But Owen didn’t believe in coincidences. Not anymore.
He threw back the covers and reached for his dressing gown. Perhaps a glass of brandy would help. Or perhaps he’d review the estate accounts again. Anything to avoid lying here, replaying every moment of the afternoon, wondering what he could have done differently.
The hallway was dark, lit only by the moonlight filtering through the windows. As he passed Iris’s room, he noticed that her door was slightly ajar.
An oversight, probably.
He moved to close it, then paused.
Through the gap, he could see Iris sleeping. She lay on the very edge of the bed, curled into herself with one hand tucked beneath her pillow. Even in slumber, she seemed poised to flee, as if she might need to jump up at any moment.
The sight made his chest tighten.
Was this how she always slept? Ready to run? Or was this new, since Evie’s arrival?
A soft sound from the nursery caught his ear. That door, too, was ajar, and the faint flicker of lamplight spilled into the hall. He moved quietly to the threshold and looked inside.
Evie lay fast asleep in her cradle with one small fist tucked beneath her cheek. Her chest rose and fell in an easy rhythm and her tiny face was peaceful. Whatever dreams babies had, hers seemed gentle.
Owen stepped into the room before he realized what he was doing. In the warm glow of the lamp, she looked even smaller than usual and so delicate, so unaware of the tangled truthswrapped around her life. And so completely dependent on the lies he and Iris told to keep her safe.
Nicholas should be here.
The thought came unbidden. It was sharp with grief.
Nicholas would have been a good father. He’d have taught Evie to laugh, to take risks, and to embrace life with both hands. Instead, she had Owen. Cold, distant Owen, who didn’t know the first thing about unconditional love.
The baby stirred slightly and made a soft sound.
Owen moved closer, studying the tiny features that held traces of his deceased friend. The shape of her nose, perhaps. The determined set of her chin, even in sleep.
“Your father was a better man than I’ll ever be,” he whispered. “But I’ll keep you safe. That much I can promise.”
The weight of secrets pressed down on him. The Dowager Duchess was still ignorant that she’d beheld her great-granddaughter. The members of thetonwould continue spinning their stories about a pregnancy that never was. And somewhere out there, Evie’s mother existed.
Adele.
Nicholas had mentioned the name once or twice, always with that soft smile of a truly smitten man. A dancer, he’d said. French. Beautiful in ways that had nothing to do with conventional prettiness.
What had happened to her? Where was she now? Did she think of her daughter and wonder if she was safe?
Owen made a decision. Tomorrow, he’d begin making inquiries. Discreet ones. Not to disturb whatever life Adele had built, but to know. For Evie’s sake. Someday, she might want answers about her mother. He owed her that truth, at least.
He stood there for another moment and watched Evie sleep. Then, he quietly withdrew before gently closing the door. Iris’s door still stood ajar, and he paused again, watching her sleep on the edge of disaster.
The brandy had lost its appeal. So, he returned to his room and lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about mothers who left their children behind and wives who slept like they were ready to run.
Morning came too soon, bringing with it the usual routine of correspondence and estate business. Owen was reviewing a proposal for drainage improvements when Peters announced a visitor.
“Lord Yardley, Your Grace.”
Owen suppressed a sigh. Yardley was a gossip and a bore, but he had connections all over theton. Refusing to see him would only fuel speculation.
“Show him in.”
Yardley entered with his usual swagger, already talking before he’d taken a seat.
“Your Grace! Good to see you out and about yesterday. That daughter of yours is a pretty little thing. Takes after her mother, lucky girl.”
