Page 32

CHAPTER 32

T he room was dim and smelled faintly of must as the door eased open. Fiona stepped inside. It was a storage room, as Mrs. Burton had said, but it was unlike any other she had seen.

Paintings leaned against the walls in quiet exile. Some were framed, others stacked without ceremony. A few had been covered in muslin, now yellowed with time. She stepped closer, eyes scanning the faces.

One portrait caught her breath.

A young woman, delicately featured, her expression soft but vivid with life. There was something unmistakable in the arch of the brow, the set of the mouth. It was not Elaine’s likeness. This girl resembled Isaac more than anyone else ever could.

Mary.

Fiona felt it with certainty. This must have been the portrait meant for the vacant space in the gallery. She looked around again and saw the same face, repeated across several family portraits stacked nearby. Mary, with her siblings. Mary, standing near Isaac, her head tilted toward him with unconscious fondness.

He had locked them all away.

Was this his way of mourning her? Not forgetting—but not facing her either? The thought left a tightness in her chest.

She moved further into the room, her skirts brushing against dust-laden trunks and a low bench. There, near the back, sat a small box. Its lid had warped slightly with age, and the hinges creaked as she lifted it.

Inside lay a collection of personal effects—a delicate hairbrush with faded bristles, a pair of ink pots, a handkerchief with an embroidered M, and a jewelry box no larger than her palm.

Fiona handled each item with care, as though any sudden movement might disturb the stillness of what remained.

Then something else caught her eye.

In the far corner of the room, half hidden behind an old chest of drawers, lay a book. Its leather binding was cracked and dulled with age, the surface thick with dust and threaded with cobwebs.

She crouched, reached for it carefully, and wiped it clean with the corner of a linen cloth.

The cover creaked as she opened it. Slanted handwriting lined the first page, and Mary was written.

Is this her journal?

The ink had faded in places, the penmanship delicate, and slanted with youth and the sort of romantic hopefulness that was evident. Fiona turned the first page with care.

May 2nd.

Today, I met a gentleman during my walk along the west meadow. He was not as finely dressed as the others I’ve encountered, but there was something in his manner—quiet, observant—that made me feel... noticed. He called himself Mr. F. I did not ask more. I rather liked the mystery. His eyes are the color of moss after rain—green and deep and not easily forgotten. When he looks at me, I feel as though I am the most curious and delightful creature he has ever seen. It is absurd, and yet I believe him.

Fiona’s brow furrowed slightly, curiosity already catching flame. Not finely dressed... who was he? she wondered, turning the page with more eagerness than she expected.

May 10th.

Mr. F met me again by the stream. He waited with a basket of fruit and bread, and we shared it beneath the hawthorn tree. The shade was gentle, and a breeze stirred the grass like a whisper. He listens more than he speaks, and when he does speak, his words are clever and kind, always touched with something soft. He told me he liked the sound of my laugh, then said nothing else for a long while, just looked at me with those green eyes of his, as though he were memorizing the lines of my face. He asked to see me again. I did not say yes. I did not say no either.

She glanced up briefly, the shadows of the room pressing quietly around her. A basket, a stream, a hawthorn tree—it sounded idyllic, innocent. Romantic.

May 19th.

I’ve never laughed so freely. He recited lines from Shakespeare, but mocked them too, and then made up his own verses that were both dreadful and perfect. He calls me ‘my nymph of the hedgerow.’ It is terrible poetry. I adore it. His smile is crooked and often too quick, but when it lingers, I feel warmed from the inside out. He told me today that no one has ever made him feel at ease the way I do. I did not know what to say. I only smiled and offered him another blackberry. I think he understood.

Fiona let out the faintest sound, a breath of something close to amusement. Terrible poetry, she thought. And yet she adored him for it. The affection in the words was palpable.

May 27th.

I think I love him. It frightens me. It thrills me. I have read novels that speak of love in sighs and sorrows, but this—this is a sort of quiet joy that catches in my throat when I see him waiting for me. I wonder what he sees in me, this man with thoughtful eyes and a careful smile. But when he takes my hand, I forget how to doubt. That must be love, mustn’t it?

Fiona paused. Love. The word had been underlined, but faintly—as though Mary had pressed the pen down and then changed her mind.

Fiona flipped further, reading fragments, little snapshots of secret meetings and growing devotion. There were walks beneath starlight, laughter over blackberries stolen from the hedge, kisses pressed between hedgerows. But always Mr. F. His name never appeared.

She was protecting him, Fiona thought. Even from the safety of her own diary.

The idea pierced her unexpectedly. This man—this Mr. F—had loved Mary, perhaps with the whole of his heart, and had lost her. Just as her family had. Just as Isaac had.

He must have been broken when she died.

The tragedy folded in on itself, each word Mary had written speaking of a life cut short just as it was beginning. A love that had no chance to grow old.

Fiona closed the journal carefully, cradling it in her lap. Perhaps Isaac had never found it. Perhaps it had been lost in the shuffle, hidden in a forgotten corner all this time.

She pressed her hand over the cover and whispered, “I’ll keep reading.”

And so she did.

Later that evening, Fiona took the journal with her, curling beneath the coverlet in her chamber. The candlelight beside her created dancing shadows across the pages as she read.

She did not even realize when sleep took her.

The following morning, the breakfast room was silent once again when she walked in.

The table had been set for two. Fiona stirred her tea without tasting it. Her appetite had vanished entirely. She had not seen Isaac in nearly two days.

Not since the kiss.

She pressed her fingers to her lips, as though they might still recall the shape of his.

Whatever did I do wrong?

Isaac’s brows rose when he looked down at the seal on the letter he had just received. However, he broke the seal without ceremony, his gaze narrowing as he read.

To His Grace, the Duke of Craton,

I trust Your Grace will forgive the unorthodox nature of this correspondence. I find myself compelled to request a private audience with you regarding a matter of grave concern. It is not a subject I dare commit to writing, for discretion is of the utmost importance.

I have arranged for a meeting at a discreet set of lodgings, the address of which is enclosed. I must ask your indulgence and secrecy in this, and assure Your Grace that I would not make such a request were the matter not of the most serious kind.

With respect,

George Holden, Marquess of Holden

Grave. The word lingered unpleasantly. Whatever it was, it had warranted not only a letter but secrecy. He glanced at the address. They were to meet in a quieter quarter of London, far from Mayfair.

Isaac exhaled slowly and rose from behind his desk. The letter remained in his hand as he strode into the hall. He found Everett near the front door, sorting the morning correspondence.

“Have a horse saddled for me,” Isaac said.

Everett straightened. “At once, Your Grace.”

Within minutes, Isaac was mounted and riding toward the city. The route was unfamiliar, twisting away from the pomp of Mayfair into narrower, older streets. The lodgings were easy enough to spot—a modest brick facade, discreet, and intentionally unremarkable.

He dismounted and handed the reins to the waiting groom. he looked up at the building, a bachelor’s lodgings, by the look of it. Spartan, anonymous, and very likely one of Holden’s less public holdings, perhaps the sort kept for purposes never spoken of in polite company.

Isaac knocked once. The door opened a moment later—not by a butler or manservant, but by Holden himself.

Isaac knocked once. The door opened a moment later—not by a butler or manservant, but by Holden himself.

“I did not think you would oblige,” the older man said, stepping aside to let him in.

Isaac took in the scene with quiet assessment. The entrance was unremarkable, the furnishings utilitarian, and more to the point—no staff in sight. No butler. No footman. No signs of recent company at all. The silence within the rooms had a weight to it.

The Marquess led him into a modest study at the back. A decanter sat on the sideboard, already half-emptied.

“I apologize for breaking into your schedule with my request,” Holden said, motioning vaguely toward the chairs before taking one himself.

Isaac did not sit.

He stood near the fireplace instead, hands loosely clasped behind his back, eyes never leaving the other man. Holden’s civility was... disquieting. He was a proud man, a creature of entitlement and command, not deference.

And yet here he was, courteous—almost too much so.

Isaac spoke evenly. “To what do I owe these summons, Holden?”

Holden crossed to the decanter and poured a drink for himself. He did not meet Isaac’s gaze.

“Would you like a drink?” he asked.

Isaac watched him, unmoving. He’s stalling.

“No, thank you,” he said, his voice quiet but firm.

Holden took a long sip before turning around. Get on with it, then.

“We have not had a proper conversation since the joining of our families,” Lord Holden said at last, swirling the contents of his glass as he sank into one of the worn armchairs.

Isaac remained standing. His patience was fraying, his jaw set.

Do get to the point, Holden.

“I rather doubt you summoned me here merely for the sake of a pleasant exchange,” Isaac replied.

“You are correct, of course.” The Marquess lifted his glass, then set it down untouched. “Still, as kin by marriage, should we not make it customary to share a drink and a few civil words?”

“Perhaps we might begin by making it customary to speak plainly.”

Holden faltered, his composure slipping before he gathered it once more. He cleared his throat and leaned forward, resting his elbows upon his knees in a manner more befitting a tradesman than a peer of the realm.

“As family,” he began again, “I would like to believe that what affects me also affects Your Grace. And, of course, our dear Fiona. Just as what touches Your Grace must, by its nature, concern me.”

Isaac arched a brow but held his tongue. The man was circling like a hawk with no wind to carry him, and Isaac already sensed where this particular flight would land.

“It is with a heavy heart,” Holden continued, “that I must confess my finances are not what they once were. My affairs have taken a regrettable turn, and I find myself... compromised.”

Isaac did not so much as shift.

“In fact,” Holden said, voice softening into something that sought pity, “certain debts have reached their due, and there have been—shall we say—warnings.”

“And what would you have of me?” Isaac asked.

“I was hoping to secure a loan,” Holden said at last, the words emerging as if wrested from stone. “To settle my account with the Earl of Canterlack.”

Canterlack again.

The name dropped into Isaac’s mind with the weight of old resentment. And suddenly, the shape of things long unspoken began to fall into place.

Was that it? Was that the root of his objection to our courtship?

He had sought to balance his debts with Canterlack by offering up his daughter. And when that failed, he now turned to her husband with his hat in hand.

A matter of grave consequence, indeed—for the proud and calculating Lord Holden to stoop so low.

“I did not wish to distress Fiona,” the Marquess added, perhaps interpreting Isaac’s silence as judgment. “That is why I thought it best we meet away from Craton Manor.”

“Are you not ashamed of yourself, Holden?” Isaac spoke quietly, but the chill in his voice hollowed the room.

The Marquess blinked, momentarily taken aback.

“Do not pretend to care for your daughter’s sentiments now, simply because you failed to barter her away and now find yourself in need of my aid.”

The shameless man had the gall to maintain a look of wounded contrition.

“Oh, but I had only ever wanted the best for her?—”

“By striking her when she dared oppose your designs?” Isaac’s voice rose, sharp and biting. “By condemning her to misery simply because she wished to be seen as something more than a pawn?”

Holden flinched, but said nothing.

“You sought to trade her dignity for coin,” Isaac continued. “And now you come here cloaked in civility, as though it erases the truth of what you are.” He stepped forward, unblinking. “If you are to ask for my assistance, the very least you might have done is to cast off the garb of hypocrisy.”

Holden was silent now, and Isaac took note of the way the man’s eyes dropped to the floor. At last, some measure of shame.

“You will hear from me soon,” Isaac said, his voice clipped, and turned to depart without another word.

Outside, the day had not brightened. The clouds hung low and grey, heavy with the threat of rain. Isaac mounted his horse with a swift motion, giving the reins a sharp flick as he turned from the quiet, unremarkable street. He did not return home.

Instead, he directed his horse toward St. James’s Street and the quiet familiarity of White’s. A drink. He needed a drink.

The Marquess’s shamelessness clung to him, acrid and persistent, and he could not quite bring himself to face Fiona just yet. After the kiss... That moment haunted him more than it should have. She had stirred something in me that I have no business naming. It was dangerous—perilous, even. And he could not afford to indulge in it.

No good would come of letting himself grow closer. And so he rode on, toward the club, and away from the one place he most wanted—and yet feared—to be.

It was best to return those boundaries. To restore the distance. Getting any closer to Fiona would only undo what little balance he had left.

He had just reached for the decanter again when a familiar voice drifted through the doorway of his private snug at White’s.

“Brooding alone without me?”

Isaac looked up to find Samuel leaning casually against the doorframe.

“Brandy or whiskey?” he offered, a faint chuckle escaping him.

“Now that’s better,” Samuel said as he stepped in and claimed the opposite chair.

Isaac poured the drink and handed it over, settling back in his seat.

“I should apologize, Isaac,” Samuel said after a sip.

Isaac raised a brow.

“For Elaine’s behavior the other evening at dinner. She ought not to have brought it up.”

“No,” Isaac said quietly. “Elaine was right. She often is. Fiona has every right to know. My sister merely said aloud what I had lacked the nerve to confess. She only ever tries to unearth the coward in me.”

“Grief is not cowardice,” Samuel replied. “You and Elaine both loved, and lost. And the fact that you still grieve is only proof of how deeply you once loved—and how deeply you still do.”

Isaac let his gaze fall to his glass, watching the amber liquid shift. If it were not for his own failure—his blind confidence—would they have lost Mary in the first place? The thought struck hard and fast, and with it came a fear he rarely allowed himself to feel, an ache that gripped his chest and would not let go.

He thought of Fiona then, and the fear grew sharper. She is mine to protect now. Mine to keep safe. If I fail her... He could not. He would not. I could not survive it.

He gripped the glass more tightly. Whatever this is—whatever we are—I cannot bear the thought of a life without her. The realization came quietly, as if it had always been there, only waiting for him to stop denying it. He was already hers.

And if she were taken from him now, it would ruin him.