Page 23 of Sweet Duke of Mine

SHE WAS RIGHT

A lastair moved through the streets with purpose, keeping to the shadows, his collar turned up against the morning chill. The city was just beginning to wake, but he remained acutely aware of every footstep, every passing figure. He had no way of knowing who had tried to kill him, which meant he had to assume everyone was a threat.

When he reached Lovington House, he did not bother approaching the front entrance. Instead, he skirted around the side of the property, slipping through the alley that led to the servants' entrance at the back.

The heavy door creaked as he eased it open, stepping into the familiar warmth of the kitchen. The scents of fresh bread and simmering broth wrapped around him, stirring something long-buried in his memory.

And then he was met with a sharp, startled gasp.

Mrs. Tanner, the formidable woman who had ruled this space for as long as he could remember, stood stock-still, flour dusting the front of her apron. For an instant, the blood drained from her familiar, ageless face. She clutched a rolling pin in one hand as though it were a weapon .

“They said you were dead,” she breathed, her eyes wide. But then, as if coming to her senses, she straightened her spine, her sharp gaze raking over him. “You aren’t a ghost, are you?”

“Not a ghost, Mrs. Tanner.” Alastair offered her a reassuring smile. He remembered this woman—not just from stories or articles but truly remembered. The way her hands never ceased moving, kneading dough, chopping vegetables, stirring pots. The way a younger version of himself had pilfered biscuits from the pantry while she’d scolded him in a way that suggested she wasn’t truly cross.

She recovered quickly, as he’d expected. “You look like a street urchin,” she muttered. “Half-starved, bruised up—what have you been about, then?”

“That’s a rather long story.”

“Hmm.” Mrs. Tanner folded her arms. “Long story or not, should I send for the authorities?”

This woman was no fool, and she, of course, would suspect that some kind of foul play was at hand. Servants always knew more than their employers gave them credit for.

“Refrain for now,” he said. Because Daisy had said the men who’d left him for dead had been police, and Alastair had no way of knowing which bobbies were in his enemy’s pocket.

“Is my uncle awake yet?”

Mrs. Tanner’s mouth tightened as she wiped her hands on her apron. “Of course. You know he rises with the sun.” Then, after a pause, she sniffed and added, “He’s in the study. Your study , as we speak.”

The tone in her voice, as much as the words themselves, shifted something in Alastair’s gut.

His study.

He’d been clinging to the belief that his uncle—his father’s own brother—couldn’t possibly pose any real threat to him.

But standing here now, in his own home, hearing something…off in Mrs. Tanner’s voice—something she wasn’t quite saying aloud—he felt the first real stirrings of doubt.

Alastair gave the astute woman a meaningful stare before nodding and then forcing his features into a neutral mask.

“My thanks, Mrs. Tanner.” He pivoted toward the door that led to the small stairway normally reserved for servants.

“Your Grace?” Her voice halted him mid-step.

He turned back.

She hesitated, then squared her shoulders. “It’s good to have you home again.”

There—just for a moment—her normally sharp gaze softened, and if he wasn’t mistaken, there was the faintest shimmer of moisture in her eyes.

A strange warmth spread through his chest. Home . He hadn’t realized until this moment how much the idea of it mattered.

By God, how long had he been gone?

“Good to be back,” he said, swallowing around the lump in his throat before disappearing through the narrow passage. He turned toward the steps leading to the main floor with quiet precision. The house would have felt peaceful if not for the sound of his pulse beating loudly in his ears.

When he reached the landing, he paused, pressing his back against the wall and peering down the corridor. No sign of any footmen.

The house was waking. Soon, his presence would be impossible to hide.

He knew exactly where to go, as if he’d never left, every room and hallway as familiar to him as the back of his hand.

He did not knock before stepping into the study that would always remind him of his father.

Everything about the room welcomed him, from the rich walnut molding to the deep leather armchairs and the warm coals glowing in the massive hearth .

And yet, seeing his last living relative so comfortable nearly made him feel like an intruder.

The man sitting behind Alastair’s desk, in Alastair’s chair, with the windows at his back, should have been a familiar sight—should have stirred a sense of security, of kinship.

Instead, Alastair felt something else entirely.

Foreboding.

A warning .

"Uncle Calvin," he said. His voice was calm, but his body coiled tight.

Lord Calvin Frampton looked up from the papers in front of him, his jaw going slack.

For a long, stretched moment, he did nothing but stare. Then, suddenly, he lurched back so violently that his chair nearly tipped over. “My God!” he gasped, scrambling to his feet. “What the devil—? How?—?”

A flicker of something crossed his uncle’s face. Shock. Fear.

Guilt?

But just as quickly, as if by sheer force of will, the emotions smoothed over into a practiced mask of relief.

Alastair’s gaze drifted over his uncle—the elaborate lace at his wrists, the rich purple velvet of his jacket, the finely embroidered waistcoat beneath.

And then…

The ring.

His ring .

Resting on the man’s left pinky as though it had always belonged there.

She was right. Of course .

Daisy had been right all along.

A strange calm settled over Alastair, one that came with the brutal clarity of truth. The last missing pieces of the puzzle clicked into place, and in a rush, he remembered everything.

“Who, precisely, are you calling on for help, Uncle?” The words left his mouth before he could stop them, low and lethal. “God… or the devil?”

The locked pages of his mind had opened. It was as if they’d never been closed.

Alastair had never forgotten Daisy. He had never stopped searching for her.

And for all that time, he had assumed his uncle had been his greatest ally.

The man before him—his father’s own brother—was someone Alastair had trusted without question.

But he had not known this man. Not truly.

Lord Calvin clumsily reached across the desk, as if to draw him closer, his expression carefully measured. “My boy… where in God’s name have you been? We were beginning to believe the worst had happened.”

Alastair recalled the article. His uncle had all but declared him dead.

His lip curled. “Not the worst. Not quite.”

He stepped forward, extending his hand.

His uncle hesitated but took it—Alastair clasped it firmly, searching his face, watching for the flicker of truth beneath the mask. “What did you think happened?”

The older man withdrew his hand almost immediately.

“Well, we had no idea,” Lord Calvin said, not meeting Alastair’s eyes, but smoothing down the lace at his wrists. “Scotland Yard has been turning the city upside down. One day you were here, and the next…” He gave an elegant shrug. “You were not.”

“You must have been devastated,” Alastair said, his tone as dry as dust.

“I was. I was! We must… er, celebrate.” Then, obviously forcing his enthusiasm, his uncle turned and tugged the bell pull—summoning tea, or perhaps something stronger.

Alastair did not move .

His uncle’s casualness—the way he had so seamlessly taken possession of Alastair’s space—sent a bolt of rage through him.

The worst recollection slammed into him, along with other volatile emotions. Shock. Anger.

Pain.

His voice emerged deadly calm. “You knew where I was going.”

His uncle faltered for only a second. “I… well?—”

“What I don’t understand,” Alastair continued, stepping closer, “is why, if you wanted the title, you would wait so long take action.”

Ten. Long. Years.

For half a second, Alastair thought his uncle might deny it.

But then—his entire demeanor changed.

Any pretense of concern drained from Lord Calvin’s features, leaving nothing but cold, calculating ugliness. At the same time, a tension seemed to bleed from his shoulders—almost as though he was relieved to stop pretending.

“I never intended for it to come to that,” Lord Calvin said at last, his voice flat. Dead.

Alastair stared at him. “Then why?” His breath came rough.

His uncle’s expression twisted. “Don’t pretend you don’t know. And I refuse to allow you to taint the line with that… with that…” He waved a disgusted hand. “Boy.”

Boy?

Alastair went still. “What boy?”

“How you managed to find her after…” His uncle shook his head. “Do you think I haven’t known you were staying with them all this time? Your father was a fool to allow you to cavort with one of them. I won’t make the mistakes he would have. I won’t allow it. Do you hear me? I won’t allow it.” The older man practically spat.

A sharp chill lanced through Alastair’s veins.

Them ?

What the devil was his uncle talking about? And what boy was he talking about? Surely his uncle didn’t mean Gilbert ?

“You couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you?” Lord Calvin’s voice was almost weary now, as if Alastair were the one causing him an inconvenience. “You had to go looking for her.”

His uncle exhaled sharply, shaking his head in disappointment. “After all I did to get rid of her, the matter ought to have been resolved long ago. Ten years, Alastair. Did you really imagine I’d allow her into your life again?”

Alastair’s fingers curled into fists.

“… ‘All you did to get rid of’… who?” Alastair prompted.

“Don’t be daft. Of course, I sent the Montgomerys away while you were with your father.” Alastair had sat with his father for the last week of his life, and then Alastair, too, had become ill.

“I wrote her letters.”

“Letters are easily… lost.” His uncle looked so proud of himself. “Besides, she and her family had already been evicted. Once I realized they had settled in London, I had a few of my men keep tabs on the family. That’s how I learned about the boy. But as long as she ceased to exist for you, the child wasn’t a problem.” He pointed at Alastair’s chest. “This is your own fault.”

His uncle’s words unraveled a darkness Alastair hadn’t realized he’d been living in.

Dear God, he had confided his feelings for Daisy to his uncle on more than one occasion. Alastair clenched his fists at his sides.

He’d told him that he would never stop searching for her.

After years of chasing leads that led nowhere, it was sheer luck that finally put him on the right path—luck, because an unexpected clue had fallen right into his lap .

And of all places, it had happened at the Duchess of Willoughby’s ball.

While waltzing with the Countess of Grassley, he’d offhandedly complimented her perfume. Beaming with pride, the widowed lady had revealed that it was custom-made by a young woman who owned a small shop just outside of Mayfair.

The fragrance wasn’t the same as he’d remembered, but until then, Alastair had never known another woman to wear that particular blend of honeysuckle oil.

Fashionable ladies of the ton , he’d discovered, preferred more common perfumes—blends of lavender, jasmine, and rose.

When he returned home that evening, he’d made the very unfortunate decision to confide what he’d learned to his uncle—along with the fact that he would go there—that he would meet with this soapmaker. Alastair had been bent on following a strong suspicion after so long with nothing, but Uncle Calvin must have known immediately that he was on the right track.

“I was going to find her. But you couldn’t allow that, could you?” His voice shook with both anger and pain. He’d trusted his uncle . “How could you?”

“Everything I’ve done has been to honor your father and the dukes who came before you.” His uncle tugged a second time on the bellpull behind him. “If you’d think beyond your own selfish desires for once, you’d see that you should be thanking me.”

For a decade, Alastair had lived in ignorance—believing Daisy was the one who left him, believing their love had simply not been meant to last.

But he had never let her go.

And neither, it seemed… had his uncle.

The memory of Daisy’s tortured expression flashed in his mind .

I was too ashamed to tell my father. He blamed himself for all of it.

Alastair’s chest burned.

Because he now understood.

Fate hadn’t torn them apart, nor had it brought them together again.

Their estrangement had been orchestrated by Alastair’s own flesh and blood.

Daisy had been right all along. And he hadn’t wanted to believe it. Damn my eyes.

“You’re mad,” Alastair said.

Alastair had been going to her shop when the bobbies attacked. They had come out of the shadows, striking before he had time to react. The next thing he knew, he’d been dragged into a cellar and held there for what could have been days—weeks, even. And they had beaten him. Repeatedly.

Weakened but not broken, he had bided his time, feigning unconsciousness until an opportunity presented itself. When one of his captors grew careless, he fought through the pain, using every ounce of strength left in him to escape.

He’d been disoriented, had no memory of Lovington House or his own name. With nothing but an address he’d found in his pocket, he’d made his way there. He hadn’t known Daisy was there, but the shop had been his only hope.

In an attempt to shake his pursuers, he’d limped around to the back.

But they had found him anyway. Beaten him and left him for dead. Simply because of his uncle’s prejudice, his lust for control, and ultimately, power.

Bile rose in Alastair’s throat. There must be a special place in hell for his uncle and the men he’d paid off.

“You would kill me for… the honor of a bloody title?”

“You forced my hand, Lovington!” His uncle leaned forward. “Because of the boy. You must know his very existence is a threat to the dukedom.”

“What boy are you talking about?”

“The boy who lives at the shop. Your son, of course.”

Alastair blinked. Was it possible? But no… It was not.

“I have not sired a son!” Alastair paced the length of the room. “The boy who lives in the shop is Daisy’s brother, for God’s sake.” True, they had lain together once, but they had been interrupted. He had not ejaculated.

Still, he experienced two seconds of doubt.

It was possible, he supposed, that a small amount of his seed had somehow made its way...

Had Daisy given birth after leaving Woodland Priory?

She was not above a lie in order to protect what was hers. But Gilbert had said his birthday was in autumn—which didn’t add up.

Unless that was part of the deception. A false birthday.

She had told him everything. Of course she had! Gilbert was her brother .

But his uncle had cultivated some misguided idea that Daisy’s brother was a threat to the “sanctity” of the Lovington dukedom.

And the more distance Alastair could set between the two, the safer Gilbert would be.

“Even if he was my son, he wouldn’t be legitimate. He wouldn’t inherit.” Surely his uncle comprehended this. The laws were quite clear when it came to these matters.

Alastair rolled his shoulders. His uncle was wrong.

Not that Alastair wouldn’t have been proud to call the young man his son, but his feelings on the matter would not have been legally relevant.

While Alastair was wrestling with the possibility that he could be the father of a ten-year-old boy, his uncle had retrieved a file from the desk drawer and tossed it down for Alastair to open. It had been compiled by Alastair himself and contained every note or piece of evidence he’d collected over the years while searching for Daisy.

The last time he’d read it, he’d locked it in his safe.

“But the boy is legitimate.” His uncle slapped open the front page. “And the proof is right here. A marriage certificate.”

Alastair blinked at the familiar souvenir from his youth and would have burst out laughing if not for the fact that his uncle had used this to justify murder.

He and Daisy had drawn up the very unofficial document one summer afternoon when they’d pretended to marry. A mere game. They had also drawn up treasure maps, secret magic spells and all manner of foolishness that could spring from the imagination of youth.

“I failed to find verification at any of the local churches, but I couldn’t risk that it was authentic.”

And that was the moment Alastair turned livid. Leveling an ice-cold stare across the desk, he spoke very softly. “Believing I was hiding a secret son, a secret heir, you decided… to kill me?”

There was a look in his uncle’s eyes that told Alastair he was only partly right.

“It never would have been an issue if you’d only stayed away from her. I told you long ago she was a mistake. You should have listened to me then.”

But Alastair had no time to waste.

His uncle knew where Daisy lived.

His uncle believed Gilbert was Alastair’s legal son. He’d seen the two of them together recently. And he’d hired corrupt officers to do his bidding.

But, most alarming of all—Alastair had left the two alone this morning—unprotected.

Even as tension coiled through his muscles, the door burst open.

Two officers of the new police force stood on the threshold .

Alastair’s entire body snapped to attention, a surge of raw instinct flooding his veins. His mind flashed to the cellar, the cold bite of iron shackles, the sickening crunch of fists against bone.

Every inch of him sharpened, poised to strike first or flee if necessary. His gaze flicked over their uniforms, assessing their stance, their expressions—calculating the odds. Were they in his uncle’s pocket? Had they come to finish what their predecessors had failed to do?

“Where are Officers Brown and Giles?” His uncle demanded in a voice that was both frustrated and alarmed.

Brown. Giles.

Alastair knew those names.

He remembered their voices sneering in the darkness, the casual cruelty in their fists, their boots.

But these men were not them.

Mrs. Tanner was hovering behind them. Her voice cut through, steady and sure. “I called for them, Your Grace.”

Alastair exhaled sharply, the tight coil in his chest loosening—but only slightly. These were not his uncle’s henchmen. Mrs. Tanner had summoned them. And if she had called for the law, it meant—for the first time in weeks—he was not the hunted.

But he did not fully stand down.

Daisy and Gilbert were alone.

Straightening to his full height, he lifted his chin, his voice ringing with the authority he had been born into. “Excellent timing, Mrs. Tanner.”

He turned to the bobbies. “Lord Calvin Frampton has made an attempt on my life.” He could feel his uncle bristle at the accusation, but Alastair didn’t so much as glance his way. His focus was singular. “But that is not my immediate concern. A ten-year-old boy’s life is in danger.”

Gilbert .

And Daisy—God help him. Because she would do anything to protect her brother.

And his uncle had said he’d had people watching Daisy’s shop. They all too easily could have seen Alastair leaving earlier that morning.

“I need a horse.” Alastair’s tone left no room for argument. “Now.”

He flicked a sharp gaze over the two bobbies, selecting the one with the broadest frame. “You—come with me.” Then he turned to the smaller man. “You will take Lord Calvin into custody immediately. I’ll provide a statement once I know my household is safe.”

Without waiting for confirmation, Alastair spun on his heel and strode outside, his movements efficient, controlled. He was a man reclaiming his destiny, a duke taking command.

Alastair swung onto the saddle of the officer’s mount in one fluid motion. Digging his heels into the horse’s flanks, he took off at a gallop, his entire being focused on one singular truth?—

His entire life was waiting for him in that small shop.

And he would not be too late.

He’d already taken far too long to find her, ten years of waiting, ten years of existing with a gaping hole where his heart should be. If he didn’t make it in time now…

No. He refused to entertain the possibility. He would go to Daisy and her brother, and he would protect both of them from here on out.

Once he had Daisy in his arms again, he’d never let her go.