The Seduction Of Lady Constance (Returning Grooms #1)

Chapter 9

The first sign of trouble was subtle, like a chill creeping under a door. At first, the household operated with its usual efficiency. The staff went about their duties, and the Summers estate continued to glitter with the sheen of prosperity. But as weeks passed, small incidents began to occur—missing items, unexplained shortages, ledgers that did not quite balance. Vincent’s brow furrowed whenever he reviewed the accounts, his instincts whispering that something was amiss. Yet no evidence could be found of theft or mismanagement. It was as though an unseen hand was working in the shadows, unraveling the careful threads of his fortune.

The first real blow came when a significant sum of money, meant for an investment, disappeared. Vincent’s contacts swore they had received no such funds, and all trails seemed to vanish without a trace. The frustration gnawed at him, but he kept the worst of his fears from Constance. She had no need to carry the weight of his concerns; she had only just begun to blossom in her role as Countess, to embrace the joys of their life together.

But the danger lurking within their own walls made itself known with violent suddenness one grey afternoon, when Constance was taking a solitary walk through the gardens. The autumn wind stirred the leaves at her feet, their brittle rustle the only sound in the quiet air. She was lost in thought when a harsh voice broke the stillness, sending a jolt of fear straight through her.

“Come quietly, my lady,” the man snarled, his grip tightening on her arm before she could cry out. His face was masked, his clothes rough and unremarkable, but the iron resolve in his gaze told her this was no idle threat. Panic shot through her, and she fought against him with all the strength she could muster.

Before she could scream for help, a gloved hand clamped over her mouth. Her heart thundered in her chest, her pulse a deafening roar in her ears as she struggled to free herself. But just as her vision began to blur with terror, a sudden shout cut through the air.

"Get away from her!" Vincent’s voice rang out with a ferocity she had never heard before, and in an instant, he was upon them. He tackled the assailant to the ground, his fists raining down in a fury. The man buckled under the onslaught, his mask slipping as he tried to fight back. But Vincent's strength was too much; his rage fueled by a single thought—that this man had dared to threaten his wife, to lay a hand on her.

The struggle ended swiftly, the attacker left unconscious on the garden path. Constance was trembling, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she clung to the stone wall for support. Vincent was at her side in an instant, his arms wrapping around her tightly. She buried her face against his chest, the warmth of him grounding her even as her body shook with the aftershock of fear.

“You’re safe now, my love,” he murmured, his voice rough but soothing. “I’m here. I’ve got you.” He held her for a long moment, his hand stroking her hair as though to reassure himself as much as her.

When the authorities arrived to take the assailant away, he had already been searched and bound by the household staff. Yet as the man was carried off, Vincent’s gaze turned to one of his footmen, who had assisted with the capture. "Take the guard to the housekeeper," he said quietly, his tone dark with suspicion. "And summon Mr. Bugsby."

It was no more than a hunch at first, but Vincent’s instincts screamed that the foulness within their household ran deeper than a single intruder. Mr. Bugsby, their butler, had always carried himself with the utmost dignity, never giving any cause for doubt. Yet now, a dark suspicion settled in the back of Vincent’s mind. He could no longer ignore the small discrepancies, the moments when Bugsby seemed to be where he was not needed, or to know things he ought not to know.

When Mr. Bugsby arrived in the study, Vincent's voice was calm, but there was a deadly edge to it. "Tell me, Bugsby, have you any knowledge of the man who tried to abduct my wife?"

Bugsby’s expression remained impassive. “None whatsoever, my lord,” he replied, his tone even. “I am as shocked as anyone else.”

Constance, who had joined them in the study despite Vincent’s protests, watched the butler closely. There was something off about his demeanor—something too composed, as though the act of surprise had been rehearsed.

“Search his quarters,” Vincent ordered, his eyes never leaving Bugsby.

The butler’s composure faltered for just a moment—a flicker of panic quickly masked. But it was enough. When the guards returned from his chambers, they carried a small leather-bound journal and a sealed letter. The journal held records of sums far exceeding what any servant would earn in a lifetime, while the letter, bearing the wax seal of an unfamiliar crest, contained orders to sabotage Lord Summers’ business dealings and finances, culminating in a plan to kidnap the countess.

Vincent’s jaw clenched as he confronted Bugsby. "Who are you working for?"

The butler’s expression hardened, a flash of defiance in his eyes. “You’ll never find out,” he spat, pulling a hidden pistol from his coat before anyone could react. The shot rang out, the sound sharp and final.

Constance screamed, but the horror came too late. Bugsby lay sprawled on the floor, blood pooling around his head as his life drained away in an instant. The room fell into an awful silence, broken only by the ringing in Constance's ears.

Vincent wrapped his arms around her again, his voice a low murmur meant to calm. "It’s over," he whispered, though he knew in his heart it was far from the truth. Whoever had set Bugsby to his vile task was still out there, lurking in the shadows, and they had nearly taken from him the one thing that mattered above all else.

As Constance gripped Vincent’s hand, she realized just how precarious their world was. They could no longer take their safety for granted, nor trust the familiar faces that surrounded them. And as her husband’s arms tightened around her, she vowed silently to herself that she would not be caught unprepared again. Whoever had sought to destroy them would soon discover that a wounded heart could still wield the sharpest of blades.