“The constable read the letter the same day I discovered it, but as both Mr. Bradshaw and my wife were dead, we had no way of uncovering what decision she spoke of.”
Relief trickled in, mingling with guilt, making his hands sweat. “Minney was wrong.”
“Yes.”
“You could have told me.”
“Perhaps I thought,” he said, voice deepening, “some of the faith you have always had in your father should have been lent to me.”
Yes, it should have. Hadn’t he known all along the man was innocent? Hadn’t he sensed it beyond everything? Then why had he lashed out anyway? Why had he accused and insulted and damaged the only friendship he had?
“As for the letters upstairs. In my wife’s chamber.” Lord Gillingham placed the letters back into the drawer, slid it closed, and locked it again. “After reading her words, I felt inclined to answer with my own. Even if it was too late.”
“And the sorrow between you?”
“The death of our son.” His lips thinned. “She knew me well. She knew the reason I left so often. I avoided her and Eliza those last months because I…because I …” He rubbed a hand down his face. “Because I was a coward. I had too much hurt of my own to be able to support theirs as well, and as it happened, my absence cost more than distance between us. It cost us her life.”
“You do not know that.”
“If I had been here that night, where I should have been, she would not have been killed. I could have protected her.” Tear-moistened eyes met Felton’s. “Her and Eliza both.”
“I am sorry.”
“Yes.”
“I am sorry for the things Minney said,” Felton admitted. His throat worked up and down. “I am sorry that I believed them.” All pride, any facade, fell away. He stood open and exposed and bare before a man who had always understood him and cared for him.
The name had never mattered to Lord Gillingham. The whispers had never meant anything. Not even the chance of his father’s guilt, that incriminating watch fob, had stopped the viscount from being there for a boy who needed him more than anything.
Who still needed him.
Tears burned at the back of his eyes when Lord Gillingham turned his back. Not that Felton blamed him. Nor could ever blame him again.
Felton deserved to remain unforgiven and more.
He bit the edge of his lip, nodded his understanding, and left for the entrance hall. He was just taking his hat from the butler when a voice stopped him.
“Northwood?”
He steeled himself as the butler opened the door, letting in a gust of rainy air. “Yes, my lord?”
“What say you to a game of chess tomorrow night?”
Warmth pounded through him, scaring away the chill, offering balm to the fears that had already reared inside him. His friend, even still.
“I shall be here.” A smile crooked his lips as he put on his hat and stepped into the downpour. When he swatted at his cheeks, he wiped away more than rain.
His friend indeed.
Eliza backed away from the foyer window, pressing a gloved hand to her stomach. The same flutter again. The one she awoke with after a nightmare, or the one that slammed her when she realized, yet again, someone was trying to take her life.
But there was no danger now.
Just a young man, dressed in black tailcoat, breeches, and stockings, who was making a mad dash from the carriage to the front door.
She moved backward another step before he burst inside, the cool mist of rain blowing in with him.
Slamming the door shut, he turned to look at her and froze. His expression altered, eyes widening, as he beheld her.
