Read Chapter 6: The Duke's Pursuit

The country air carried the scent of cut grass and horses, a pastoral pretense that London’s cunning had never quite managed. Eleanor stood at the edge of the archery lawn, her gloved fingers tracing the polished curve of a borrowed bow, watching the Duke of Ashworth conquer his third consecutive target with the sort of effortless precision that made other men look like they were aiming with their eyes closed.

“Miss Wentworth,” Lady Haversham trilled, her voice cutting through the polite applause, “you shall partner with His Grace for the next round. I insist.”

Eleanor’s spine stiffened. She had hoped for Lord Pendleton, whose conversation rarely rose above the quality of the luncheon aspic. Instead, fate—or more likely Lady Haversham’s desperate matchmaking—delivered her directly into the lion’s den.

Ashworth turned, bow lowered, and regarded her with that appraising gaze she remembered from the soiree. The one that made her feel as though he were reading the fine print of her soul.

“Miss Wentworth,” he said, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “I confess I did not take you for an archer.”

“And I did not take you for a man who confesses so readily, Your Grace.” She stepped onto the lawn, settling the bow in her grip with practiced ease. “Shall we?”

He raised an eyebrow but said nothing, gesturing for her to take the first shot. The target stood thirty yards off, its painted rings wobbling slightly in the heat haze. Eleanor inhaled, steadied her arm, and released.

The arrow struck just left of the center.

A murmur rippled through the assembled guests. Ashworth’s eyebrow climbed higher.

“Well,” he said, “it appears I underestimated you.”

“A common error among men who believe wit and grace are incompatible with a steady hand.” She lowered the bow, allowing herself the smallest smile. “Your turn, Your Grace.”

He drew his arrow, and for a moment, as he sighted down the shaft, his profile was all sharp angles and quiet intensity. Eleanor found herself watching his fingers—the way they held the string with the same deliberate care she imagined he applied to ledgers and letters.

The arrow struck dead center.

“Shall we make this interesting?” he asked, not looking at her. “Best of three. Loser submits to the winner’s question—answered truthfully.”

Eleanor’s blood chilled. Truth was a luxury she could not afford, not with Mr. Ellery’s name on every investor’s tongue and her father’s letter burning a hole in her reticule. But refusal would draw more suspicion than compliance.

“Truthfully?” she echoed, buying time. “And what guarantee have I that you will honor such a bargain?”

He finally turned to face her, and there was something almost warm in his expression. “I am a duke, Miss Wentworth. My word is my bond.” A pause. “Though I suspect you already know that.”

She did. She had read everything about him, every whisper from every financial corner of London. Ashworth paid his debts, kept his promises, and destroyed those who broke theirs. It was why his campaign against Mr. Ellery had such teeth.

“Very well,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. “You may take the first shot.”

He did, striking near-center. Eleanor matched him, then surpassed by a hair’s breadth. The crowd’s murmurs grew louder, and she caught Clarissa’s delighted, scandalized expression from the edge of the lawn.

They were tied at one apiece. The final shot approached.

Ashworth drew his bow, muscles coiled beneath the fine wool of his coat. He held the string a moment longer than necessary, and Eleanor saw his gaze flick toward her—not at her hands or her stance, but at her eyes.

“You know,” he said, releasing the arrow, “I have spent the past fortnight trying to find a young clerk who fed me falsehoods in Cheapside. Remarkably slippery fellow.”

The arrow struck the target. Not center, but close enough that the crowd applauded.

Eleanor’s stomach plummeted. She forced her face into polite puzzlement. “How unfortunate for you, Your Grace. I find that clerks are generally reliable creatures—when properly compensated.”

“That is precisely what I intend to discover.” He stepped back, offering her the lawn. “Your shot, Miss Wentworth. A win shall earn you my finest question. A loss, and I shall ask you something far more personal.”

She raised the bow, her heart hammering against her ribs. The target swam before her eyes, and she thought of Mr. Ellery’s latest column—the one sitting in her valise, waiting for the Fentons’ ball, where a bribed footman would slip it to the mail coach. The one that predicted a slump in railway shares that Ashworth had publicly endorsed.

If he discovered the connection, discovery of everything else would follow.

She released.

The arrow struck closer to center than his—close enough that Lady Haversham gasped and raised her hands in delight.

“It appears I have won,” Eleanor said, lowering the bow with a calm she did not feel. “I shall collect my question, Your Grace.”

Ashworth studied her for a long moment. The sun caught the silver threading at his temples, and his eyes narrowed with something between amusement and calculation.

“Indeed you have.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear. “Then let me ask you this, Miss Wentworth: what is your opinion of the anonymous columnist who calls himself Mr. Ellery?”

The world tilted. Eleanor gripped the bow until her knuckles whitened beneath her gloves.

“An interesting choice,” she managed. “Why ask a woman about a financial newsletter?”

“Because,” he said, his voice dropping further, almost intimate, “I have reason to believe Mr. Ellery is not a man at all. And I intend to prove it.”

Eleanor’s heart stopped, then raced forward at a gallop.

“That is a bold claim,” she said, forcing lightness into her tone. “What evidence could possibly—?”

“The style, for one.” He gestured vaguely, as if summoning the words from memory. “I have read every column he has published. He writes about money with the caution of someone who has never had it, and the hunger of someone who has lost it. He understands fear in a way that does not feel masculine.”

“That seems rather reductive, Your Grace. Women are perfectly capable of understanding fear—and money.”

“That is precisely my point.” His smile sharpened. “Mr. Ellery protects himself by hiding behind a convention he does not fully inhabit. A woman writing as a man would make such errors. A man writing as himself would not.”

Eleanor’s mouth went dry. She had been so careful, so meticulous in her word choices. But he had seen through her—or at least, seen through the column—and now he was circling closer to the truth.

“And if you are correct,” she said slowly, “what would you do with such a discovery?”

Ashworth’s expression flickered, something dark passing behind his eyes. “Expose them. Publicly. Completely. Anyone who manipulates the markets under false pretenses deserves to face the consequences of their deception.”

The word *deception* hung between them like a blade.

“And what of the deception inherent in your own pursuit?” Eleanor asked, surprising herself with the heat in her voice. “You assume this Mr. Ellery acts from malice. But what if they write from necessity? What if the column is their only means of survival in a world that offers women—” she caught herself, “—that offers *anyone* few avenues for honest gain?”

Ashworth’s gaze sharpened. “You speak as though you know them.”

“I speak as someone who reads.” She lifted her chin. “The markets are not a moral arena, Your Grace. They are a reflection of human nature—greedy, fearful, and utterly indifferent to the gender of the hand that moves them.”

A long silence stretched between them. The crowd behind them had drifted to other conversations, other targets, but Eleanor felt as though she stood alone on the lawn with him, suspended in the space between two truths.

“You are remarkable, Miss Wentworth,” he said finally, his voice softer than she had expected. “I have met few women who can argue the ethics of anonymous writing while standing in the sun with an arrow still nocked in their bow.”

“Then perhaps you should meet more women,” she replied, “or fewer columnists.”

He laughed—a genuine, unguarded sound that transformed his sharp features into something almost boyish. “I suspect, Miss Wentworth, that you and I would disagree on nearly everything. Which makes conversation with you exceedingly dangerous.”

“Dangerous for whom, Your Grace?”

“For me,” he admitted. “I find myself enjoying your company more than is prudent.”

Eleanor’s heart fluttered dangerously, and she hated herself for it. This man wanted to destroy her. He wanted to strip away Mr. Ellery’s protection and leave her exposed to the wolves of society and finance. And yet, standing here, his eyes warm with something she dared not name, she felt herself leaning toward him like a compass toward true north.

“Perhaps,” she said, stepping back and retrieving her fallen arrow, “prudence is vastly overrated, Your Grace. Even for dukes.”

She turned and walked toward the refreshment table, her pulse roaring in her ears. Behind her, she heard him call out one last question, pitched loud enough for the other guests to hear.

“And what shall I do with my winnings, Miss Wentworth? You never asked your question of me.”

She paused, looking back over her shoulder. “I am saving it, Your Grace. For when I truly need to know something.” A pause. “And I suspect you have many secrets worth uncovering.”

His laugh followed her across the lawn, but when she glanced back, his expression had gone cold and calculating once more. He was already planning his next move.

And Eleanor realized, with sinking certainty, that she could not afford to let him make it first.