Chapter 257: Chapter Two Hundred And Fifty Seven
At the Carson Textile establishment, in the grand office that had once been a symbol of his rising power, Philip was a man undone. A frantic, paranoid energy filled the room. He moved with a desperate haste, his bad leg dragging as he tore through drawers and filing cabinets. Papers littered the floor like fallen leaves after a storm. He ripped pages from ledgers, his knuckles white, his breathing ragged. He was hiding, destroying, erasing anything that could incriminate him further.
The private accounts... the letters from the port officials... the contracts with the dye suppliers... his mind chanted, a litany of his crimes. He needed to get rid of it all. Just a little more time.
"Your Grace."
The voice boomed from the doorway, deep and authoritative. Philip froze, a half-torn document clutched in his hand. The person hadn’t even bothered to knock. He looked up, his heart pounding in his chest. It was Inspector Wimbly, and he was not alone. Two uniformed officers stood behind him, their expressions impassive. A cruel smirk played on the inspector’s face, a look of pure, personal satisfaction.
"Inspector Thaddeus Wimbly," Philip replied, his own voice sounding hollow and distant in his ears. He let the torn paper fall from his fingers.
Wimbly’s smirk widened. "Duke Philip Carson. You are under arrest for embezzlement, the creation of bribery funds, and the falsification of official documents."
Philip just stood there, silent amidst the wreckage of his ambition. The fight had gone out of him. The desperate energy that had fueled him moments before, evaporated, leaving behind a cold, empty dread. There were no more lies to tell, no more manipulations to perform. It was over.
"Come with us," Inspector Wimbly said, his voice clipped and final.
But Philip didn’t move. He seemed rooted to the spot, a statue of a defeated man. Wimbly watched him for a second before giving a small, sharp nod to his men.
"Take him."
The two officers stepped forward. They each took one of Philip’s arms, their grips firm but professional. They led him out of the office, his cane left forgotten on the floor. Philip didn’t struggle. He walked past the desks of workers who refused to meet his eyes, out of the building he had schemed so hard to control. Inspector Wimbly followed them from behind, the smirk never leaving his face.
~ ••••• ~
The afternoon light in Delia’s room was soft and peaceful. She was curled up on a chaise lounge, lost in the world of a book. The house was quiet and peaceful. But the peace was shattered when her door barged open, hitting the wall with a loud bang.
"Your Grace," Mr. Rye said, his chest heaving as if he had run up the entire flight of stairs. His face was pale, his eyes wide with panic. "I’m sorry for the intrusion, but... His Grace is in trouble."
Delia’s world tilted. The book she was reading tumbled from her lap, its pages fluttering as it hit the floor with a soft thud. She stood up in a single, fluid motion, her hand flying to her throat. All the blood seemed to drain from her face. "Where is he, Mr. Rye?" she asked, her voice a tight, breathless whisper, laced with a terror she could not hide.
"He’s at the cabin, Your Grace," Mr. Rye answered.
"Prepare the carriage," Delia commanded, her voice suddenly strong and clear. "We leave at once."
Mr. Rye bowed quickly and left, his footsteps hurrying back down the hall.
The carriage ride was long and agonizing. With every turn of the wheels, with every bump in the road, Delia’s mind spiraled, conjuring one worse scenario after another. The quiet countryside passing by her window was a blur she didn’t see. Her thoughts were a prison.
"Is he hurt?" she wondered, her hands twisting in her lap. "Did Philip do something to him before he was taken? Did he hire someone to retaliate? Is Eric lying injured somewhere, bleeding?"
The thought made her feel sick. She pushed it away, only for another to take its place.What if it’s a trap? What if Philip laid some legal snare, and Wimbly arrested Eric by mistake? Is he in a cell right now?"
Her mind then went to a quieter, but no less terrifying, place. "The stress... the exhaustion... what if he just collapsed? What if his body just gave out from carrying the weight of everything?"
The thought of him alone, ill, and unable to call for help was perhaps the worst of all. She had been so distant. If something happened, if she lost him again, she would never forgive herself.
They finally arrived at the cabin. The carriage was still rolling to a stop when Delia threw the door open, not waiting for Mr. Rye to help her down. She jumped to the ground, her skirts tangling around her ankles.
"Eric!" she called out, her voice thin and reedy in the quiet woods. "Eric!"
She ran into the cabin, the door swinging open before her. She went straight to his study and stopped dead in the doorway. He was there, lying on a couch, shirtless, his eyes closed as if in a deep sleep.
"What is going on here?" she whispered to herself, a wave of confusion washing over her terror. For a disorienting second, she wondered if he was with someone, if this was a different kind of trouble entirely.
But then she saw it. A fine sheen of sweat covered his bare chest and forehead, glistening in the dim light of the study. She rushed to his side, pulling a handkerchief from her pocket. As she gently wiped the beads of sweat from his brow, she felt the heat radiating from his skin. He was burning up.
"Eric, are you okay?" she said, her voice filled with a new kind of dread. There was no response. His breathing was shallow, his sleep too deep, too still.
Panic gave way to purpose. She looked around the room and saw a pitcher of water on his desk. She grabbed a nearby bowl, emptied the pitcher into it, and found a clean towel. She dipped the towel into the cool water, wrung it out, and gently placed it on his forehead.
Delia stayed with him like that for hours. She repeatedly cooled the towel, wiped his face and chest, and whispered his name, willing him to wake up. She watched as the sun started to descend, its fiery orange light filling the small study, and she did not move from his side.
Feeling the fever finally begin to break, Eric stirred. His eyes fluttered open, hazy and unfocused. He saw a gentle figure sitting beside him, the setting sun creating a halo effect around her head.
"Doctor," he murmured, his voice hoarse. "Thank you for..." The remaining words died in his mouth as his vision cleared. It wasn’t the doctor. It was Delia.
He was thrilled, a surge of joy running through him. And then, immediately, he was concerned. "Delia? What are you doing here?" he asked, trying to sit up. "I told Mr. Rye to call the doctor. Why are you here? I told him not to bother you with this."
"That’s nonsense," Delia replied, her voice soft but firm as she gently pushed him back down. "I’m here now."
Eric smiled, a weak but genuine expression. He looked at her face, at the worry etched into her features. "Did I scare you?" he asked.
She couldn’t form words. She just nodded, and the tears she had been holding back for hours finally began to stream down her face. They were tears of fear, of relief, of a love she had tried so hard to suppress.
Eric lifted his hand, his thumb gently wiping a tear from her cheek. The simple touch was electric, a bridge across the painful distance that had separated them. "I’m sorry for scaring you," he whispered. "The doctor came here yesterday. He said it was just exhaustion. Everything... the investigation, Philip, my grandmother... it all caught up with me. Everything has been sorted out now."
Delia nodded, her sobs subsiding. The storm of her fear had passed.
Eric looked at her, his smile growing a little stronger. "Did you see your bolt of silk?"
Delia replied, her voice still thick with emotion, "Yes. I saw everything. How come you are in possession of it? Why do you have it all?"
He looked at her, his eyes full of a deep, unwavering sincerity, and gave her the simplest, most honest answer he possibly could.
"Because they are the closest thing to having you."