MY FIANCÉ TRADED ME TO THE ‘ROTTING’ DUKE—HE NEVER EXPECTED I’D BECOME HIS DUCHESS P2
Catherine looked at him fully then. She really looked at the man who had been reduced to rumor and scandal, who had been painted as monstrous when he was simply suffering, and who had been alone in this vast estate with an illness no one understood and enemies who wanted him gone. And she made a decision.
“I stay,” Catherine said firmly. “Not for Victor. Not even for you. For myself.”
Fabian’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Explain.”
“If I return now, I go back to a man who lied to me—who used me as a pawn in whatever game he is playing. If I stay here, at least I am making my own choice.” She met his gaze directly. “And perhaps I can be useful in ways he didn’t intend.”
Fabian studied her for a long moment, and Catherine could feel the weight of his assessment. He was deciding whether to trust her, whether to believe her. Finally, he spoke. “You may stay. But understand this, Miss Foster: I will not use you the way he did. You are not an asset to be spent.”
Catherine’s chest tightened unexpectedly. When was the last time someone had spoken to her as if she mattered beyond what she could provide? “Then what am I?” she asked softly.
Fabian stood slowly, moving to the window where moonlight painted his features in shades of silver and shadow. “You were not sent here for me,” he said again, his voice carrying a weight she did not yet understand, “but perhaps you were meant to arrive anyway.”
Catherine did not know what to say to that, so she said nothing at all. And in the silence that followed, something began that neither of them had planned.
Three weeks earlier, Catherine Foster had believed she understood her place in the world. She sat in Victor Stevens’s study, her fingers flying across the pages of his latest correspondence, organizing chaos into order the way she always did. Around her, evidence of her usefulness lay scattered across every surface: ledgers she had balanced, letters she had drafted, and social connections she had maintained on his behalf.
Victor entered the room with the confident stride of a man who had never questioned his own importance. He was handsome in a conventional way—well-dressed, well-spoken—the kind of man society expected women to feel fortunate to marry.
“Catherine,” he said, his tone warm in the way it always was when he needed something. “How are the arrangements for the Hawthornes’ dinner coming along?”
“Completed this morning,” Catherine replied without looking up. “I sent your regrets along with a gift that will ensure you remain in their favor despite your absence.”
Victor smiled. “Brilliant. What would I do without you?”
The question was rhetorical. They both knew the answer. Catherine had been seventeen when Victor first noticed her at a country gathering. He hadn’t noticed her for her beauty, though she was pretty enough in an understated way, nor for her family connections, which were respectable but unremarkable. He had noticed her because she had solved a seating arrangement disaster that would have embarrassed the host, doing it so smoothly that no one even realized there had been a problem.
“You have a remarkable mind,” he had told her that night. “It would be wasted on anyone who did not appreciate it.”
She had been young enough to believe that was a compliment. Now, at twenty-four, she understood what he had really meant. Her mind was remarkable because it served his purposes. It was valuable because it made him appear more competent than he was. She was appreciated because she was useful, but useful was better than nothing. Useful meant security, a home, and a place in society. For a woman with no fortune and modest connections, “useful” was the best she could hope for. Or so she had convinced herself.
“I need to discuss something with you,” Victor said, settling into the chair across from her desk. His tone shifted slightly—still pleasant, but with an edge of calculation she had learned to recognize.
Catherine set down her pen. “Oh, of course.”
“There is an opportunity that has presented itself, one that could be quite advantageous for both of us.”
Catherine’s stomach tightened. Victor’s opportunities always required something from her. “What kind of opportunity?”
“You are aware of Duke Fabian Osborne, I presume?”
Catherine frowned. “The recluse? I have heard the rumors, if that’s what you mean.”
“The rumors are useful,” Victor said carefully. “They have isolated him from society and made him desperate.”
“Desperate for what?”
Victor leaned forward, his expression almost gentle. “Companionship, comfort, someone to ease his suffering as his condition worsens.”
Catherine’s blood went cold. “Victor, what are you saying?”
“I am saying that the Duke has expressed interest in having a woman of quality attend to him during his final months. Someone intelligent, capable, but discreet.” He paused. “Someone like you.”
The words landed like stones in still water, sending ripples of horror through Catherine’s chest. “You want me to go to him?”
“I want you to help him,” Victor corrected smoothly. “To provide comfort to a dying man. Surely that is not so terrible.”
Catherine stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. “He is a stranger, a man I have never met! And you expect me to simply go live with him?”
“Temporarily,” Victor said, rising as well. “Just until the situation resolves itself.”
The euphemism made Catherine’s skin crawl. “Until he dies, you mean?”
“Catherine,” Victor’s voice took on a note of patient condescension. “You are making this more dramatic than it needs to be. The Duke is unwell. He has been abandoned by society. This is an act of charity.”
“Charity?” Catherine repeated the word like it tasted of ash. “What do you gain from this charity, Victor?”
For a moment, his mask slipped just a fraction—just enough for Catherine to see the cold calculation underneath. “The Duke’s estate borders land I have been attempting to acquire. His death would simplify certain negotiations.” He reached for her hand, but she pulled away. “This arrangement benefits everyone. The Duke receives comfort, I secure a business advantage, and you demonstrate the kind of selflessness that will reflect well on both of us when we marry.”
Catherine stared at him. “You have already agreed to this, haven’t you?”
Victor’s silence was answer enough.
“You gave me to him without asking,” Catherine whispered. “Like I am property to be lent out.”
“Don’t be hysterical.” Victor’s tone hardened. “You are my fiancé. Your reputation is tied to mine. When I tell you this is important, you trust me.”
“And if I refuse?”
The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Victor studied her carefully, and Catherine saw him calculating, weighing what leverage he still held and what threats might prove most effective.
“If you refuse,” he said slowly, “then you force me to reconsider our arrangement. Your family depends on the security our engagement provides. Your mother’s health requires the physicians I have been funding. Your brother’s position at my firm could easily be given to someone more grateful.” He paused. “Refuse me this, Catherine, and you refuse them security. Do you really want to be responsible for that?”
Catherine’s hands trembled. She pressed them flat against her sides, refusing to let him see how deeply his words cut. He had never loved her; she had known that in some abstract way, but she had believed he at least valued her and cared for her comfort—that he would not actively harm her. But this was harm: deliberate, calculated, and wrapped in the language of opportunity and charity.
“How long?” she asked quietly.
Victor relaxed slightly, sensing victory. “A few months at most. The physicians give him until autumn.”
“And you want me to do nothing?”
Victor moved closer, lowering his voice as if sharing a confidence. “I want you to be kind and compassionate, but not overly helpful. Let nature take its course. The Duke’s condition is beyond saving. Any attempt to interfere would only prolong his suffering.”
Catherine looked at the man she had agreed to marry, or saw him clearly for perhaps the first time. “When do I leave?”
“Three days,” Victor said, relief evident in his tone. “I will make all the arrangements. You need only pack what you require.”
Catherine nodded mechanically. She did not trust herself to speak, nor did she trust what might emerge if she opened her mouth. Victor leaned in to kiss her forehead—a gesture of affection that now felt like ownership.
“You are doing the right thing,” he murmured against her hair. “I promise you will be rewarded for this.”
Catherine closed her eyes and said nothing.
That night, alone in her small room, she stared at the ceiling and felt something inside her break. Not loudly, not dramatically—just a quiet fracture, like ice cracking beneath weight it was never meant to bear. She had spent seven years being useful to Victor Stevens, seven years solving his problems, managing his affairs, and making him appear brilliant to everyone who mattered. And when it came time for him to demonstrate even a fraction of the loyalty she had shown him, he had traded her away without hesitation.
The engagement ring on her finger felt suddenly too tight, too heavy. Catherine pulled it off slowly and set it on the bedside table. She did not put it back on.
Three days later, a carriage arrived to take her to Blackthorn Estate. Victor did not come to see her off. He sent a note instead, reminding her to write regularly and to remember his instructions. Catherine folded the note carefully and left it on her bed. She would go to the Duke. She would honor the arrangement because she had no other choice. But she would not honor Victor’s intentions. If he wanted the Duke dead, then Catherine would do everything in her power to keep him alive—not out of kindness, not out of charity, but out of spite.
Catherine woke on her third morning at Blackthorn Estate to discover that the Duke had not summoned her. The realization settled over her breakfast like frost over glass. She had expected to be called to his chambers, to be put to use in whatever capacity he deemed necessary. Instead, she sat alone in the guest wing’s small dining room, attended by a maid who avoided eye contact and spoke only when directly addressed.
“Is the Duke unwell this morning?” Catherine finally asked.
The maid, a young woman named Bonnie, glanced toward the door as if checking for listeners. “His Grace is always unwell, miss, but he rose early and is in his study.”
“Does he require anything?”
Bonnie’s expression was carefully neutral. “His Grace did not mention you, miss.”
The words should not have stung. Catherine had no particular desire to be needed by yet another man. Yet the dismissal felt pointed, as if Fabian Osborne was making it clear that whatever Victor had intended by sending her, he would not participate. Catherine set down her teacup with more force than necessary.
“Where is his study?”
“Miss, I don’t think—”
“Where?”
Bonnie’s resistance crumbled under Catherine’s steady gaze. “East wing, third door past the portrait gallery.”
Catherine rose, smoothing her skirts with hands that trembled slightly from something that might have been anger or might have been determination. She had not asked to be here; she had not volunteered for this strange arrangement. But if she was going to be trapped in this estate, she would not sit quietly in a corner waiting to be acknowledged.
The east wing was darker than the rest of the house, with heavy curtains drawn against the morning light. Catherine’s footsteps echoed against marble floors as she passed beneath portraits of stern-faced ancestors who seemed to judge her presumption. She found the study door closed but not locked. She knocked once, firmly.
“Enter.”
Fabian sat behind a massive oak desk covered in papers, ledgers, and correspondence. He looked up as she entered, his expression shifting from concentration to something more guarded. “Miss Foster.”
“Your Grace.” Catherine remained standing just inside the doorway. “I was told you did not require my presence this morning.”
“I did not.”
“Or yesterday afternoon.”
“No.”
“Or the evening before that.”
Fabian set down his pen carefully. “Was I to catalog my negligence?”
“I am trying to understand my purpose here,” Catherine said, her voice sharper than she intended. “You allowed me to stay, but you have given me nothing to do. No tasks, no responsibilities. I am simply existing in your home like an ornamental vase.”
“Would you prefer I put you to work?”
“I would prefer clarity.”
Fabian leaned back in his chair, studying her with that same intense focus that made Catherine feel like a puzzle he was trying to solve. “The truth is, Miss Foster, I do not know what to do with you.”
The admission surprised her. “Explain.”
“You were sent here under false pretenses. I did not request you, and I have no intention of using you the way your fiancé intended.” He paused. “But I also cannot simply send you back—not when doing so would deliver you into the hands of a man who clearly views you as a tool to be deployed at will.”
Catherine’s throat tightened. “So I am trapped here out of your sense of obligation?”
“You are here because I refuse to be another man who treats you as disposable,” Fabian’s voice was quiet but firm. “But that does not mean I know what you are meant to do with your days.”
Catherine moved further into the room, her hands clasping and unclasping at her sides. “I am good at organization, at problem-solving, and at seeing patterns others miss. Victor valued those skills, at least. I could help you with your estate business if you would allow it.”
“I manage my own affairs.”
“Then let me help you manage your health.”
Fabian’s expression shuttered immediately. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I have endured seven years of physicians who poke and prod and prescribe treatments that accomplish nothing except making me feel like a specimen to be studied.” His voice remained level, but Catherine heard the steel beneath it. “I will not add you to that list.”
“I am not a physician.”
“Exactly, which means you are even less qualified to interfere.”
Catherine felt her temper flare. “I am trying to be useful!”
“I do not want you to be useful!” Fabian stood abruptly, his palms flat against the desk. “I want you to simply exist here without obligation—to rest, to read if you wish, to walk the grounds, to do whatever it is women do when they are not being exploited by the men around them!”
The outburst hung in the air between them. Catherine stared at him, her anger draining away into something more complicated. When was the last time someone had told her to rest, to exist without purpose? Never. The answer was never.
“I don’t know how to do that,” she admitted quietly.
Fabian’s shoulders sagged slightly. He sat back down, suddenly looking more tired than angry. “Neither do I, apparently. But perhaps we could both learn.”
Catherine moved to the chair opposite his desk and sat without invitation. “I will make you a deal, Your Grace.”
“I am wary of deals.”
“As you should be.” Catherine folded her hands in her lap, meeting his gaze directly. “I will not push myself into your affairs uninvited. I will not attempt to manage your health or your household unless you ask. But in exchange, you must stop treating me like a guest who requires careful handling. If you have work, let me help. If you don’t, tell me plainly. But do not lock me away in the guest wing like I am made of spun glass.”
Fabian considered this for a long moment. “You want honesty?”
“I want to feel like a person, not a problem.”
Something flickered across his face—understanding, perhaps, or recognition of a feeling he knew too well. “Very well,” he said finally. “Honesty. I do not trust easily, Miss Foster. I have been betrayed by people who claimed to want to help me. So when you offer assistance, my first instinct is to refuse it.”
“That’s fair.”
“But,” Fabian continued, “I also recognize that you have been put in an impossible situation, and perhaps we would both be better served by finding a way to coexist that does not require either of us to pretend.”
Catherine felt something tight in her chest begin to ease. “I can work with that.”
“Can you?”
“I can try.”
Fabian’s mouth curved into something almost like a smile. “Then try this. There are ledgers from the estate’s tenant farms that need reviewing. The steward claims everything is in order, but I suspect certain expenses have been inflated. If you truly have a talent for seeing patterns, you might find it interesting.”
Catherine straightened. “You’re giving me work?”
“I am giving you a puzzle.” Fabian pushed a stack of leather-bound books across the desk. “If it bores you, stop. If it interests you, continue. Either way, you are not obligated.”
Catherine reached for the topmost ledger, her fingers tracing the worn leather binding. “Why do you suspect the steward?”
“Because men who handle other people’s money rarely do so with perfect honesty.”
“That is cynical.”
“That is experience.”
Catherine opened the ledger, scanning the neat rows of numbers and notations. Already, she could see small inconsistencies, duplicate entries, and rounded figures that should have been precise. “How long has he been in your employ?”
“Four years.”
“And how long have these discrepancies been occurring?”
Fabian leaned forward slightly. “You can see them already?”
“You hired someone with a talent for patterns, Your Grace. I suggest you let me use it.”
For the first time since Catherine had arrived at Blackthorn Estate, Duke Fabian Osborne smiled at her. It wasn’t the bitter curve from earlier, nor the careful politeness of their first meeting. It was a real smile—small and fleeting, but genuine.
“Well then, by all means, Miss Foster. Show me what you can do.”
Catherine bent over the ledgers with a focus that felt like coming home. For the next three hours, she and Fabian worked in companionable silence, broken only by her occasional questions and his thoughtful answers. And somewhere in that quiet collaboration, something shifted. Catherine stopped feeling like an unwanted obligation, and Fabian stopped looking at her like she might shatter.
By the time the afternoon light began to fade, Catherine had identified seventeen instances of falsified expenses and built a case against the steward that would hold up under scrutiny.
“You were correct,” she said, pushing the final ledger back across the desk. “He’s been stealing from you systematically for at least two years.”
Fabian reviewed her notes with the same intense focus he applied to everything. When he looked up, his expression was thoughtful. “Thank you, Miss Foster.”
“Catherine,” she said impulsively. “If we are to be honest with each other, you should call me Catherine.”
Fabian hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Catherine.”
“Then you should call me Fabian—at least when we are alone.”
The intimacy of the exchange was not lost on either of them. Catherine stood, suddenly aware that the room had grown dim and that they had spent the entire afternoon together without awkwardness or tension. “I should dress for dinner.”
“Catherine.” Fabian’s voice stopped her at the door. “I am glad you stayed.”
She turned back to find him watching her with an expression she could not quite read—not gratitude, exactly, but something deeper and more complicated.
“So am I,” she said quietly, and she meant it.
The estate physician arrived on Catherine’s eighth day at Blackthorn, summoned by Fabian’s housekeeper without his knowledge or consent. Catherine was in the library when she heard the commotion: raised voices echoing from the main hall, the sharp crack of a walking stick against marble, and a man’s imperious tone demanding to see the Duke immediately.
She set down her book and moved to the doorway, watching as Edwin Collins swept through the entrance like a storm given human form. He was older, perhaps sixty, with silver hair and the kind of confidence that came from never being questioned.
“Where is he?” Edwin demanded of the butler. “I was informed the Duke has been neglecting his treatments again.”
“His Grace is in his private chambers, sir, but he left instructions not to be disturbed.”
“I do not require his permission to tend to his health.” Edwin started toward the stairs, then stopped abruptly as his eyes landed on Catherine. “And who are you?”
Catherine stepped forward, her spine straight. “Catherine Foster.”
“I am a guest of the Duke.”
Edwin’s gaze raked over her with clinical assessment. “A guest? How unusual. His Grace rarely entertains visitors.”
“Perhaps he is making an exception.”
“Or perhaps you are another fool who believes the rumors and came seeking scandal.” Edwin’s tone was dismissive. “I would advise you to leave before you find yourself trapped in a situation beyond your understanding.”
Catherine’s temper flared. “I understand quite well, thank you.”
“Do you?” Edwin moved closer, lowering his voice. “Do you understand that the man upstairs is dying? That his condition is degenerative and incurable? That he refuses sensible treatment in favor of stubborn pride?”
“I understand that he has been failed by his physicians.”
The words were out before Catherine could stop them. Edwin’s expression darkened dangerously. “Failed? I have dedicated years to attempting to manage an impossible condition. If you think you can do better simply by reading a few books in his library, you are dangerously naive.”
“I did not say I could do better. I said you had failed him.” Catherine held her ground despite her racing heart. “Those are different things.”
“Miss Foster.” Fabian’s voice cut through the tension like a blade. He stood at the top of the stairs, dressed but clearly having risen in haste. “Return to the library, please.”
Catherine wanted to argue, wanted to stay and defend herself, but the exhaustion in Fabian’s eyes stopped her. She nodded once and turned away, though she did not go far. Instead, she waited in the corridor just out of sight, listening.
“You should not have come, Edwin,” Fabian said quietly.
“You have missed three scheduled examinations.”
“Because they accomplish nothing except making me feel like a corpse being prepared for burial.”
“Your condition requires monitoring.”
“My condition requires a cure, which you have repeatedly told me does not exist. So forgive me if I choose to spare myself the indignity of your examinations.”
Catherine heard Edwin’s frustrated sigh. “Who is she?”
“None of your concern.”
“Everything about your health is my concern. If you have brought some charlatan into your home promising miracle treatments—”
“She is not a charlatan. She is a guest. That is all you need to know.”
“Fabian.” Edwin’s voice softened slightly. “I know you are suffering. I know the treatments are uncomfortable, but abandoning them entirely is suicide.”
“Is it? Because from where I stand, following your advice has brought me no closer to health and considerably closer to madness.”
Silence fell. Catherine pressed herself against the wall, her heart pounding.
“I will return next week,” Edwin said finally, “with or without your cooperation. Someone must monitor your decline.”
“How comforting.”
Catherine heard the physician’s footsteps retreating, followed by the slam of the front door. She waited several minutes before returning to the main hall. Fabian still stood at the top of the stairs, gripping the railing as if it were the only thing keeping him upright.
“You should not have antagonized him,” he said without looking at her.
“He antagonized me first.”
“He is trying to help.”
“Is he?” Catherine climbed the stairs slowly. “Because it sounded to me like he was trying to control you.”
Fabian finally turned to face her, and Catherine saw the pain etched around his eyes—not just physical pain, though she suspected that was present too, but something deeper: the exhaustion of fighting a battle no one believed he could win.
“Come with me,” she said impulsively.
“Where?”
“Your study. You’re going to sit down and eat something, and then you are going to tell me exactly what your condition is, what treatments you have tried, and why they have all failed.”
Fabian stared at her. “I told you I do not want—”
“I know what you told me, but I am not Edwin Collins, and I am not going to poke you or prescribe leeches or whatever medieval nonsense he inflicts. I am going to listen, and then I am going to think about it.” She paused. “That is what I do, Fabian. I see patterns. So let me see this one.”
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, slowly, he nodded.
They settled in his study with tea and bread that Fabian picked at without enthusiasm. Catherine waited, giving him time to organize his thoughts.
“It began seven years ago,” he finally said. “A fever that would not break. When it finally did, I thought I was recovering. But then the marks appeared.” He gestured to his neck. “Small at first, like bruises. My physical strength began to fail. Some days are better than others, but the trend is always downward. Edwin calls it a slow decay of the blood.”
Catherine leaned forward, her mind already beginning to categorize and sort the information. “And the treatments?”
“Bloodletting, mercury, arsenic in small doses, various herbal tinctures that only caused nausea. None of it made a difference. If anything, they made it worse.”
“So you stopped.”
“I stopped the mercury and the bloodletting a year ago. Edwin was furious, but my mind cleared for the first time in years. I may still be weak, but at least I am myself again.”
Catherine nodded slowly. “The marks… do they change? Are they always in the same places?”
“They spread when I am fatigued. They fade slightly when I rest. But they never disappear entirely.”
“And your diet?”
Fabian frowned. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Everything. If your body is at war, it needs fuel. What are you eating?”
“Whatever the cook prepares. Mostly broths and soft foods lately; I don’t have much of an appetite.”
Catherine stood and began to pace the small room, her thoughts moving with a speed that always felt like a physical hum in her blood. “You’re not dying of a disease, Fabian. You’re dying of the treatment and the isolation.”
Fabian’s eyes widened. “That is a bold claim for someone who has been here for eight days.”
“The mercury and arsenic are poisons. They were meant to kill the disease, but they were killing you instead. The bloodletting was draining what little strength you had left. And now you’re barely eating, you’re staying in these dark rooms away from sunlight, and you’re surrounded by people who are just waiting for you to finish the job.”
“Catherine—”
“I’m not saying there isn’t an underlying condition,” she interrupted, stopping in front of him. “But we don’t even know what it is because it’s buried under layers of medical malpractice and despair.”
She reached out, her fingers hovering just inches from the marks on his jaw. “May I?”
Fabian hesitated, then leaned forward, allowing her to touch him. His skin was cool, but there was a faint heat radiating from the discolorations. Catherine traced the edge of one mark, her touch as light as a feather.
“They don’t look like decay,” she whispered. “They look like… an overreaction. Like your body is trying too hard to protect itself.”
Fabian’s breath hitched at her proximity. “No one has touched me like this in years. They are all afraid it’s contagious.”
“Is it?”
“No. Edwin confirmed that much at least. It is mine alone to bear.”
“Not anymore.” Catherine pulled her hand back, her expression fierce. “If Victor wants you dead, then he’s going to be very disappointed. Because we are going to find out what this is, and we are going to fix it.”
Fabian looked at her—really looked at her—and for the first time, Catherine saw a flicker of something that wasn’t exhaustion or cynicism. It was hope. It was fragile and terrifying, but it was there.
“Why are you doing this, Catherine? You owe me nothing.”
“I told you. I’m doing it for myself. Because for seven years, I was useful to a man who didn’t care if I lived or died as long as his letters were answered. Now, I want to be useful for something that actually matters.”
Fabian reached out, his hand covering hers where it rested on the desk. His grip was surprisingly strong. “Then where do we begin?”
“We begin by opening the curtains,” Catherine said, moving to the window and pulling back the heavy velvet. Sunlight flooded the room, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air and the sharp lines of Fabian’s face. “And then, we find a new physician.”
“Edwin will not like that.”
“Edwin can go to the devil. We’re doing this my way now.”
As the days turned into weeks, the atmosphere at Blackthorn Estate began to shift. It was subtle at first—the curtains remained open, the meals became more substantial, and the Duke began to spend more time in the library than in his bedchamber.
Catherine was a whirlwind of controlled energy. She spent her mornings reviewing the estate’s finances, her afternoons researching medical texts, and her evenings with Fabian. They talked about everything—his family history, her childhood, the books they both loved, the world they both felt alienated from.
One evening, as they sat by the fire, Fabian looked at her with a curious expression. “You never talk about Victor.”
Catherine’s smile faltered. “There isn’t much to say. I thought I knew him. I was wrong.”
“Do you love him?”
“I thought I did. But I think I just loved the idea of belonging somewhere. I loved being needed.”
“You are needed here,” Fabian said softly.
Catherine looked at him, the firelight reflecting in his dark eyes. The marks on his skin had faded slightly, and his color was better than it had been when she arrived. “I know.”
“But you are also more than that. You are… remarkable, Catherine. Just as he said, though for entirely different reasons.”
The compliment felt different coming from Fabian. It didn’t feel like a calculation of her value; it felt like an observation of her soul.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said—about the patterns,” Fabian continued. “I think I’ve found one.”
He reached into his desk and pulled out a small, leather-bound diary. “This belonged to my grandfather. He died young, around my age. They said it was a heart failure, but look at these entries from his final months.”
Catherine took the diary, her eyes scanning the elegant, slightly shaky script.
May 14: The fatigue returns. Marks on the arms are darkening.
June 2: Cannot keep food down. The physicians recommend more bloodletting.
July 10: The weakness is absolute. I fear I will not see the autumn.
Catherine’s heart began to race. “It’s the same. It’s hereditary.”
“But why only some of us? My father didn’t have it. My brother is perfectly healthy.”
“Patterns,” Catherine murmured, her mind already working. “It’s not just the illness. It’s the environment. What did your grandfather do? What were his habits?”
“He was a botanist. He spent all his time in the old conservatory, the one that’s been locked up since he died.”
Catherine stood abruptly. “Take me there.”
“Catherine, it’s dark, and the place is falling apart.”
“Now, Fabian. Please.”
They made their way to the far end of the estate, where a glass structure stood overgrown with ivy and shadows. The air inside was thick and damp, smelling of earth and long-forgotten things. Fabian held a lantern aloft, its light reflecting off the cracked glass panes.
“He spent years here, trying to cultivate rare specimens from the East,” Fabian said, his voice echoing in the stillness.
Catherine moved through the rows of dead and dying plants, her eyes searching for anything that stood out. In the center of the conservatory, beneath a large dome, sat a single, withered shrub in a stone urn.
“What is this?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Some kind of rare laurel, I believe. It was his pride and joy.”
Catherine leaned in, her nose twitching. There was a faint, metallic scent clinging to the plant—the same scent she had noticed on Fabian’s skin during his worst days. She touched the soil, then pulled her hand back, her fingers stained with a strange, dark residue.
“It’s not a laurel,” she said, her voice trembling with excitement. “It’s Nerium oleander—but a specific, highly toxic variant. And look at the soil.”
She held her hand up to the lantern light. “The soil is rich in cinnabar. He wasn’t just growing a plant; he was experimenting with minerals. He must have been inhaling the fumes, absorbing the toxins through his skin for years.”
“And me?” Fabian asked, his face pale. “I haven’t been in here in a decade.”
“But the tapestries in your room,” Catherine said, the pieces of the puzzle finally clicking into place. “The ones you inherited from him. The blue and green ones. They were dyed with these same minerals. And the dust… it’s been in the air of that room for years.”
Fabian stared at her, the truth of it sinking in. “I’ve been poisoning myself.”
“Not intentionally. But yes. The illness isn’t in your blood, Fabian. it’s in your house. It’s in the very things you thought were your legacy.”
They spent the rest of the night moving his things out of the master chamber. They tore down the old tapestries, scrubbed the walls, and opened every window to let the fresh air sweep away the remnants of the past.
By morning, Catherine was exhausted but triumphant. Fabian stood on the balcony, watching the sunrise with a look of pure wonder on his face.
“I feel… lighter,” he said, turning to her. “For the first time in seven years, the weight is gone.”
Catherine smiled, her heart full. “It will take time to fully recover. You’ll need a clean diet, plenty of rest, and no more mercury.”
“I think I can manage that.”
He moved toward her, his movements more fluid and confident than she had ever seen. He took her hands in his, his gaze intense.
“You saved my life, Catherine.”
“I just saw the pattern.”
“No. You saw me. When everyone else saw a dying man or a business opportunity, you saw me.”
He leaned down, his forehead resting against hers. “What happens now? Victor will be expecting a report. He’ll be expecting… an ending.”
“Then we’ll give him one,” Catherine said, a spark of defiance in her eyes. “But not the one he wants.”
A week later, Victor Stevens arrived at Blackthorn Estate, his expression one of somber expectation. He was met at the door by the butler and led into the main hall, where Catherine waited for him.
“Catherine,” he said, taking her hands with a practiced show of concern. “I received your message. I came as quickly as I could. Is it… is it over?”
“It is,” Catherine said, her voice calm and steady.
“I’m so sorry. I know how difficult this must have been for you. But you did your duty. You provided him comfort in his final hours.”
“I did more than that, Victor.”
Victor frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that the Duke is not dead.”
The color drained from Victor’s face. “What? But the physicians said—”
“The physicians were wrong,” a voice said from the top of the stairs.
Victor looked up, his jaw dropping as Fabian descended the staircase. He looked nothing like the dying man Victor had described. He was dressed in a sharp, charcoal suit, his eyes bright and his step firm.
“Duke Osborne,” Victor stammered. “I… I was under the impression—”
“That I was rotting?” Fabian interrupted, a cold smile playing on his lips. “Yes, I believe that was the rumor you so carefully cultivated.”
He reached the bottom of the stairs and stood beside Catherine, his hand resting protectively on her shoulder.
“I want to thank you, Mr. Stevens. For sending Miss Foster to me. Without her, I might indeed have met the end you so clearly desired.”
Victor’s eyes darted between them, his mind working frantically to find a way out of the situation. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I only wanted to help—”
“You wanted my land,” Fabian said, his voice dropping to a dangerous low. “And you were willing to use your own fiancé as a pawn to get it. You lied to her, you lied to me, and you attempted to facilitate my death through negligence.”
“That’s a serious accusation,” Victor said, his voice trembling.
“And I have the evidence to back it up,” Catherine said, stepping forward. “I’ve spent the last month reviewing the estate’s records, Victor. I found the correspondence between you and the steward. I know about the falsified expenses. I know about the kickbacks.”
She pulled a bundle of papers from her pocket and held them up. “I also have the notes from the new physician, confirming that the treatments you insisted on were toxic. If this goes to court, you won’t just lose your reputation. You’ll lose everything.”
Victor stared at her, the realization of his defeat finally sinking in. “Catherine, please. I did it for us. For our future.”
“There is no ‘us,’ Victor,” she said, her voice hard as flint. “There never was. You didn’t want a wife; you wanted an employee you didn’t have to pay. Well, consider my resignation submitted.”
She took the engagement ring from her pocket and dropped it at his feet.
“Now leave. Before I decide to call the authorities.”
Victor looked at the ring, then at Fabian’s cold, steady gaze, and finally at Catherine. He saw a woman he no longer recognized—a woman who had found her own strength and was no longer willing to be used. Without another word, he turned and walked out of Blackthorn Estate, his dreams of wealth and status crumbling behind him.
The silence that followed his departure was peaceful. Catherine let out a long breath, the tension finally leaving her body.
“Well,” she said, looking up at Fabian. “That was satisfying.”
Fabian laughed—a warm, genuine sound that filled the hall. “It was indeed.”
He took her hand and led her toward the library. “So, Miss Foster. Now that you’re officially unemployed, I find myself in need of a permanent estate manager. Someone with a talent for patterns and a refusal to be intimidated by arrogant men.”
Catherine smiled. “I think I might know someone who fits that description.”
“And perhaps,” Fabian added, his voice softening, “something more. If she’s interested.”
Catherine looked at him, seeing the man he had become and the man she had helped him find. The shadows of Blackthorn were gone, replaced by the bright, clear light of a new beginning.
“I think she might be,” she whispered.
And in the heart of the estate that had once been a place of decay, life began to bloom once more. The patterns had shifted, the pieces had fallen into place, and for the first time in her life, Catherine Foster wasn’t just being useful. She was being herself.
