Letitia watched the girl scamper off with a fond smile, then froze as another familiar figure lumbered into view.
“Clio!” she exclaimed. “My goodness, what are you doing here?”
Clio waddled—there really was no more polite way to say it—toward Letitia, stomach first. She wrapped her arms around her former companion. It was awkward, but it was warm and heartfelt, and Letty sank into the embrace.
“What are you talking about?” Clio objected. “Of course, I came. I made Hector pack up the very instant we learned that you were in danger. He made us stop about a thousand times?—”
“You areverynear your time, my love,” Hector grumbled from the corner in his Northern burr.
“—but we made it, and now so did you.” Clio cupped Letitia’s face in her hands. Tears sparkled in her eyes, but she dashed them away. “Goodness, impending motherhood has made me weep over everything. This is worth it, though. I am so happy you are here.”
“We all are,” Persephone assured her, as Iris, who had darted back over with several cousins in tow, nodded exuberantly.
Letty felt her heart start to melt at the outpouring of kindness from these people who had no real reason to welcome them into their fold.
Well, no reason except…
On impulse, she looked over at Ezra and found him watching her with a look on his face that was so impossibly tender that her breath caught just from looking at it. When he saw her watching, he gave her a quick nod, then slipped away with Hugh and Clio’s husband, Hector.
Letitia tried to shove down the pang of disappointment that she felt watching his retreating back. That was her answer then, she supposed. He had just wanted to safeguard her until he could get her back where she belonged.
“I think we all need some tea,” Persephone declared, drawing Letitia’s attention. “Do you all want tea? Clio? Letitia—may I call you Letitia? I feel as though we all ought to be on familiar terms at this point.”
“Of course you may,” Letty said, smiling. “And tea sounds wonderful.”
Ezra had never been hers to begin with. Hadn’t she been the one saying as much all along? He was a duke, and she was a servant. She ought to be grateful just for the friends she had managed to find—and for Iris, too, of course.
She would focus on what she had. And she would not let the ache in her heart stop her from enjoying all the luck that she had been given.
* * *
“I saw you less frequently when we lived in the same city,” Ezra commented when Xander appeared in his study less than a week after he had left his cousin behind in Belgium. There was no heat to the words, not like there might once have been. It turned out that Ezra was not at all displeased to see the Duke of Godwin, even if itwassurprising.
Xander gave a thin smile, and Ezra sat up straighter in his seat. Not a social call, then—not that he had truly expected as much, given that his cousin had crossed a continent to reach him.
“I didn’t trust this to the post,” Xander said, drawing a parcel of papers from his coat. “May I sit?”
Ezra waved his cousin to the seat across from him, anticipation and dread clawing at his throat.
Xander clasped his hands.
“After you left Brussels,” he began, “I wasted no time tracking down some of Dugley’s associates. It turns out that he has spent the past decades consorting with some of the most unpleasant characters you could imagine, but only one of them showed a reaction when I mentioned your father’s name. He was called Jim Mattigan—an Englishman from up around Manchester who had come to Belgium with Dugley years ago. It seems that Dugley owes Mattigan a great deal of money—and, when I offered to pay off some of that debt, Mattigan was only too happy to talk.”
Ezra was listening intently, but when Xander paused, he knew that what came next would not be good.
“Just tell me, Xander,” he croaked. He felt as though he were outside his body. Could it really be happening? Could the answers that he had sought for so many years finally be at his fingertips?
Xander nodded solemnly. “You were right, in a sense,” he said gently. “Dugleywasbehind the fire, though Mattigan was the one who actually carried the torch. He is a working man, you see; he posed as a merchant seeking to sell wares and then hid until nightfall. When everyone was asleep, he set the blaze. But it wasn’t Dugley’s idea—he was just the connection to Mattigan, paid for his associations. The viscount needed money and wasn’t scrupulous about how he got it. So, Dugley hired Mattigan to set the fire… but it was on your father’s orders.”
Something heavy settled in Ezra’s chest, feeling more like resignation than surprise. He wondered how long he had secretly suspected that his father was not just innocent in all this, and how long he had refused to admit it to himself.
“My father,” he echoed woodenly. “But… Why? He was the one who got burned!”
“Because Mattigan got it wrong—or at least he said he did,” Xander explained. “He was supposed to start the blaze in the servants’ wing. Then, when everyone rushed to help put out the blaze, your father was going to rob my father’s study. He was sick of being the impoverished duke in the family, you see. He wanted—well. Mattigan wasn’t certain. He said he thought that your father wanted to kill the rest of the men in the family, but it was possible he was just looking for blackmail. His only job was to light the fire.”
“But something went wrong,” Ezra muttered. The pieces were all falling into place, and they made a distressing amount of sense.
Xander looked skeptical. “Mattigansaidit was an accident, but he also told me that France had the right way of things and the only good duke was a dead duke, so it is distinctly possible that he lit up the family wing on purpose.” He paused. “The bastard still took my money for answers, though.”
