very pleased he is with her penmanship."

Sabrina had indeed suspected as much, given Lenore's proximity to Henry of late. She quickened her pace, masking her displeasure, and preempted further probing by asking abruptly,

"Is my husband still intimate with you?"

Caroline did not hesitate before replying, "Henry has not visited my chambers for quite some time. In truth, he ceased his visitations even before Lady Amwych arrived at Westhill. Nor have I sought his company since."

It was an answer that surprised Sabrina, though she made no effort to conceal her skepticism. "I doubt you refrained out of respect for me," she said, her tone edged with prickliness.

The widow sighed, her hesitation palpable. "No, not entirely out of respect for you," she admitted, her voice wavering. "I did it out of... well, this is foolish, Lady Grantchester. I daresay you have no interest in my personal affairs!"

Sabrina's gaze sharpened. "And yet, you sought my company willingly, Lady Clarke."

Caroline's unease was evident, her hands fidgeting as if her thoughts rebelled against her tongue's attempts to give them voice. At last, she spoke, her words tumbling out in a hurried confession.

"I've met someone," the widow said at long last, causing Sabrina's brows to arch in yet another surprise that seemed to drop with every other sentence Caro uttered that day.

"A man, naturally," Caroline continued, her nerves plainly visible. "He is a baron, though his title matters little... but there are obstacles. This gentleman—he is younger than I. And he is so dear, so singularly precious, that I doubt he would... that he could wait for a barren old widow to emerge from her mourning."

The way Lady Caroline spoke, coupled with her downcast gaze, stirred a pang of compassion within Sabrina. Since the incident that nearly saw Caro expelled from the manor, the widow had kept to the periphery, avoiding the duchess's sight and earshot wherever possible. Their interactions had become minimal, perhaps out of gratitude for being allowed to remain at Westhill Manor... or perhaps because Lady Caroline seemed preoccupied with pursuing her own happiness elsewhere.

"Lady Caroline," Sabrina began softly, "would you like me—or the duke—to speak a word on your behalf to this gentleman?"

"Yes... No! Never!" Caroline exclaimed, waving her hands in an almost frantic dismissal. "All I require of you is to remind me what an insufferable and petty creature I am! These feelings... I do not want them! I have never felt such... such foolishness before, and I do not wish to endure the disappointment or humiliation of pining for a man who would never consider me!"

Sabrina tilted her head slightly, the lady's predicament sparking a gentle curiosity in her. "Have you caught his attention, or is he entirely unaware of your sentiments?" She pressed further, already feeling sympathy for her plight.

Caro gave a hesitant nod. "Perhaps... indeed, he often approaches me. But whenever he does, I become so nervous that I cannot utter a meaningful sentence! He must think me the greatest simpleton alive! In his presence, I feel as though I have regressed into that young, idealistic girl who first came to Westhill—so full of duty and dreams... And yet Providence knows I am no longer that girl. I no longer have dreams."

Sabrina watched as the widow released a heavy sigh and buried her face in her hands, frustration emanating from her every movement just as her every word.

"Forgive me, Your Grace," Caroline murmured, lowering her hands and glancing away. "I have no one with whom I may discuss such trifling matters. I fear I have already imposed too much upon your time."

With that, she turned, intending to depart, but a light touch on her arm arrested her step.

"If you would hear my opinion, Lady Clarke," Sabrina said, her voice firm yet kind, "I believe you should pursue this gentleman. Flirt with him shamelessly, secure his notice, and ensure that when your mourning period concludes, you are the one he chooses as his wife."

Caroline turned back to Sabrina, her eyes wide, her lips agape in disbelief, but the duchess pressed on, "Did you not once say that your late husband stole your best years from you? Does not your current situation present an opportunity to reclaim what was taken—to love and to be loved in the way you deserve? Take the risk, Lady Caroline, that is my advice. Otherwise, you may find yourself, years hence, wondering about all you might have had but forfeited to fear."

Even as she spoke these words, a cruel voice whispered within her mind: And behold, where has your own fear led you thus far? She swiftly silenced the thought, her resolve unyielding.

The women continued their stroll in silence, basking in the warm weather and gentle breeze. It seemed an ideal day to bury the hatchet at last, both focused on moving on with their lives, as was the season around them. Spring was in full bloom, with flowering trees and verdant shrubs, though their resplendence hinted at the quiet approach of summer.

"I suppose you're right," Caro said at length, her gaze steady on Sabrina's face as she turned to her. "My entire life was Andrew and revolved around Andrew... Did you know he was sent to Bedlam at one point?"

At Sabrina's arched brows, she clarified, "Bethlehem Royal Hospital—a rather infamous asylum for those whose minds are plagued by maladies beyond our understanding. They nearly sent Henry there as well."

"Why?" The duchess could not help but ask, her voice betraying her astonishment.

"That, I never discovered," Caro replied, her tone tinged with both mystery and resignation. "I only know of it because Andrew let it slip once. But you must understand, my husband was often under the influence of medicines, so I took it as mere balderdash at the time."

"Lord Giles was remarkably diplomatic when I asked whether Lord Andrew was a good man," Sabrina admitted, her voice laden with uncertainty. "I suspect he did not wish to disturb the calm waters of ignorance with truths unfit for my ears."

Caro chuckled, a dry and bitter sound. "You'll glean nothing from the old fox. He's far too well-practiced in the art of saying much yet revealing nothing, master diplomat he is. But Andrew..." She hesitated, as if grappling with the weight of her own words. "Andrew was a frightening man. Unpredictable. He would often speak to people who weren't there, and his eyes..." She shuddered. "I've never seen anyone with eyes so utterly devoid of life.

"And when I lost our child, he didn't shed a single tear," she continued, her voice growing quieter. "It came as no surprise to most of the family when he took his life those months ago. The only surprise was that he managed to endure for so long."

Sabrina halted abruptly, her gaze fixed on Caro's face, searching for any hint of jest or exaggeration. Yet there was no trace of insincerity. She recalled, too, Henry's reticence when she had inquired about Andrew. Perhaps the truth was indeed too grave to share.

Noticing the disbelief on the duchess's face, Caro let out another mirthless laugh. "I see you were not aware, but that's the way of the Clarkes, Your Grace. An outsider has little hope of fitting in with the family unless they become one of them entirely, no matter what Lord Giles might say about the family 'warming to newcomers'. Lady Regina will see to it that you become something you never wished to be."

"The dowager has been suspiciously quiet toward me of late," Sabrina admitted.

"Then be wary, Your Grace, for it is quiet before the storm," Caro cautioned. "She may well be orchestrating something behind your back."

Sabrina felt unease to envelop her soul. How on earth was she to guard herself against a mother-in-law so much older and infinitely more adept at schemes? She could not remain tethered to her husband at all times—not that she would, given the discord between them. Still, there was one question that had been gnawing at her mind, and she could hold it back no longer.

"Lady Clarke, pray forgive my insensitivity, but might I inquire whether your husband... harmed himself by design?" Sabrina asked, her gaze intent upon Caro's face.

"He did not," Caro replied without hesitation. Then, as though struck by a sudden memory, she added, "At least, not during our marriage. However, I recall seeing scars upon his body—whether they were self-inflicted or otherwise, I cannot say. Andrew never disclosed their origin."

Sabrina's brow furrowed as she began piecing together fragments of the grand puzzle that was her husband, though many remained elusive. The relationship between Henry and his brother was growing ever fathomable, though shaded in increasingly dark hues.

"I owe you an apology, Your Grace," Caro interjected, breaking the silence. "I have been quite a bitch to you, as you say. You are... rather different from what I had thought of you. So, let me offer you one last piece of advice: do not let any of the Clarkes dictate your feelings, your words, or your actions. And while Henry may be difficult to love, I have never once thought of him as beyond hope—unlike his brother."

"Thank you, Lady Clarke," Sabrina replied with a nod, her voice imbued with genuine gratitude. "Whether my husband is a lost cause remains to be seen."

The thought hung heavy in her mind. How was she supposed to pry him open, to draw forth the man buried beneath his impossible defenses? The task seemed insurmountable at present, though she resolved to seize any opportunity that might arise to press him further, damn it all.

It would also demand the conquering of her own fears, no small feat in itself.

Caro nodded in return, and the two women soon parted ways as they reached the gardens. Sabrina was impatient to get into the carriage and leave immediately for her planned destination, although she couldn't help but linger her gaze on Henry and Lenore–although her suspicion and curiosity were both tingling, it seemed that the time was not right to press upon her husband's infernal resolve; after all, Henry's writing duties were covered, his gaze was basking in his newest mistress' décolletage and his sac was empty, or was it not?

At that very moment, a third figure joined them, revealed to be Miss Moira Haggarty. After the requisite courtesies were exchanged, Moira glanced about and immediately recognized Sabrina. With a wave, she attempted to beckon her over—a gesture Sabrina returned out of sheer decorum as the pair turned their attention in her direction. However, the instant Sabrina saw Moira taking a step toward her, she hastened into the house, unwilling to be detained further.

Verily, if anyone dared to obstruct her purpose now, she felt certain she would resort to violence!

Little did Sabrina know that at the end of her determined journey, no good awaited her that day... yet, when she informed the butler she would not be returning for the midday repast, she offered no explanation nor details of her journey. The elder servant merely nodded with a knowing expression, as if she were better off anywhere but the manor, which the household staff quietly referred to as a madhouse.

The carriage journey to Berkshire Downs spanned three hours, and while Sabrina took interest in the pastoral beauty of the landscape—the sprawling fields of verdant green, punctuated by oakwood patches scattered across the chalk hills—her mind could not help but wonder just how secluded Damon Gray's estate really was, according to Jason Gray's revelations.

Even the coachman's expression betrayed unease as he assisted her alight. "Are you certain, Your Grace, that this is the correct estate?" he asked, his brows furrowed in doubt.

The house wasn't as grand as Westhill, on the contrary, but its condition suggested neglect and that the owner's pockets must have been very deep and empty. The windows were darkened, the gardens overgrown, and the whole air was tense with a strange unease that served as a forewarning. At first glance, it seemed as if whoever lived here had left long ago!

"It must be," Sabrina replied resolutely, stepping forward toward the entrance.

"Take care, Your Grace," the coachman called after her, his voice tinged with apprehension.

An ominous chill coursed through her, yet she pressed on undeterred. Reaching the door, she took hold of the knocker—a rather grotesque depiction of a satyr's head—and let it fall sharply against the wood. When no response came, she struck it again, this time with greater force.

Suddenly, the door creaked open to reveal a corpulent, elderly mistress garbed in shabby grey clothing. Her hair, somewhat disheveled, bore signs of recent exertion, and her flour-dusted hands suggested she had been interrupted in the midst of some household task. Her small, beady eyes scrutinized Sabrina from head to toe, as though struggling to place this unexpected visitor within any category of Mr. Gray's usual acquaintances.

"Apologies, madam," the woman said at last, her voice carrying a note of kindness laced with genuine surprise. "I was unaware our master was expecting a guest today." She stepped aside, opening the door fully. "Do come in, m'lady," she added, gesturing for Sabrina to enter.

"My apologies," said Sabrina softly as the door closed behind her with a faint squeak. "I thought I might pay a surprise visit."

The maid appeared to consider this briefly, murmuring, "A surprise visit, m'lady? Well, um, I suppose you might wait for the master in the drawing room, then."

Sabrina followed the elderly maid down the corridor into the designated room. She recoiled the moment her heel touched the wooden floor, which let out an ominous creak. Her gaze fell upon a settee in the centre of the room, and her expression soured with dismay. Once, it may have been upholstered in a deep blue fabric, but now it lay cloaked in a heavy layer of dust, its colour turned to grey. Worse still, the edges showed other signs of neglect, with the fabric at the bottom chewed away in places, presumably by mice.

"Not there, m'lady," the maid said quickly, noting Sabrina's hesitant intention to sit on the ghastly piece of furniture. Producing a cloth from her apron, she hastily dusted a nearby wooden chair and gestured toward it. "Here, if you please."

"Would her ladyship care for some tea? I'm in the midst of preparing a meal for the little ones, you see," the maid added, her tone apologetic as she clasped her hands together.

"Oh, there's no need to trouble yourself on my account," Sabrina replied kindly.

"And whom shall I announce to the master upon his return?"

Sabrina hesitated a moment before replying, "A... very good friend."

The maid raised a brow, touching her chin thoughtfully. "A very good friend, you say? Hm... perhaps the drawing room isn't quite the proper place after all," she murmured before motioning for Sabrina to follow her once more.

This time, they stopped at a room near the end of the corridor. The maid opened the door to reveal a master bedroom dominated by a large, canopied bed. Unlike the drawing room, this space showed clear signs of habitation, with well-maintained furniture and a lingering air of domesticity. The contrast between the two rooms was stark, although it made little sense to Sabrina at first to be brought here, to the most intimate place of all.

"I shall bring you some tea," the maid said with a faint smile before hurrying off toward the kitchen.

Sabrina glanced about the room, but then dismissed the maid's decision as her being scatterbrained and ashamed of the dilapidated state of the drawing room, pushing the dark thoughts to the deep recesses of her mind. Though dressed in mourning, Sabrina believed it must have been clear that she was of noble standing, though in her belief, Damon, too, claimed noble connections, being the grandson of a duke. Hence, the poor state of his home unsettled her deeply, clashing with her high expectations. Still, she reminded herself that she was here for a very different purpose and decided not to dwell on the state of the house any longer than necessary.

She exited the bedroom and returned to the corridor, where her gaze fell upon a staircase leading to the upper floor. However, its fragile appearance, with several broken steps, rendered it clearly unsafe for use. Dismissing it, she swiftly turned her attention to the doors lining the corridor, inspecting each room behind them in turn.

At last, it was the sixth door that revealed an unexpected sight: three children playing on an old carpet in the middle of the room. Three pairs of golden eyes turned toward her, startled by the sudden appearance of a stranger on the threshold.

To Sabrina, they resembled three wary kittens: the eldest, a boy, could not have been more than ten; the middle child, another boy, appeared six or seven, and the youngest, a girl, no older than four, clutched a small toy in her hand. All bore small earrings—tiny silver rings that matched their papa's, except the girl's had little pearls on them.

The resemblance to Damon was undeniable—their raven-black hair, their golden eyes, their features—it was as though his bloodline had stamped itself indelibly upon them. Sabrina recalled Damon's boast about the strength of his seed, and for once, she found herself inclined to agree wholeheartedly.

"Apologies, I did not mean to startle you," she said kindly, stepping further into the room. "I am visiting your papa."

"Are you a client, then?" the middle boy inquired boldly, earning a sharp hiss from the eldest.

Sabrina's brow furrowed at the question, but she had no time to respond before the little girl toddled over, reaching out to clutch the hem of her skirt with tiny fingers.

"Pwetty," she said with a smile as she crumpled the fabric in her hand. "Othew pwetty ladies do no talk to us."

At the mention of other pretty ladies, Sabrina felt a chill settle over her. Cold sweat gathered on her brow as the meaning behind the girl's words began to coalesce in her mind, though much remained elusive.

The children's clothes were threadbare and old—a stark contrast to the fine garments Damon wore, his coats of the finest fabric and his extravagant hats adorned with feathers to display a wealth that now seemed a hollow facade. A gnarly lie to add to the growing list of his sins; one of the many he had spun for her thus far.

Her throat tightened with simmering anger, though she forced herself to conceal it from the children. Their innocent faces only deepened her resolve to remain composed as she now clearly recognised the obvious negligence on Damon's part.

"Where is your papa?" she asked, her tone gentle but probing, carefully watching their reactions.

The girl and the eldest boy merely shrugged, but the middle child piped up with a nonchalant, "Who knows? Feels like he went to America. We don't see him much, you know?"

"Hush!" the eldest boy snapped, shooting a reproving glare at his brother. "We're not supposed to talk about papa's business!"

"And your mama?" Sabrina pressed, her voice softening further, though her chest felt heavy with a not so unfamiliar mix of pity and rage.

Now, all three pairs of small shoulders shrugged in unison.

"We no see hew long time, she gone since my biwth,"the little girl said, clutching Sabrina's hand with surprising earnestness. "Will you be ouw mama?"

A sudden pang struck the chords of the duchess' heart, reverberating with such force it made her head spin. The blatant neglect and ignorance surrounding these children were almost too much to bear, particularly from a man she had once deemed better than this.

But why? Why had she expected more of him? She should have known better and trusted her instincts.

Before Sabrina could muster a reply, Damon appeared as if conjured from thin air to save her from any more knowledge gleaned from his progeny. With a practiced ease, he lifted the girl into his arms, twirling her briefly in the air before setting her down with a laugh.

"It's time for your luncheon, little ones," he announced in a jovial tone. "Go on to the dining room now. Lady Grantchester and I have matters to discuss."

He pressed a kiss to the child's forehead and watched as his children obediently filed out, their curious glances lingering on their father and the unfamiliar lady. Once they were gone, Damon's demeanor shifted sharply. His gaze turned steely, and Sabrina caught the flicker of anger in his golden eyes. Without a word, he seized her arm and marched her back to the bedroom, where he unceremoniously flung her onto the bed, his temper boiling over.

"What in God's name are you doing here?" he demanded, his hands settling on his hips in a stance of affronted authority. "I've not yet told my children about you!"

Sabrina rose swiftly, her composure barely intact, to meet him face to face. "As if you ever would!" she retorted sharply. "How is it that a father parades himself as a fine gentleman of the ton—pardon, a fucking peacock in all his splendor—while his own children are left in scruffy clothing? How is it that this house looks mere days from collapse? Where are your servants, Damon? Why does it seem you are bankrupt?!"

His expression twisted into one of dismay, his jaw tightening. "And pray tell," he bit out, "who are you to march into my home and lecture me on the care of my estate, my children? Since when has the state of this house become your concern? Who do you presume yourself to be—my wife and the mother of my progeny?!"

"No," Sabrina replied, her voice soft yet resolute. "But when faced with such a clear case of neglect, I cannot remain silent. And the dreadful thought that you—" she faltered for a moment before continuing, her frustration breaking through. "That you're selling your favors under the very roof where your children reside, where they live and breathe..."

She shook her head, taking a deep, shuddering breath before pressing on. "You are a prostitute, are you not? That explains why your children see so little of you, why you maintain the appearance of a rich gentleman while your household crumbles around you. That is why your maid had no hesitation in putting me in your bedroom when I claimed to be your dear friend. And yet," she added with a bitter edge, "one must wonder—where does the money go, Damon? For it surely does not go toward this house or the welfare of those within it!"

Damon chuckled derisively, his mocking gaze fixed upon her. "And who are you, Lady Sabrina Grantchester? A woman who ventured to England for some misguided reason, only to discover that her new life—husband included—was very far from ideal. So, the next logical step for you was to spread your thighs for other men to fill the void you carry within. Yet, when one fool among them dared to fall for your supposed charms, you chose scepticism and clung to the buffoon of a husband who doesn't even deserve you. A demented whore in the comfort of her own domain—that is what you are!"

Sabrina stared at him, stunned by the venom in his words. Every man, it seemed, harboured an ugly side, and her lover was now laying his bare with shocking abandon. It was no wonder that a great wave of anger swept through her, consuming every fibre of her being, and before she could think, her hand rose and delivered a resounding slap to his cheek, causing his head to jerk sharply to the side.

"I suppose I should get used to this," he muttered, turning back to face her, his expression unrepentant as he grasped her wrist just as she attempted to leave the room. "We are not yet finished, I assure you!"

Before she could protest, he pulled her into his arms with a force that overpowered her resistance.

"Oh, I am very much finished with you," she hissed, struggling against his firm hold. "The thought that I ever considered you better—despite my instincts warning me you were nothing but damnable trouble! You have done nothing but exploit me, and you do not even know who I truly am. Good fucking riddance!"

Damon sneered, his grip unyielding. "You chose me because you cannot deny the pull I have on you, just as I cannot give you up. I have already spiralled into obsession for you, I'm afraid. Do you know what I did last week, Sabrina? I began searching for a way to hasten my divorce, so I could offer myself to you freely—without the burden of a ring upon my finger. Would you seek the same, huh? No, I doubt it. You want to eat your cake and keep it whole, do you not?"

Sabrina's head shook wildly, her voice rising in defiance. "No! Why on earth would I seek divorce, Damon? To marry you and meet the same fate as your wife? Missing—or worse—lying at the bottom of the Thames? What have you done to her, you reprehensible rotter?" she cried out with fury.

At the implied accusation that he had been the cause of his wife's demise, Damon's face twisted in visible anguish, and his grip on Sabrina slackened. She saw, for the first time, how deeply her words had struck him, and for a fleeting moment, she almost regretted them. Yet the memory of his fabrications and half-truths lingered too vividly for her to entirely rescind her remark.

Damon opened his mouth as if to offer a reply, but before he could utter a word, a sudden and thunderous crash from above momentarily dulled the tension between them. The noise was so jarring that even Sabrina's ears caught it clearly, though it was unlike anything she could readily identify.

"What was that?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly as her eyes sought his for reassurance.

But before Damon could respond, the very ceiling above their heads gave way with a deafening roar, collapsing into the room in a storm of dust and debris.