Page 20 of Duke of Bronze

CHAPTER 20

" I was beginning to think you wouldn't be on time."

The voice came from behind Colin, halting him mid-step. Instinct tightened his spine, his hand twitching slightly at his side as he cast a swift glance around him. This was no place for carelessness.

The fading sunlight cast long shadows across the uneven cobblestones, but it was enough. A figure emerged from the alley he was passing by. Roderick.

Colin looked him over. The man had a new bruise on his right jaw. Unsurprising. "And I did not think you would be lurking like a specter in the night," Colin returned.

Roderick's face remained unreadable, his shoulders shifting in an almost imperceptible shrug. "I need to ensure you arrive intact to Lydia. We cannot have you losing yourself in our world."

Colin let out a short huff, stepping into stride beside him. "I am quite capable of finding my way, I assure you."

Roderick merely inclined his head. "I do not question your abilities. I merely fulfill my duty."

Colin said nothing, merely casting his companion a sidelong glance. Roderick was a man of few words, his every action calculated and his tone consistently devoid of unnecessary embellishments. Colin had yet to decide if he found the man's demeanor amusing or intolerable.

They reached the residence soon enough, and as they stepped inside, the scent of burning wood and faint traces of lavender met Colin's senses. The lavender reminded him of Anna, and it also brought back the question of her relationship with this family.

"She has been expecting you," Roderick's wife said. The woman's posture was rigid as she stood in the middle of the apartment, her dark eyes unreadable as they shifted between her husband and Colin.

For the briefest moment, Colin wondered if her words had been meant for him at all. Whatever grievance this woman held against him, he could not fathom. Her courtesy was faultless, yet colder than the winter breeze.

"We tried not to be late." Roderick touched his wife's shoulder as he passed her. Colin nearly asked what he had meant by that —after all, he had arrived on time—but something in the man's tone kept him silent.

Instead, he watched as Roderick tousled the hair of two of his children on his way across the room. The older of the two, a girl of perhaps nine with tangled dark curls, sent a wary look in Colin's direction before quickly looking away. The younger, a boy, leaned into the affection but clung to his sister's side, his small fingers grasping at her sleeve.

In the farthest corner of the room, a third child lay asleep atop a thin mattress, his breathing deep and even. Colin noted the hollowness of their cheeks, the way their clothes hung a touch too loose on their small frames, and something in his chest tightened.

But it was Lydia's room itself that struck him the hardest when he entered.

It was dismal. Stifling. A single, narrow bed occupied the far corner, the threadbare blankets pulled up to the chin of a woman whose presence seemed swallowed by the room's oppressive dimness. Against the opposite wall stood a small chest of drawers, its edges worn and splintered with age. A lone wooden stool sat beside the bed, its surface scarred from years of use.

"This way."

Roderick gestured toward the stool as he crouched beside the frail figure in the bed. Colin hesitated, his gaze moving between Roderick and the motionless form buried beneath layers of blankets.

"We're here," Roderick murmured, his voice gentler than Colin had ever heard it. At the sound, the woman beneath the blankets stirred.

A skeletal hand—thin, pale, and trembling—emerged, and Roderick caught it in his own and helped the woman shift into a slightly more upright position.

Colin fought to keep his expression neutral, but it was a battle he was not certain he was winning. Lydia was ravaged, and hehad more questions than he ought to have.

There was no other way to describe the sight of her. The disease had stripped her down to skin and bone, yet, when her gaze met his, he saw the sharp intelligence that still burned behind the sickness. Her bright blue eyes, despite the wreckage of her body, belonged to a woman no more than in her fifties.

She studied him for a long moment, and Colin—who had stood in front of kings and councils, who had commanded rooms filled with the most powerful men in England—found himself resisting the urge to shift under the intensity of her stare.

"You would do best to sit," Roderick murmured again, this time without looking at him.

Something about the way he said it sent an uneasy ripple down Colin's spine. His jaw tightening, he lowered himself onto the small wooden stool. It creaked under his weight, its legs uneven against the floor. It was as uncomfortable as he had suspected.

But the discomfort of the seat was nothing compared to the constriction of his chest. Whatever Lydia had to say, he had the distinct feeling it would change everything.

"You are Lydia, I presume?"

"Yes." Her voice, though hoarse, carried surprising strength.

Colin studied her carefully. "May I ask what business you had with the late Duke?" He was careful not to betray the impatience churning within him.

Lydia did not answer immediately. She merely held his gaze. Just as Colin began to suspect she would offer no response at all, she spoke.

"You look just like him."

Colin stiffened. The comparison unsettled him, for he rather thought he favored his mother, and yet here was a woman who claimed otherwise.

"I knew your father from my days at the theater," Lydia continued, a wistful note slipping into her voice. "Years before he assumed the title of Duke. He never missed my performances and called me the siren whose voice he could never forget."

Colin arched a brow at that, but said nothing, allowing her to continue.

"We formed a friendship," she went on, "and it blossomed into something more. Until fate reminded us both of our stations in life." A pause. "He was an heir to a dukedom. And I had no place in his world."

A mistress. Colin swallowed. So that was what this meeting was—an encounter with his father's mistress. But why now? And why the sudden urgency? The questions pressed against the walls of his mind, demanding answers he was not so certain he wished to receive.

Lydia shifted slightly, preparing to continue, but a sudden, violent fit of coughs overtook her. Roderick was beside her in an instant, and he pressed a handkerchief to her lips and wrapped a steadying arm around her frail shoulders. Colin watched, a deep and unfamiliar pang unfurling in his chest as the fabric came away stained with blood.

The sight left an odd, hollow ache within him. Whatever grievances Lydia bore, whatever had brought him here today, there was no denying the inevitable—she was dying. When her coughing subsided, Lydia fixed her gaze upon him once more.

"Shortly after your father assumed his title as Duke, I found myself carrying his child."

Colin stilled. But she was not finished.

"He became scarce then. Too scarce."

The room tilted slightly, the ground beneath him shifting in ways it never had before.

A child. His father's child.

Colin felt the blood drain from his face, leaving him cold, his fingers tightening over his knees. He had misheard. He must have misheard.

Lydia continued her tale. "I never heard from him again. And the next news I received of him was his marriage, printed in the papers."

Colin struggled to take in her words, to make sense of the truth unraveling before him. The room felt smaller, the very air heavier. When he finally found his voice, it felt detached, as though it belonged to someone else entirely.

"Where is this child?"

Lydia did not answer immediately. Instead, her gaze lifted, finding Roderick, who still sat beside her, supporting her frail frame as another round of coughing wracked her thin shoulders. His grip on her was steady, but his expression remained cold, as if carved from stone itself.

"The man who brought you to me," Lydia answered at last, "is your brother. Your older brother."

Colin's breath left him in a puff. "Good Lord!"

Roderick's posture did not shift. His hard jaw was still tight, and his gray eyes were staring ahead. The truth had been spoken, and yet there was no hint of expectation in his expression—no hope, no hesitation. He did not seek recognition, nor demand it.

Colin's mind reeled. His father had fathered a child; but one who could never claim his name, never hold a title, never be acknowledged. And yet, he had still abandoned both mother and son. He had left them to fend for themselves, to suffer, to live in these conditions. The disparity between the life Colin had known and the one Roderick had been given hit him with unrelenting force.

A feeling weightier than shock and sharper than disbelief tightened his throat. It was guilt. Roderick and Lydia had deserved better. His father should have done better.

"I felt you had a right to know of your brother," Lydia said softly. "I do not know how much time I have left, and the truth must be known."

Colin did not know how, but he found the words sincere. "Thank you, Lydia."

"I will sleep now," she whispered, and Roderick gave Colin a nod that told him it was time for him to take his leave. He stood, utterly lost, and turned toward the door.

"You should not have done this." Colin turned when Roderick spoke, but then he realized the words were meant for Lydia. They struck him all the same.

"Rod, you have the right to know of your brother. I know you never wished for me to reach out to him, much less reveal the truth. But I could not leave this world knowing I had not given you the chance to reclaim what was lost."

Roderick's jaw clenched, his entire frame taut. "Those roots abandoned us, Mother," he bit out, his voice filled with years of bitterness. "They left us to rot."

Lydia's breath came shallow and unsteady, but her gaze remained steady upon her son. "They have found you now," she whispered. "It is not too late."

Another violent fit of coughing overtook her, her frail body trembling beneath its force. Before Colin could move toward her, Mrs. Millard rushed into the room. Her sharp gaze flicked toward him, and for the briefest moment, the sheer disdain in her eyes was palpable.

Colin did not flinch beneath her scorn. He supposed she had every right to regard him thusly. He understood now. Her husband—his brother—should have had the life Colin had been given. Or, at the very least, something better than this. If only his father had possessed an ounce of honor or decency.

Instead, the late Duke had left behind nothing but wreckage. Even in death, his shadow loomed like a specter that refused to release its hold.

A bitter taste coated Colin's tongue as he turned on his heel, stepping out of the Millard residence.

Colin found himself uncharacteristically distracted for the remainder of the day. His thoughts, unbidden and relentless, circled back to the revelations at the Millard residence, settling in his mind like an anchor refusing to be lifted.

"Is all well, Your Grace?"

Fisher's voice intruded upon his reverie, drawing Colin's gaze from the swirling amber liquid in his glass. His valet stood near the doorway, his brows knit with genuine concern. "I could not help but notice that you have been quite solemn since your return."

Colin rolled the glass between his fingers before setting it aside. He did not intend to unburden himself—could not, really—but there was something he could do. Something he must do.

"I need you to make a trip to the finest toy shop on Bond Street, Fisher."

Fisher blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

Had the request been made under any other circumstances, Colin might have found amusement in the sheer incredulity on the man's face. But the events of the day left little room for humor.

"And another shop, as well," Colin added, his tone brooking no argument. "For sweetmeats."

Fisher's mouth parted slightly, as if he meant to remark, then wisely closed again. He hesitated only a moment before giving a sharp nod. "Very well, Your Grace."

Colin leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temple as his valet turned to leave. He had no desire to explain his reasoning; not even to himself.

For now, it was enough to simply do something.

And if it helped ease the gnawing ache in his chest, so be it.