“Your Grace, forgive the hour, but I must inform you that there’s been a disturbance at the Earl’s Gooldwer estate.”
The words struck Heath like a glass of cold water dashed across his chest.
He was already awake. Had never properly gone to sleep, if truth be told.
Woodrey House was barely stirring, the halls still cocooned in that ghostly quiet particular to early morning—the kind that clung to polished surfaces and drifted in like fog around silence that had lasted too long.
Heath stood near the tall window of his bedchamber, sleeves rolled, cravat half-knotted, staring out at a sky the color of ash. Behind him, the hearth had burned to embers. The house still smelled faintly of wax and old smoke.
He turned at once. “What sort of disturbance?”
His valet hesitated in the doorway. “It came through one of the grooms, sir. From the Earl’s household staff. Something about… an argument. Loud. The Earl left the house shortly after. The servants say Lady Blanche was seen crying in the drawing room.”
The breath he’d been holding escaped—sharper than intended.
She’s not all right.
He moved quickly now, crossing the room in three purposeful strides. “Wake Jarvis. Tell him I want the traveling coach readied immediately.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“And send a footman ahead if you must. Let the Gooldwer staff know I’m en route. This is not a courtesy call.”
The man bowed and vanished. Heath pulled on his coat with practiced, jerking movements. His gloves were on before the mirror caught the storm building in his eyes.
To hell with dignity.
To hell with careful distance and reasonable delays.
She’d walked away from him with a wound in her chest and forgiveness on her lips, and he’d let her go with both hands folded.
Not again.
The drawing room smelled of bergamot and faint ash.
Somewhere in the house, a clock ticked too loudly. Outside, the garden stretched into pale light, brittle with morning dew and half-hearted birdcalls.
Blanche sat curled on the settee in her night-robe, legs tucked beneath her, a cup of tea warming her palms. Fanny was sprawled beside her, her blanket still tangled about her shoulders like a traveling cloak from some childhood story.
Neither of them had slept much.
“I keep thinking that if Heath hadn’t…” She trailed off.
Fanny turned her head. “Hadn’t what?”
“Hadn’t taught me what it means to confront something—someone—with clarity. With care. I don’t know if I’d have stood up to Papa.” She swallowed, then smiled bitterly. “I might’ve poured him brandy and let him pawn the silver.”
Fanny snorted. “He’d have had to pry it from mother’s crypt.”
Blanche smiled. “Heath didn’t just protect me, you know. He trusted me. Gave me space to decide who I wanted to be. Even when it hurt.”
Fanny nudged her shoulder. “I’d say you’re rather heroic, sister mine.”
Blanche blinked back the sting behind her eyes.
“I don’t feel heroic.”
“You don’t have to,” Fanny murmured. “You just have to keep being the one who shows up.”
