Page 58 of A Bloom for a Blacksmith

“At the ripe old of sixteen,” Darius murmured thoughtfully. He had already read ahead, though, his face displaying a pinched expression. “Notice a pattern in these entries?” he asked.

Her brows furrowing in question, Stella followed his finger, where the subsequent names of the first-born boys were Thomas, James, Thomas, and James. The middle names were various combinations that included Edward and Charles. “Well, that’s not so unusual,” she commented. “They’re their grandfathers’ names.”

“Look at the dates of death,” he instructed. “The age they were when each of them died.”

Stella did his bidding, mentally calculating that every generation of Entwistle men died at about the age of forty. “Considering the lifespan of men during those two centuries…” She shrugged. “That’s to be expected.”

“But what don’t you see?” he pressed.

Her brows once again furrowing, Stella studied all the entries. “Only one boy,” she whispered. “In every generation, there was no spare heir. And only a few girls.” She glanced up at him. “What are you thinking?”

“Lord Entwistle is an Immortal,” he stated.

Stella blinked. “You think that because…” she waved at the book, “there are some coincidences in names and ages of death?”

“I think it because I saw him die. This letter…” He held up the letter the viscount had given to Stella earlier that afternoon. “It was in his possession at the time of his death.”

Giving a start, Stella scoffed. “Why?”

“He collected our correspondence the night before the battle. We would write to loved ones in the event we were killed, and entrust them to an officer who would then return them to us if we survived, or see to it that they were sent by post when we returned from the battlefield.”

Stella took the letter from him and turned it over. “You never intended for this to be sent by post,” she argued. “There’s no address. Only my name.”

“I was clearly interrupted…” He pointed to the second to the last line of the letter.

I have been summoned and so must end this.

“I thought I would get it back from Woodhurst later that day or the following day and finish it,” he replied.

“But he died. So… what happened to the correspondence?”

Darius lifted a hip onto the edge of the table and crossed his arms. “A major general collected his effects and returned all the letters to those who wrote them. All except for that one.” He pointed to the letter.

“You’re sure?” she asked.

“I remember asking the major general if he had it. I remember, because…” His shoulders dropped and he lowered his voice. “I had been thinking to do the same thing.”

“The same thing?” she repeated.

“Die on the battlefield,” he stated.

Stella scoffed. “Pretend to die?” she whispered. “Or really die?”

It was his turn to scoff. “Of course, pretend it. I never die deliberately,” he claimed. When he heard her sound of protest, he added, “Well, that was only the one time,” he said, referring to when he had been a gladiator and been forced to die in the arena. Had the audience paid witness to his mortal injuries healing before their eyes, he would have been deemed a demon or worse.

“But why did you intend to fake your death?”

He inhaled and let the breath out in a huff. “Because I missed you, and because of that dimwit colonel,” he replied, motioning to the letter.

Stella sighed. “And I was back home in that small village, desperately trying to grow vegetables in that greenhouse you built so we might have food.” She gave a start. “What about Lord Woodhurst’s body? Did he just… get up and walk away?”

“Something like that. He knew I paid witness to the shot that killed him. He knew I watched him go down. He must have known I would check for a pulse before I returned to my regiment,” he explained.

“So, he knew you would report his death, so he could just leave the battlefield when it was dark.”

“Return to London with word of the death of his father—easily confirmed—and claim to be the heir.”

“Sixteen-year-old heir,” she said, rolling her eyes.