“I wouldn’t know,” Dominic snapped. “I don’t even remember the wedding!”
“Then perhaps it would be prudent to speak to your wife before considering such a step,” Wells said carefully, rising to his feet. “She may shed light on what you cannot recall.”
Dominic turned to face him, jaw tight. “Where is she?”
Wells reached into his coat and withdrew a folded sheet of paper. “She is currently residing with her brother at a townhouse not far from here on a quiet street of Mayfair.”
Dominic took the paper and opened it, scanning the address written in Mr. Wells’s precise hand. His grip on the page tightened.
“Good day, my lord,” the solicitor said with a bow before quietly exiting the study.
Dominic barely acknowledged his departure. He stared down at the address, his heart pounding and mind churning.
No. This couldn’t be real.
He had not come back from war to find himself tethered to a past he couldn’t even remember. To a woman he hardly knew. He wouldn’t accept it. He couldn’t.
He let the paper fall onto the desk and turned for the door, his long strides purposeful, his face set with grim resolve.
He needed answers—and he would get them.
Starting with his wife.
2
Mrs. Dorothea Stevens lingered just outside the door to the study, her fingers clutching the folds of her mourning gown as though they might lend her strength. The faint murmur of quill against parchment within told her Matthew was working—likely on household accounts, as he often did at this hour. She drew in a breath, held it, and released it shakily. It had taken her the better part of the morning to gather the nerve to approach him, and still, she hesitated.
She prayed her brother was in a temperate mood. Pleasant, even. But with Matthew, one never knew. His disposition could turn with the wind, and Dorothea had learned long ago how unpredictable—and dangerous—that could be. As children, his outbursts had terrified her. As adults, they left her feeling small and powerless. Yet, despite the fear curling in her belly, she had no choice but to seek his permission today. She needed to speak with Mr. Wells, the solicitor handling her late husband’s affairs.
Just as she reached out to knock, a voice sliced through the silence behind her. “Why are you loitering in the corridor like some common vagabond?”
Dorothea flinched and turned to find Arabella—her sister-in-law—standing there, arms crossed over her chest. With her striking blonde curls and perpetually arched brows, Arabella looked the epitome of what thetondeemed beautiful.
“I was hoping to speak with Matthew,” Dorothea replied, her voice soft.
Arabella lifted her chin, her eyes raking over Dorothea with open disdain. “And you thought skulking about like a servant would accomplish that?”
“No, but?—”
Arabella didn’t let her finish. She never did. “Oh, do stop dithering. Just follow me. I’ve no patience for your mewling excuses.”
Without waiting for a response, Arabella turned sharply on her heel and swept into the study. Dorothea followed, her pulse quickening with every step.
The room smelled faintly of ink and pipe tobacco. Matthew sat behind a heavy oak desk, his broad shoulders hunched as he scribbled in one of the ledgers. His red hair—so like her own—was neatly combed, but a scowl already pinched the lines of his face before he even looked up.
Arabella’s tone softened to a purr. “Dear, might I steal a moment of your time?”
Matthew raised his head, his expression easing slightly. “I suppose I can spare a few minutes… for you.”
Arabella waved a dainty hand. “Not for me, my love. For Dorothea.”
At the mention of her name, Matthew’s eyes flashed with annoyance. “Oh,” he said coldly, turning his attention to his sister. “What do you want?”
His voice had lost its warmth entirely, reduced to a gruff bark that made Dorothea’s knees threaten to buckle. Still, shesquared her shoulders and smoothed her gown with trembling fingers.
“I was hoping,” she began carefully, “to speak with Mr. Wells today. Regarding Dominic’s estate.”
“Why?” Matthew snapped.
