“She’ll be hungry soon,” Iris said as she settled back into the rocking chair.
The irony wasn’t lost on her that she was already using his gift and finding comfort in his thoughtfulness, even as she challenged his emotional distance.
“I should go.”
But Owen didn’t move because his gaze was fixed on Evie’s stirring form.
“Yes,” Iris agreed. “You should.”
Still, he hesitated, and a muscle ticked in his jaw. “The chair. Does it suit you?”
“It’s perfect,” she said again, because it was true. It was thoughtful and practical but utterly insufficient to bridge the gap between them. “Thank you for thinking of me.”
“I think of you more than I should,” he whispered. “More than is safe.”
He left before she could respond, taking his confession and fears with him.
Iris sat in her beautiful new chair, rocking gently as Evie stirred awake, and wondered how long they could continue this way.
The chair was finely made, and the thought behind it meant even more. But kindness without closeness, gestures without trust, and gifts without love weren’t enough. Not for a marriage. Not for her.
Evie’s eyes opened and focused on her with that serious expression she wore when emerging from sleep.
“What do you think, sweetheart?” Iris whispered. “Will your papa ever learn that we don’t need grand gestures? We just need him.”
Yet, as she picked up Evie and returned to the rocking chair, a feeling persisted that he only knew how to make grand gestures. That somewhere along the way, he’d learned to express care through objects and actions while keeping his heart locked safely away.
The question was whether she had the patience to wait for those locks to open, or the wisdom to stop trying before they broke her heart entirely.
CHAPTER 22
“I’m thinking your mysterious French dancer is a figment of your imagination.” Felix’s voice cut through the haze inside The Golden Pheasant, a rough little tavern known for serving sailors and dockworkers.
Owen looked up from his conversation with the barkeep and took in the state of his wife’s cousin.
Felix, who usually looked as if he’d stepped out of a gentlemen’s club, now wore the grime of three long days spent combing through London’s less respectable corners.
“She’s real,” Owen said while tossing a few coins on the scarred wooden bar. “The question is whether she’s still alive.”
They emerged into the gray afternoon. The Thames was visible through the narrow streets. This was their fifth stop today, following leads that went nowhere and asking questions that earned them suspicious stares.
“Right then,” Felix muttered after scanning a crumpled piece of paper. “The Crow’s Nest is next. Though I must warn you, the last time I was there, someone tried to sell me a three-legged horse.”
“You bought it, didn’t you?”
“Of course I did. I couldn’t resist the notion.” Felix grinned. “Named him Nelson. He’s quite happy in my stables, terrorizing the grooms.”
Despite everything, Owen almost smiled.
Felix had thrown himself into the search with unexpected dedication, moving beyond his original inquiries about Nicholas for Iris to pursue every lead with the determination of a man who understood what was at stake. His natural charm opened doors that Owen’s ducal authority might have left firmly closed.
Waitresses giggled and gossiped. Tavern keepers offered information freely. Even the most hardened madams seemed inclined to help the charming young Marquess.
Despite all that, their visit to the Crow’s Nest proved as fruitless as the others. A few women remembered someone matching Adele’s description, but the details were vague and contradictory. Dark hair became blonde. The French accent turned Italian. The timeline shifted by weeks or months, depending on who told the story.
“Face it,” Felix said as they walked back toward Mayfair, “she’s vanished. Either she’s found somewhere safe to hide, or…”
“Or she’s dead.” Owen had been avoiding that conclusion for days, but the evidence was mounting.
