My Bratty Wife

"Your Grace," Roger, the steward, approached him cautiously, his voice laced with a hint of urgency. "There’s been a development concerning Luke."

Ryan’s head snapped up, a flicker of hope igniting in his eyes. "A development? What is it?"

Roger cleared his throat, his face etched with concern. "Luke... he requested a sick leave a day before. Didn’t come to work."

Disappointment washed over Ryan, a bitter taste in his mouth. "Sick leave?" he echoed, his voice low and dangerous. "Two days too late, wouldn’t you say, Roger?"

Roger stammered, his eyes wide with fear. "I... I apologize, Your Grace. I wasn’t aware..."

Ryan cut him off with a sharp gesture. "It doesn’t matter now. Luke’s probably miles away by now, hiding like a frightened rabbit."

He slammed his fist on the desk, the sound echoing through the tense silence. The trail, so clear just moments ago, had gone cold. Luke, the potential key to unraveling the Viscount’s murder, had disappeared into thin air.

Just then, the study door creaked open, and Thorne entered, his face uncharacteristically grim. "Your Grace," he announced, his voice devoid of its usual composure. "We’ve found Luke."

Ryan’s head shot up, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. "Found him?" he echoed, disbelief lacing his voice. "Where?"

Thorne took a deep breath, his eyes filled with a newfound determination. "He’s been holed up in a small tavern on the outskirts of town."

A triumphant smile spread across Ryan’s face. "Excellent work, Thorne," he declared, his earlier frustration replaced by a renewed sense of purpose. "Prepare the horses. We leave immediately."