The space was brighter, much brighter than he’d expected a death room to be. The curtains were open, light streaming into the space. Yet a feeling of dismal grief permeated the air. Death was close; he could feel it in his bones. Shivering, he turned toward the huge four-poster bed that dominated the space.
If he had been shocked at Dane’s appearance upon their last meeting, he was doubly so now. In the space of a month, the man had withered away to mere bones. His skin appeared almost translucent, pulled tight over the harsh planes of his face. With pale, cracked lips, he spoke, and the sound of his voice chilled Peter’s very core.
“You have come.”
Peter swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes.” After a moment’s pause, he moved into the room. A set of chairs sat next to the bed, no doubt for his daughters to keep vigil over him. Peter took one. Now was not the time for stiff manners and social niceties. His gaze swept the sunken form beneath the pile of blankets, regret sitting heavily on his shoulders. “I am sorry I did not come sooner.”
Dry lips lifted in a shadow of a smile. “But you are here, my boy. That is all that matters.” The smile fell then, as if the will was strong but the body too weak to hold it. “I am sorry, Peter, so sorry about your mother.”
Tears stung Peter’s eyes. The old fury tried to sputter to life, remembering the day the duke had turned him contemptuously away. But it was a weak thing and shriveled before it could find purchase. “I…” The words stuck in his throat. He cleared it and tried again. “I forgive you.”
The man seemed to deflate in relief. His hand twitched, reaching for Peter. Without hesitation, he grabbed it, holding the frail bones gingerly in his own. “But,” he continued through a throat thick with emotion, “only if you will forgive me. It was cruel of me to threaten you. And I promise, here and now, I will not let Danesford go to ruin. I will take care of your tenants, your family, and make certain they do not want for anything.”
The old man nodded, tears spilling over onto his withered cheeks. His skeletal fingers convulsed in Peter’s own. Peace descended, such as Peter had never known. Lenora had done this, he knew, had brought him this healing. His heart swelled, thinking of her and the possibility of a life with her.
But he had forgotten Lady Clara.
“What do you mean, you threatened him?” She stood at the far side of the bed, facing Peter, her hands fisted at her sides. “He’s dying and you threatened him?”
“Clara,” her father tried, his voice a weak whisper.
“Have you no shame?” she hissed, her eyes filled with outraged fire. “It was not my father’s fault. If anyone deserves the blame, it’s me. If not for my actions, he would not have turned you away all those years ago.”
“You?” Peter rasped. He released the duke’s hand and stood. Tension threaded through his body. “What do you mean, you’re responsible?”
For the first time, uncertainty flared in her gaze. “But surely…” She looked to her father, then back to Peter in confusion. “Surely Father told youwhyhe turned you away.”
“Clara, don’t,” Dane tried again, his hand rising toward her.
“Yes,” Peter answered, his gaze darting back and forth between father and daughter, a horrible premonition rising like a floodwater in him. “He told me my father was blackmailing him, that he thought I had come to do my father’s work.”
“Did he not tell you the reason for that blackmail?”
“No.”
Lady Clara sat on the bed heavily. “Papa, why didn’t you tell him?”
The duke only shook his head. With a tearful smile, she leaned forward and kissed his forehead. “You silly, stubborn, wonderful man,” she whispered. “You cannot protect me forever, you know.”
He gave her a wan smile. “I shall, as long as there is breath in my body.”
She patted his hand, then sighed. “Mr. Ashford, you may as well take a seat. We have much to discuss, you and I.”
Uncertainty coiling in his stomach, Peter did as he was bid. Still it was some moments before Lady Clara spoke.
“I suppose I must start at the beginning, for you to understand fully what was at stake,” she began. “Mr. Ashford, have you heard of the rivalry between the previous Duke of Dane and your paternal grandfather?”
“Peter,” he said.
She smiled wearily. “Peter.”
“I only know my grandfather was cut off without a cent. That when his father died, and his brother, your grandfather, took the helm, there was a falling-out and he was banished.” It had been a favorite topic when his father was in a drunken rage—which had been a good portion of the time before he’d abandoned them to an even more desperate poverty. All their misfortune could be traced back to that one moment.
Clara nodded. “Yes, that’s true. But do you know why they fought?”
Here Peter could only shake his head. His father had conveniently left that bit out when cursing the duke.
“From all accounts, your grandfather refused to take the living that was offered him, instead expecting to be supported in every luxury and extravagance. When my grandfather cut him off, hoping it would force him to take responsibility for his own life, he stole a quantity of jewels and coin and fled into the night.”
