Page 70 of The Not So Perfect Duke

“No one told me.” Damon came to sit opposite Evercreech.

“I didn’t leave my name.” Evercreech reached into his side coat pocket and pulled out an envelope. “Your father’s personal belongings.”

How can that be? Damon placed his cup on the table and reached across to take the envelope. He tore it open. His father’s signet ring—or more specifically, his now. It had been in the family for generations. Gold with black onyx in the center, the Latin words gloria honos etched beneath the jewel, which meant honor and dignity. He ran the tip of his finger across the surface.

Those words never applied to his father. Or himself, for that matter.

Time that changed.

Turning the ring over in his palm, he noticed the initials CH were etched on each side. It stood for Chellenham. He had forgotten all about this ring. “I suppose it was the only thing my father had on him, considering his naked state. Thank you for returning it,” Damon said in a low voice as he slipped it on his pinkie finger.

“The cause of death has been finalized; I have the report here.” Evercreech retrieved another envelope and placed it on the table between them. “A diseased heart.”

“In more ways than one. I had planned to come and see you on a matter that concerns my wretched late father. I’m not sure where to begin. As you no doubt construed from how you found the duke, he was a debauched, unfeeling son of a bitch who left illegitimate children across London and beyond because of his recklessness. I had only recently discovered it, but in hiring an investigative agency, I have uncovered a conspiracy involving many men of means.” He paused. Might as well put it out there. “Your name was among the initial list that I was given.” Damon stood and fetched the ledger, opening it to the relevant page. He handed it to Evercreech.

Several moments passed, and Evercreech’s brows knotted as he read the entry. “Explain this,” he ground out, obviously trying to keep his anger in check.

“From what the investigative agency deduced, you were brought to Chellenhome at the age of four when your mother died. You were taken in by Gerald Simpson a year later.”

“Yes,” Evercreech nodded. “He was a retired policeman, and he and his wife were good to me. They saw that I received an education, a loving home, and a chance at a career. They are both gone now. They were in their early sixties when they took me in, never had children of their own.”

“I am glad you had a good home and people that loved you. That is more than most of us ever have.”

“Dora Mitchell. I never knew my mother. I have no memory of her,” Evercreech said, his voice full of emotion. “I asked my father once why he never named me Simpson, and he replied that I should carry on the name I was born with. Turns out, I wasn’t born with this name at all.” Evercreech looked up, a dour expression on his face. “And what in hell has any of this to do with you?”

“You are the detective. Haven’t you made a connection? We are half-brothers, and our sire is the aforementioned unfeeling son of a bitch. See the initials EC? That stands for Edward Cranston.”

Evercreech sat back, his anger whooshed out of him in a rush. “My God,” he croaked, clearly shocked.

Damon sat in his chair. “My God, indeed.”

“Did you know this when I attended the duke’s death?”

“I had just returned from Spain. My mother gave me a list of eight names. It was the children that she knew of. I could not mention it then, not under the circumstances. And at that time, I had no proof. Once I hired The Galway Investigative Agency, I found that ledger and more besides.”

“More?”

Damon explained about Chellenhome and the fact that hundreds of children passed through there, some sired by the late duke, others by men of means who paid a fee to be rid of the children. He told him of the children currently residing at Chellenhome.

Evercreech’s eyes widened. “I have no memory of being at this Chellenhome. The Simpsons paid for me?”

“Yes. A tidy sum. Perhaps the man’s life savings. That was the scheme my father had set up. But I am told it is not illegal. More’s the pity.”

“Why tell me all this? What do you want from me, to be your brother?” Evercreech asked incredulously. “Jesus. You nobs are all alike, thinking you can use people. Buy and sell them and bend them to your will.”

Well, this was not going as Damon had hoped. But what did he expect? This result convinced him to not approach anyone else on his mother’s list or any he may come across in the ledgers. The past can stay in the past, and it was for the best for everyone.

“You have a point, for that is what my father and his morally bankrupt acquaintances did.” Damon stood. “I need a drink. I have scotch. Can I pour you one?”

“I’m on the clock, but hell. Pour me one. This has me completely rattled. I cannot believe this, but there it is. Proof, as you said.”

Damon poured the drinks, then handed a glass to Evercreech. “Proof, such as it is. As far as a brother, I leave that up to you. You see, I did not have a loving home and people that loved me. Am I looking for a family? Perhaps. Rather pathetic when I say it aloud.” Damon took his seat and sipped his scotch. “But I will settle for us getting to know one another. Perhaps we can become friends. I do not have enough of those, either.”

Evercreech studied him closely as if trying to ascertain Damon’s motives. “And what about those other names on the list you spoke of?”

“I have come to believe the past is best left in the past. I am sorry I told you since it upset you, and I don’t want to put anyone else through that. As far as the original list is concerned, you and Olivia are as far as I will go. Besides, I will concentrate on caring for the five children currently at the home that were sired by my father. They need my assistance, as do the other children, and I aim to give it.”

“Olivia?”