Felix was right about one thing—he was terrified. Not of legal consequences or social disapproval, but of the depth of his feelings. Somewhere in the months of caring for Evie, he’d allowed himself to hope. He’d dared to imagine a future built on more than duty and convenience.
But hope was dangerous. Hope made you vulnerable to loss, to the kind of devastating grief that could destroy a man’s ability to function. Better to cut his losses now, before the wound grew too deep to heal.
Except the wound was already deeper than he’d imagined. The thought of never again hearing Evie’s delighted gurgle when he entered the nursery made his hands shake. The prospect of watching Iris retreat behind the careful politeness that had defined the first year of their marriage felt like contemplating his death.
Owen pushed back from the table. His movements were unsteady from whiskey and exhaustion.
The carriage ride home passed in a blur of darkened streets and regret. Every turn brought him closer to the house where his wife was probably crying herself to sleep and where his daughter was unaware her world was about to shatter.
The townhouse stood dark when he arrived. The windows were like closed eyes in the night.
Owen let himself in quietly, making his way through familiar corridors that felt foreign in the darkness. From upstairs came the soft sound of weeping. It was muffled but unmistakable.
Iris.
She was grieving for the family they were about to lose and mourning the future that had seemed so certain and bright just hours ago.
Owen paused at the bottom of the stairs with his hand gripping the banister. He should go to her. Should try to offer comfort, even if his presence was the source of her pain. He could be her husband instead of a stranger hiding behind documents and whiskey.
Instead, he turned toward his study, seeking the familiar solace of solitude and liquor. Better to let her grieve alone than force her to see the man who’d chosen safety over courage and law over love.
CHAPTER 31
“Icouldn’t believe it when I received your message.”
Grace swept into the morning room like a gust of wind. Her cheeks were flushed from the walk and her eyes scanned the room with quick, practiced intensity. She paused for only a moment in the doorway, taking everything in—the tension, the silence—then crossed the room with the sharp focus that had made her an indispensable friend.
Iris was curled up in the window seat, still wearing yesterday’s dress. Her hair escaped its pins in ways that suggested she’d run her fingers through it several times. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, and the breakfast tray beside her remained untouched despite the late hour.
“You look dreadful,” Grace said with her characteristic honesty before settling beside her without ceremony. “When did you last sleep? Or eat, for that matter?”
“I don’t remember.” Iris’s voice was hoarse from crying. “Yesterday feels like a lifetime ago.”
Grace took her hands. “Tell me everything. Your note mentioned Evie’s French relatives, but surely there is a mistake.”
“No mistake.” Iris pulled one hand free to gesture toward the papers scattered on the small table nearby. “A solicitor arrived yesterday with documents. Adele’s cousin in Lyon is demanding Evie’s return. The handwriting matches the original note perfectly.”
Grace picked up the papers and studied them. “The timing seems rather convenient. Adele dies, and within days, a relative appears with legal claims.”
“That’s what I thought. But Owen says the evidence is compelling.”
“And what does Owen propose to do about it?”
Iris laughed, but the sound held no humor. “Give Evie up. Fake her death to avoid awkward questions.”
“He said that?”
“He offered to give me children of my own.Real children, he called them. As if Evie were less real because I didn’t carry her.” Fresh tears rolled down Iris’s cheeks.
Grace muttered something under her breath that would have scandalized her former governess. “That man has as much empathy as a turnip! Did you explain that you don’t want just any child? That you want the family you’ve already built?”
“I tried. But he’s convinced himself that what we had was temporary and meaningless. That caring for her was nothing more than duty until better arrangements could be made.”
“And you believe that?”
“I don’t know what to believe anymore.” Iris wiped her eyes with a handkerchief that was already sodden beyond usefulness. “He seemed so different these past weeks. Open, warm, genuinely happy. I thought we were building something real together.”
“You were. Anyone with eyes could see it.”
