Reborn: The Duke's Obsession
Chapter 88 - Eighty Eight

Chapter 88: Chapter Eighty Eight

The carriage clattered through the dark, empty streets of the city, the sound of the horses’ hooves echoing like an agitated heartbeat. Inside, Eric sat stiffly, his hands clenched into tight fists, his gaze scanning every dark alleyway, every shadowed corner they passed.

They stopped by each post, at every point where a patrolling watchman stood with his lantern, a lonely point of light in the vast darkness.

"Have you seen a young woman?" Eric would ask, his voice tight with a desperate urgency. He would lean out the carriage window, his eyes pleading. "She has long, dark curly hair, and the most striking blue eyes you have ever seen. She was wearing a pale blue dress. Have you seen her?"

Again and again, the answer was the same. A shake of the head, a sympathetic but unhelpful look. "No, Your Grace. Haven’t seen anyone like that tonight."

With each denial, Eric’s fear grew, a cold, heavy stone in the pit of his stomach. Mr. Rye would urge the horses on, and the desperate search would continue.

They got to another checkpoint near the edge of the city, where two watchmen stood together, sharing a bit of warmth from a small brazier.

"Good evening, my good sirs," Eric called out, his voice now hoarse from repeating the same question all night.

The watchmen, surprised by the grand carriage stopping for them, returned his greeting without recognizing him. "Good evening, My Lord."

One of them, an older, more cautious man, spoke up. "You shouldn’t be out and about by this time, My Lord. The city is not safe after the moon is high."

"Yes, I know," Eric responded, his patience wearing thin. "I am looking for someone. A young lady."

The other watchman, a younger man with tired eyes, sighed. "It is a bad night for it, My Lord. We see too many cases of missing persons these days." He shook his head sadly. "There is one in my own house right now, as a matter of fact. My wife is with her. She’s completely unresponsive. I couldn’t get a single word from her. In the morning, I will find a way to contact her people." He sighed again. "The poor lady. She looks so lost. Her blue eyes... they looked so lifeless and..."

The mention of blue eyes made Eric’s senses scream. He didn’t wait for Mr. Rye to open the door. He did it himself, getting down from the carriage so quickly that his sudden movement scared the two men, making them take a step back.

He interrupted the watchman, his voice sharp and full of a desperate, terrifying hope. "Did you say she has blue eyes?"

The man, startled, confirmed. "Yes, sir. As blue as the summer sky."

"And dark, curly hair?" Eric continued, taking a step closer. "Perhaps in a neat low bun, or maybe it has come undone?"

"I don’t know about a bun, My Lord," the man replied, "but yes, she has very long, dark, curly hair. It was all wet from the showers when we found her."

Eric asked the last, most important question, his heart pounding in his chest. "Was she wearing a pale blue dress?"

The man nodded. "Yes, My Lord. That’s the one."

"She is my wife," Eric said, the words a mixture of great relief and heart-stopping terror. "Please, take me to her. We can take my carriage. It will be faster."

The two watchmen, now understanding the gravity of the situation, quickly got inside the carriage with Eric. Mr. Rye, following the younger watchman’s directions, drove them through a maze of quiet, residential streets.

They stopped in front of a nice, small house, a humble but well-kept home with a small garden out front. Eric quickly came down from the carriage and followed the man into his house without waiting for an invitation.

There, in a simple but clean sitting room, he saw her.

Delia was sitting in a wooden chair by the cold fireplace, looking completely and utterly lifeless. Her beautiful dark hair, no longer in its neat bun, was unbounded, its damp curls falling in a tangled mess all over her face and shoulders. Her brilliant blue eyes, the ones he had just described as being like the summer sky, were dimmed and soul-less, staring blankly at a wall. The hem of her beautiful pale blue dress was torn and covered in mud. Her feet were bare and her gloves were nowhere to be seen.

The man’s wife, a kind-looking woman, was kneeling in front of her, gently wiping the blood from the many small cuts on the soles of her feet with a warm, damp cloth. But Delia didn’t even flinch at the pain. She didn’t react at all. It was as if she were a beautiful, broken doll. As if she were already dead inside.

Eric’s heart broke at the sight of her. He slowly approached and crouched down in front of her, so that his face was level with hers.

"Delia," he said, his voice a pained whisper. "What happened to you?"

Delia remained silent, her empty eyes not even seeming to register his presence.

"We don’t know either, My Lord," the watchman said quietly from behind him. "We found her wandering near the old woods, completely soaked from the showers. She won’t say a single word."

Eric looked at her again. The vibrant, strong, beautiful, and cheerful woman who had left his home that morning was gone. She had been replaced by this empty, broken shell, a woman who looked tired of life itself.

He turned to the man and his wife, his own eyes now shining with gratitude. "Thank you," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "Thank you both so very much." He asked for a piece of paper and a pen. He quickly wrote something down and handed it to the man.

The man looked at the paper, and his eyes widened in disbelief at what was written there—a note of credit for a sum of money so large it would change their lives forever and his residence address.

"If you need anything," Eric said, "anything at all, do not hesitate to come to that address. Or I will send my aide to give you my formal appreciation."

"No, no, Your Grace," the man replied, recognizing the man in front of him, shaking his head, still in shock. "I was just doing my job. It was nothing."

"It was not nothing," Eric replied, his voice full of a raw, desperate sincerity. "Doing your job saved me tonight. Because I do not know what would have happened to me if I couldn’t find her."

He then turned back to Delia. He gently pushed her messy hair away from her face and, with a tenderness that was heartbreaking to watch, he picked her up from the chair and carried her in his arms. She was as light as a child, and she made no sound, no movement, her head just lolling against his shoulder.

"Thank you," he said one last time, bowing his head to the kind couple. He carried her out of the small house and back into the cold night air, towards the carriage, holding her close, as if his warmth alone could somehow bring her back from the dark, silent place she had gone to.