Page 53 of The Not So Perfect Duke

“Oh yes,” Damon murmured, “You have no idea.”

“What do I call you—Duke?”

“My name is Damon, but you can call me that when you feel comfortable. In the meantime, refer to me as the duke, or call me Chellenham.” Damon stood and held out his hand. “There is no need to run. If you decide you want a brother, we will go from there. Regardless, I will see that you have a future. Pact?”

Hugh looked at the hand, then shook it. “Pact. Chellenham.”

The corner of Damon’s mouth quirked with amusement. He liked the boy already. Hugh turned and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Damon exhaled and plopped onto the chair. “God.”

“You handled that well. You were kind but not assertive. You gave Hugh options and plenty to think about. He will be a handsome man one day. But then, how could he not?”

Before Damon could reply, Buchanan was at the door with a young girl who was sniffling and clearly frightened. “Adina Desmond.”

Althea immediately stood and went to the girl, gently placing her arm around her shoulder. “There, there. No need to be alarmed. The duke and I wish to ask you a few questions, that’s all.” Althea steered the girl to the chair.

“All I want is my mother!” she wailed.

Althea handed her a handkerchief. “Calm yourself, Adina. And wipe your tears.”

The girl did but was still clearly distressed.

“We are going to try and locate your mother. What is her name?” Althea took out her notebook and pencil.

“Sarah Desmond,” she whimpered as she wiped her nose. “We lived in Downderry, a cottage across from the beach. It was a small cottage with only a couple of rooms. But we were warm enough.”

“Do you remember your father?” Althea questioned.

Damon thought it best to stay quiet so the girl would not be upset further.

“No. My mother said he was dead and was a well-to-do gent.”

“Is there anyone in the town you and your mother used to visit? I know it was many years ago, but anything you can recall will help us find your mother,” Althea asked.

Adina had black hair, but the blue eyes were Cranston through and through. Damon recalled his mother saying not all the children may be blond. The girl was so distressed, and this was clearly not the time to mention any blood connection.

“There was a woman who lived on the road to Seaton. My mother called her Aunt Fiona. I don’t know her last name.” Adina dabbed at her eyes, tears still welling in them. “Same as mine, maybe.”

“Adina,” Damon said gently. “Miss Galway is a top-notch investigator. Her agency will find your mother. Meanwhile, do you want to stay here with the others? Mrs. Seddon could use your assistance in looking after the younger children. Do you think you could do that?”

She finally met Damon’s gaze. His heart skipped a beat. For there was a resemblance in the color and shape of the eyes—along with the sharp cheekbones.

“Yes, sir. I will help Mrs. Seddon. She’s been good to me, to all of us.”

“That’s the good girl. Things will be better here from now on, I promise. Dry your tears and find Mrs. Seddon.”

Adina nodded and left the room.

“You were wise not to mention your familial ties,” Althea said in a low voice. “Perhaps we should forgo speaking to the two younger boys, Jack and Byron, ages six and eight. I doubt they could add anything. They have been here for nearly four years, and they would have no memory of their mothers,” Althea flipped to another page in the ledger. “I wanted to wait to bring this to your attention. The boys arrived at Chellenhome the same day. No mother was mentioned for either one. They could be brothers.”

A knock sounded at the door, and Buchanan stepped in. “I finished the examinations. Some signs of malnutrition all around, but nothing that cannot be reversed with a few weeks of good healthy meals. As for Mrs. Seddon, there is bruising where she was kicked, but she is recovering nicely. I have Jack and Byron outside. You should say hello, at least.”

“Fine, show them in.”

When the two boys stepped into the room, Damon felt he had been kicked hard in the midsection. It was as if looking at a portrait that had been done of him when he was that age. Damon always hated the painting, which had been completed soon after his mother was banished. His mother had commissioned the blasted thing, and the portrait sat in a dusty corner of the attic for decades. His contemptible father never hung it on the wall.

The boys were unmistakably brothers and were holding hands. Yet, they had different last names. Both looked wary but not afraid.