He reached into a drawer and withdrew a small glass bottle, pouring two fingers of brandy. He offered her a glass, but she refused it with a look of contempt.
He took a sip, then set the glass down with care. “I did not seduce Julia. Nor did I dismiss her. She left of her own accord, and by the time I found her again, it was already too late.”
Rose’s fingers flexed against the edge of the desk. “I’ve seen the letters. She was desperate. She wrote to you.”
Felix almost laughed, but it came out as a sigh. “She did not write to me, Rose. She wrote to my father.”
This, at last, seemed to shake her. Her voice was a whisper. “You expect me to believe that?”
He did not answer. Instead, he turned to the highboy behind the desk and spun the lock on the second drawer—his father’s cipher, one Felix had memorized at age twelve. He drew out two papers: one, a heavy slip with a crest at the top, the other a letter on cheap, ink-blotted paper.
He pushed both across the desk.
“Read them,” he said.
She stared at the documents, then at him, suspicion painted in every muscle. At last, she snatched up the first. Her eyes tracked the top line.
It was a death certificate for the duke’s father. Rose read the date, then the signature of the attending physician.
She looked up, confused. “Why am I reading this?”
Felix slid the second sheet toward her. “Read the letter.”
She hesitated, then unfolded it. She did not read aloud, but Felix knew it by heart.
Your Grace,
I beg forgiveness for writing, but I am alone, and I am ill, and I have nowhere else to turn.
I do not ask for your name, but only for your help, as you once promised me, before it was all taken back.
The next line, Felix knew, was stained by what looked like water damage, but he guessed it was tears.
She is so little, and I am so afraid. If you can spare anything for her, I will never trouble you again. Please, Your Grace, do not cast us out.
He watched as the blood drained from Rose’s face.
“It is Julia’s hand,” she whispered.
He nodded. “The date. The address.”
She scanned the line at the bottom. The date was three weeks before the old duke’s death.
She looked up, stricken. “This cannot be.”
“I did not know about her, or the child, untilafterhis affairs were settled.” Felix kept his voice level, though he felt the effort in his bones. “That letter was never answered. My father kept it, like he kept all his secrets. By the time I found it, Julia was dead and the baby already in the hands of the nuns.”
Rose stared at the paper, her hands trembling. “You let me believe it was you. I thought?—”
He cut her off, gentle but unyielding. “I barely knew you, Rose. Barely knew what kind of woman you are. But… the way you care for Lizzie… I cannot doubt your character anymore.”
A sound escaped her then. A gasp, or a sob, he wasn’t sure. “You let me hate you for it.”
Felix smiled, faint and humorless. “I have experienced disdain before. Though not to this level, admittedly.”
She pressed her hand to her mouth, fighting to regain composure. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you would not have believed it,” he said simply. “Because it wouldn’t have changed what happened to Julia, or to Lizzie. Because my father is dead, and there is no justice in damning him twice.”
