They sat in comfortable silence for a moment with their hands linked on the table while Evie played with the ribbon on Iris’s morning dress.
Outside, London was waking up to another day, but here in their small sanctuary, time seemed suspended. Everything was perfect and peaceful and exactly as it should be.
A knock at the door shattered the moment like glass.
“Your Grace?” Peters appeared in the doorway. His usually composed expression showed signs of strain. “A Mr. Cranston to see you. He says it’s urgent.”
Owen’s stomach clenched.
Cranston was one of his most trusted contacts, a man who handled delicate inquiries without asking uncomfortable questions. Since he came here instead of sending a discreet message, that meant the news was significant.
“Show him to my study. I’ll be there shortly.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
As Peters scurried away, Owen turned back to find Iris watching him with concern. The easy contentment of moments ago had evaporated and was replaced by the familiar tension that accompanied any reminder of the world beyond their walls.
“Business?” she asked.
“Possibly. I should see what he wants.” He rose, then paused beside her chair to press a kiss to the top of her head. “I’ll be back shortly.”
“You’d better,” she said. “Even if you’re just in the study, I’ll miss you.”
He squeezed her fingers and gave her a look that said he felt the same. It was ridiculous, maybe, how reluctant he was to step away, but he wouldn’t trade it for anything.
He found Cranston waiting in his study, hat in hand and travel dust on his clothes. The man looked like he’d ridden hard to get here, which only ratcheted up Owen’s apprehension.
“What have you learned?” Owen asked without preamble while gesturing for him to take a seat.
“Found her, Your Grace. Or rather, found what became of her.” Cranston’s weathered face was grim. “A woman matching Adele Martel’s description died three days ago at a boarding house in Dover. Consumption, by the look of it.”
The bluntness of the words took Owen by surprise.
Dead. Adele was dead, and he’d been too late to help her. Too late to offer protection or help, or even kindness in her last days.
“You’re certain it’s her?”
“As certain as we can be without family to confirm. French accent, right age, dark hair. And this.” Cranston produced a small object from his pocket. “The landlord found it among her belongings.”
Owen’s breath caught. It was a locket, silver and tarnished, with an inscription in French on the back. Inside was a miniature portrait of a man with familiar features. Nicholas, painted years ago when they were both young and foolish and convinced the world was theirs for the taking.
“She kept his picture,” he said quietly, his voice rough with emotion.
“Aye. Clutched it when she died, according to the woman who tended her. Called out his name at the end.” Cranston shifted uncomfortably. “I’m sorry, Your Grace. I wish I had better news to share.”
Owen stared at the locket, seeing in its worn surface a story of love and loss and desperation. Adele had carried Nicholas’s image across countries and through God knew what hardships, clinging to the memory of happiness even as illness consumed her.
“What of the arrangements?” he asked.
“None made. The body’s at the parish, waiting for someone to claim it. If no one does by the week’s end, it’ll be a pauper’s grave.”
The thought of Adele being buried in an unmarked grave, forgotten and without the proper mourning rites, was unbearable. She deserved better. Nicholas would have wanted better for the woman he’d loved.
“I’ll handle the arrangements. A proper burial, quietly done. And Cranston?” Owen looked up to meet the man’s eyes. “This information goes no further. As far as anyone knows, you never found her.”
“Understood, Your Grace. What about the records at the boarding house?”
“Buy them. All of them. I want every trace of her stay destroyed.” Owen’s voice hardened. “Do whatever it takes. Adele Martel was never there.”
