“Clara, this is—” Gooldwer began.
“I know,” she interrupted softly, looking to Heath. “You’re the Duke of Woodrey. I’ve seen you at the Red Velvet?—”
He shook his head. “Enough.”
The woman’s expression was unreadable—neither defensive nor remorseful, only… resigned.
She murmured something about finishing supper and withdrew, her presence lingering like dust in a forgotten room.
Gooldwer didn’t look up as he spoke. “It wasn’t meant to last, you know. The comforts. What money I had ran thinner than I expected.” He swirled the liquid in his glass. “And now I find myself at the edge of town, in a borrowed house, in sheer disbelief that fortune could be so consistently unkind.”
You abandoned them. The words sat bitterly on Heath’s tongue.
“I was never suited for fatherhood,” Gooldwer continued. “My marriage was…” He paused. “Let us say, dutiful. Passionless. I left because I thought—perhaps selfishly—that it would be better for everyone.”
Heath’s jaw tightened.
Better for whom? For Blanche, who pawned jewelry to keep up appearances? Who still scans doorways half expecting a ghost?
“Bold words for a man who took every last penny of his daughters’ dowries.”
The weight of Heath’s accusation fell on Gooldwer like a bucket of cold water, and finally, Heath could see in his face what he had been waiting to see: guilt, shame for his actions.
He set the glass down carefully on the side table.
“If you expect absolution,” Heath said coldly, setting the half-empty glass aside. “I cannot offer it. What Blanche chooses to grant will be hers alone.”
Gooldwer gave a slow nod, though his gaze remained fixed on the hearth. “I don’t expect forgiveness,” he said after a pause. “I’m not sure I’d know what to do with it.”
“I don’t think you deserve it either, not after all that you have done. But your daughters deserve an answer. Blanche deserves to know the truth.”
“I… I’ve tried. Many times.” Gooldwer fidgeted nervously with his fingers. Shame prevented him from looking Heath in the eye. “I’ve written many letters to them, but I can never find the courage to send them.”
“Well, this time you will.” Heath stood, retrieving his gloves from the edge of the sideboard. “You’ll write to her.”
“I… I will. At least I’ll try,” Gooldwer rose as well, though more slowly, as though the very idea burdened him. “But please, Your Grace, tell her nothing yet—not until I’ve found the words. But in the meantime…”
Heath turned to face him fully.
“I will need funds.”
Heath withdrew a note from his coat pocket and placed it neatly on the table between them. “Enough to last the Season.”
He wasn’t surprised. He knew full well that Lord Gooldwer wouldn’t write to Blanche unless there was something in it for him.
A man like him wasn’t motivated by love, but by leverage. It was always selfish interests that drove him.
Gooldwer reached for the note, fingers twitching. “I’ll write to her. If she wants to speak, I’ll be here.”
“See that you are,” Heath said coldly. “Not for your sake. For hers.”
Silence stretched between them, taut as a wire.
Lord Gooldwer’s hands curled slightly at his sides. “She won’t want to see me. Not truly. Not after what I’ve done.”
Heath’s gaze hardened. “Then you truly do not know her at all.”
The words struck like steel, stripped of courtesy.
