He remained in the sitting room, in and out of unrestful slumber. As night gave way to morning, the early songbirds punctuated the silence almost as loudly as the front door had slammed shut.
Wonder if she found the book I left her…He had snuck into her room a few hours after their encounter in the sitting room, and left it for her as a gift.
It’s time to act.
Heath was in Richmond Park.
The wind had a bite, sharp and damp, as he passed the edge of the parkland. He met a contact there—a former soldier-turned-stable master who owed him a favor. The man pointed him west, toward a row of cottages hidden by thickets and low stone walls.
“That one,” the man had said, jerking his chin toward the smallest dwelling. “He’s been seen at the market, but never speaks to anyone. Pays in coin, always silver. Keeps to himself, like he’s hiding from his name.”
Now, Heath stood before it.
The cottage was unremarkable. Ivy had taken root around the windows, and a cracked teacup held the door ajar. The scent of burned coal lingered faintly, clinging to the damp air.
For a long breath, Heath simply stared. This was the end of every hushed conversation and unsent letter. This was the man who had vanished and left shadows in Blanche’s eyes.
He knocked. A long pause, then, slow steps inside were heard.
The door opened with the reluctant creak of age, revealing a man gaunt from silence rather than illness. His beard was streaked with gray, his shirt wrinkled and hastily buttoned. He squinted into the light as though emerging from a long, unspoken winter.
“Yes?” The man looked him up and down, probably trying to hide his surprise at receiving such a distinguished gentleman at such a humble abode. “What can I do for you?”
Heath removed his hat. “I’m here regarding Vincent Waldron, Earl of Gooldwer.”
The man froze.
“Who—who are you?” he asked, voice roughened by disuse.
“Heath Savery,” came the calm reply. “The Duke of Woodrey.”
“A Duke?” Gooldwer looked puzzled. “And what urgent business could Your Grace possibly have with him?”
“I am the husband of his daughter, Blanche,” Heath clarified, noticing the surprise on the man’s face.
He was so obviously Blanche’s father, even though he never said so. Her eyes were his eyes. And the high cheekbones as well. Not to mention the auburn hair.
Gooldwer’s brow lifted—first with confusion, then with something closer to incredulous amusement. “A duke,” he murmured. “So it’s true, then. I’d heard whispers, but I didn’t quite believe she’d gone and married one.”
He found not even a single flicker of guilt in the man’s features. Only fatigue. And that absence struck a nerve. Blanche had clung to the memory of her father like a lifeline. She deserved a protector, not a man who had folded himself into anonymity.
“Yes,” Heath said at last, his voice even but clipped. “Though it was hardly a match made in drawing-room perfection. But she is my wife now. And more to the point, she isyourdaughter. One who has not stopped searching for you.”
Gooldwer stepped back. His face had gone pale, the color drained beneath the weight of reality. “I thought… I assumed she’d made peace with it by now. With my absence. That she’d…” He didn’t finish the sentence.
“She hasn’t,” Heath said. “She lies awake, wondering whether you’re dead or simply uninterested. She asks questions she never deserved to carry.”
He took a step forward, not aggressive, but firm. “She needs to know why. She deserves to know why you left them.”
Gooldwer looked away, out toward the smoke-dark horizon, and for the first time, he seemed less a ghost and more a man still tethered to a life he had abandoned.
“I never meant to disappear,” he murmured.
Heath’s eyes narrowed. “And yet you did.”
The man said nothing.
Heath straightened, the authority of his station quiet but undeniable. “She deserves more than riddles. You will write to her. Or speak to her. But the time for silence has ended.”
