Page 110 of Unmasking the Diamond
Alcott’s foot shot out, wedging in the gap. “His Grace will receive us. Now.”
The butler’s nostrils flared. “I beg your pardon?”
“Inform him that Lord Alcott is here,” Alcott growled. “And tell him I will not be turned away.”
The butler sighed in long-suffering exasperation. “His Grace will not appreciate the intrusion.”
“I don’t care,” Alcott said flatly. “We will not leave until we’ve spoken with him.”
The man stepped aside. “Very well. Wait here.”
Luca and Alcott entered the marble-floored hall. It was all cold elegance—black and white tiles, gleaming columns, and portraits of grim ancestors watching from the walls. The butler’s footsteps echoed down the corridor until they faded entirely.
Alcott leaned closer. “You’re certain about this?”
Luca’s eyes flicked towards the far end of the hall. “Completely. The Duke of Brackenford is no innocent. He sent his wife to The Chelmsford Asylum and I suspect he knew exactly what would happen to her there.”
Alcott’s expression darkened. “Then I won’t hold back.”
“Good,” Luca responded. “Because neither will I.”
Moments later, the butler returned and gestured stiffly. “His Grace will see you now.”
They followed him into a richly appointed parlor. The duke sat before the fire, a blanket draped over his legs. His thin white hair caught the firelight, his sharp eyes gleaming with irritation rather than frailty.
“What,” he demanded, “is so important that you must burst into my home at this ungodly hour?”
“It’s not even nine,” Alcott remarked with a glance at the long clock in the corner.
“Which is ungodly for a man of my age,” the duke retorted. “Now speak your piece or be gone.”
Alcott didn’t hesitate. “Where is she?”
The duke blinked. “Who?”
“Do not insult me,” Alcott snapped. “My sister—Charlotte Winslow.”
The duke’s brows lifted. “I’ve no idea where your sister is.”
Alcott stepped forward, fury radiating from him. “We know about The Chelmsford Asylum and what you did to your first wife.”
A muscle twitched in the duke’s cheek. “That’s in exceedingly poor taste. My wife was quite mad. Her death was tragic but inevitable.”
“In an institution you own,” Alcott bit out.
Luca inwardly cursed. Alcott was leading with accusations instead of evidence. He needed to steady the conversation before it turned into a shouting match.
The duke gave a thin smile. “I own no such establishment.”
Luca stepped in, his voice calm but hard as steel. “You do. Through the Ravenhurst Trading Company, of which you are the sole proprietor.”
The duke’s face blanched. “How do you know that name?”
“It wasn’t difficult to uncover,” Luca said. “So let’s dispense with the lies. Tell us where Charlotte Winslow is.”
“I have nothing to say,” the duke replied.
“Then we’ll compel you,” Alcott said, drawing his pistol from beneath his coat.
