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“They discovered it?” she repeated. “His Grace knows about this?”

The man nodded again.

“His Grace was the one who first discovered it. He was already here when we arrived, and he was furious. He ordered us not to tell you.”

“Not to tell me?” Marina stared at him. “Not to tell me about an assault upon my own home?”

How dare he? How dare he keep such a thing from her?

“No, no, Your Grace,” Hendricks said quickly. “He meant it as a kindness. He intended to have it all restored before you ever found out. We were sworn to secrecy. Myself, Mr. Ernest, the two footmen and Mr. Jones, the other coachman. We all worked until very late, alongside His Grace, to clean up as much as we could.”

“You cleaned this?”

“We did our very best to salvage what we could, but there were some things beyond repair. His Grace took a list of the books we could not save. I believe he intends to replace them.”

Marina stared at Hendricks.

This was why so much was missing.

“He also rode into Ludlow and hired a carpenter to begin making repairs,” the coachman continued. “I do not believe you were ever meant to know what had happened. He wished to spare you.”

She turned back toward her little cottage.

Ambrose had discovered her treasured home smashed to pieces, and instead of telling her and breaking her heart, he had allowed her to remain blissfully unaware of it all.

She had been settling into her new life as a duchess, among people who actually seemed to like her. People who appreciated her skills and welcomed the help she could offer them.

And all the while, he had been trying to shield her from the heartache waiting here.

She could scarcely believe it.

He was a good man after all.

Despite his sometimes mercurial nature, despite the way he could be so warm one moment and so cold the next, he was a good man.

And in that very moment, Marina made up her mind.

No matter how hard Ambrose resisted, she was going to help him.

She was going to give him precisely what he had tried to give her.

Peace of mind.

Twenty-One

Darkness. Screams.

“You do not belong here! Go back inside!”

Ambrose’s fingers clenched against the thick sheets as the voice echoed within the darkness of his sleep. The images grew deeper, darker, more disturbing, until sweat poured down his face. Suddenly, his eyes flew open, his chest heaving. He quickly sat upright, panic coursing through his veins, one hand pressed to the ache in his skull.

“Damn it,” he growled bitterly, forcing himself to take a slow breath.

The nightmares had returned, the ones he had hoped were behind him. Apparently, they had merely been lurking at the back of his mind, choosing to remind him how much of the past he had failed to bury. His childhood. His family. The late duke. His dear sister, Janet. And the beloved daughter she had left in his care.

The thought of the baby made him frown. The dreams still haunted him, and he felt a sudden urge to check on his niece.

The corridor was dark. He hesitated. He had no business disturbing the child at this hour, yet he wanted to make sure Emma was safe. Just when he was about to take another step, a loud, hissing meow sounded behind him. Ambrose turned sharply, and his eyes landed on glossy black fur.