A desperate woman with no resources had searched for someone in London’s most dangerous quarters. The odds of survival were not encouraging.
“If she is dead, then the threat to Evie dies with her,” Felix pointed out. “No one left to claim the child or cause complications.”
“Perhaps.” Owen, however, couldn’t dismiss the sense that Adele’s disappearance was part of a bigger picture.
The townhouse was quiet when he stepped inside—the quiet that came only after the staff had retired for the night.
He started toward his study, thinking he’d review a few contracts before bed. But as he passed the staircase, he paused. A soft melody floated down from upstairs.
He climbed the steps slowly, but persisted, because the tune tugged at something inside him. The nursery door was slightly open, and a sliver of lamplight stretched into the hall. Throughthe gap, he saw Iris in the rocking chair he’d gifted her with Evie resting in her arms.
She was singing something in French. Her voice was low and sweet. The baby gazed up at her with that serious expression she wore when listening to music with one tiny hand wrapped around her finger.
The scene made something tight in Owen’s chest loosen. Whatever chaos surrounded their strange arrangement, this was right—Iris holding Evie, both of them safe and content in the warm circle of lamplight.
They were a family, even though their connection was built on lies and necessity.
Iris must have sensed his presence because she looked up and met his eyes through the crack in the door.
For a moment, neither moved. Then, she smiled. There was just a small curve of her lips as she gestured for him to enter.
“She wouldn’t settle,” she whispered as he stepped into the room. “I think she’s growing. Babies do that, apparently. Sleep terribly for a few days while they adjust to being bigger.”
Owen moved closer, studying Evie’s face in the lamplight. She did seem different somehow. More alert, more aware of her surroundings.
“What were you singing?”
“A lullaby my governess taught me. She was French and said it was what her mother sang to her.” Iris shifted Evie slightly, and the baby’s eyes grew heavy. “I don’t know if the words are right, but Evie seems to like the tune.”
“It’s beautiful.”
And it was. Not just the melody, but the sight of them together. The way Evie trusted completely in Iris’s arms. The way Iris looked at the baby with such fierce tenderness.
“How was your evening?” Iris asked while rocking her gently.
“Productive.” The lie came easily.
He’d grown skilled at deflecting her questions about his late nights and absences from meals. Sometimes she pressed, but not tonight. No, no, tonight, he could see the hurt in her eyes when he offered those same, vague excuses.
“Good.” Evie had finally surrendered to sleep. Her tiny grew face peaceful in the lamplight. “She should stay asleep until morning. Or at least until dawn.”
Iris rose carefully and tucked Evie into her cradle with practiced ease. Owen watched the routine, noting how naturally she moved, and how instinctively she adjusted the blankets so that Evie was comfortable.
“You’re becoming quite an expert at this,” he observed.
“Trial and error, mostly. Though Mrs. Pemberton has been helpful when her health permits.” Iris turned down the lamp, leaving just enough light to see by. “I should let you get some rest. You look tired.”
She was right. The past few days of searching had exhausted him, both physically and mentally. But he was reluctant to leave this peaceful room or this moment of domestic tranquility.
“Iris.” He caught her hand as she moved past him. “Thank you. For caring for her so well. For making this work.”
Something flickered in her eyes. “She’s not a burden, Owen. She’s a gift.”
“I know. But still. Thank you.”
They stood there for a moment with their hands touching and the sleeping baby beside them. Then, Iris gently pulled away.
“Good night,” she whispered.
