Page 28 of The Duke’s Untouched Bride (Regency Second Chances #3)

“ I ’m thinking your mysterious French dancer is a figment of your imagination.” Felix’s voice cut through the haze inside The Golden Pheasant, a rough little tavern known for serving sailors and dockworkers.

Owen looked up from his conversation with the barkeep and took in the state of his wife’s cousin.

Felix, who usually looked as if he’d stepped out of a gentlemen’s club, now wore the grime of three long days spent combing through London’s less respectable corners.

“She’s real,” Owen said while tossing a few coins on the scarred wooden bar. “The question is whether she’s still alive.”

They emerged into the gray afternoon. The Thames was visible through the narrow streets. This was their fifth stop today, following leads that went nowhere and asking questions that earned them suspicious stares.

“Right then,” Felix muttered after scanning a crumpled piece of paper. “The Crow’s Nest is next. Though I must warn you, the last time I was there, someone tried to sell me a three-legged horse.”

“You bought it, didn’t you?”

“Of course I did. I couldn’t resist the notion.” Felix grinned. “Named him Nelson. He’s quite happy in my stables, terrorizing the grooms.”

Despite everything, Owen almost smiled.

Felix had thrown himself into the search with unexpected dedication, moving beyond his original inquiries about Nicholas for Iris to pursue every lead with the determination of a man who understood what was at stake.

His natural charm opened doors that Owen’s ducal authority might have left firmly closed.

Waitresses giggled and gossiped. Tavern keepers offered information freely. Even the most hardened madams seemed inclined to help the charming young Marquess.

Despite all that, their visit to the Crow’s Nest proved as fruitless as the others.

A few women remembered someone matching Adele’s description, but the details were vague and contradictory.

Dark hair became blonde. The French accent turned Italian.

The timeline shifted by weeks or months, depending on who told the story.

“Face it,” Felix said as they walked back toward Mayfair, “she’s vanished. Either she’s found somewhere safe to hide, or…”

“Or she’s dead.” Owen had been avoiding that conclusion for days, but the evidence was mounting.

A desperate woman with no resources had searched for someone in London’s most dangerous quarters. The odds of survival were not encouraging.

“If she is dead, then the threat to Evie dies with her,” Felix pointed out. “No one left to claim the child or cause complications.”

“Perhaps.” Owen, however, couldn’t dismiss the sense that Adele’s disappearance was part of a bigger picture.

The townhouse was quiet when he stepped inside—the quiet that came only after the staff had retired for the night.

He started toward his study, thinking he’d review a few contracts before bed. But as he passed the staircase, he paused. A soft melody floated down from upstairs.

He climbed the steps slowly, but persisted, because the tune tugged at something inside him. The nursery door was slightly open, and a sliver of lamplight stretched into the hall. Through the gap, he saw Iris in the rocking chair he’d gifted her with Evie resting in her arms.

She was singing something in French. Her voice was low and sweet. The baby gazed up at her with that serious expression she wore when listening to music with one tiny hand wrapped around her finger.

The scene made something tight in Owen’s chest loosen. Whatever chaos surrounded their strange arrangement, this was right—Iris holding Evie, both of them safe and content in the warm circle of lamplight.

They were a family, even though their connection was built on lies and necessity.

Iris must have sensed his presence because she looked up and met his eyes through the crack in the door.

For a moment, neither moved. Then, she smiled. There was just a small curve of her lips as she gestured for him to enter.

“She wouldn’t settle,” she whispered as he stepped into the room. “I think she’s growing. Babies do that, apparently. Sleep terribly for a few days while they adjust to being bigger.”

Owen moved closer, studying Evie’s face in the lamplight. She did seem different somehow. More alert, more aware of her surroundings.

“What were you singing?”

“A lullaby my governess taught me. She was French and said it was what her mother sang to her.” Iris shifted Evie slightly, and the baby’s eyes grew heavy. “I don’t know if the words are right, but Evie seems to like the tune.”

“It’s beautiful.”

And it was. Not just the melody, but the sight of them together. The way Evie trusted completely in Iris’s arms. The way Iris looked at the baby with such fierce tenderness.

“How was your evening?” Iris asked while rocking her gently.

“Productive.” The lie came easily.

He’d grown skilled at deflecting her questions about his late nights and absences from meals. Sometimes she pressed, but not tonight. No, no, tonight, he could see the hurt in her eyes when he offered those same, vague excuses.

“Good.” Evie had finally surrendered to sleep. Her tiny grew face peaceful in the lamplight. “She should stay asleep until morning. Or at least until dawn.”

Iris rose carefully and tucked Evie into her cradle with practiced ease. Owen watched the routine, noting how naturally she moved, and how instinctively she adjusted the blankets so that Evie was comfortable.

“You’re becoming quite an expert at this,” he observed.

“Trial and error, mostly. Though Mrs. Pemberton has been helpful when her health permits.” Iris turned down the lamp, leaving just enough light to see by. “I should let you get some rest. You look tired.”

She was right. The past few days of searching had exhausted him, both physically and mentally. But he was reluctant to leave this peaceful room or this moment of domestic tranquility.

“Iris.” He caught her hand as she moved past him. “Thank you. For caring for her so well. For making this work.”

Something flickered in her eyes. “She’s not a burden, Owen. She’s a gift.”

“I know. But still. Thank you.”

They stood there for a moment with their hands touching and the sleeping baby beside them. Then, Iris gently pulled away.

“Good night,” she whispered.

“Good night.”

Owen remained in the nursery after she left watching Evie sleep. The baby’s chest rose and fell with steady breaths. Her face was serene in the dim light.

She was growing up and changing daily. Soon she’d be sitting up, then crawling and walking. The thought filled him with equal parts wonder and fear.

What kind of world was he helping to create for her? One built on secrets and careful lies? One where her supposed parents barely spoke to each other outside of necessity?

The search for Adele was meant to protect Evie’s future. But perhaps the greater threat came from within this household. From the careful distance he kept from Iris and the walls he’d built between them.

Owen left the nursery quietly, but sleep eluded him in his empty bed.

Through the thin walls, he could hear Iris moving around her room while preparing for bed.

The sounds were achingly domestic. Water was poured for washing.

There was the soft rustle of fabric as she undressed.

Then he heard the creak of floorboards as she moved about her chamber.

He thought of their conversation in Morrison’s library and the desperate passion that had flared between them. The way she’d responded to his touch, the soft sounds she’d made…

But he’d avoided her.

Perhaps it had been a mistake. Not because he didn’t want her, but because wanting her made everything more complicated. It made him dream of impossible things and hope for a future that his past insisted was doomed to failure.

It was better to focus on protecting what they had. Better to find Adele, neutralize any threat she might pose, and maintain the careful balance that kept them all safe.

But as Owen finally drifted to sleep, it wasn’t thoughts of duty or protection that filled his mind.

It was the image of Iris in the rocking chair, singing softly to their daughter, looking like everything he’d never dared to want.

The next morning brought renewed determination to find Adele. Felix arrived at ten, looking remarkably fresh for someone who’d spent the previous evening in questionable establishments.

“New plan,” he announced while settling into Owen’s study with coffee and what appeared to be a map of London. “We’ve been thinking too small. Gaming halls and brothels are obvious places for a desperate woman seeking work. But what if she wasn’t desperate when she left Evie?”

“What do you mean?”

“What if she had resources? Money, connections, a plan.” Felix spread the map across Owen’s desk. “She’s French, yes? So, she might have sought out French expatriates. Communities where she could blend in and find work that didn’t require references.”

Owen studied the map, noting the areas Felix had marked. “You think she went to ground among her own people.”

“I think she’s cleverer than we’ve given her credit for. An unmarried woman who managed to travel from France to England, give birth, and survive long enough to make arrangements for her child’s future? That’s not desperation. That’s planning .”

It was a sobering thought. If Adele had vanished deliberately, if she’d covered her tracks professionally, they might never find her. Which left too many questions unanswered and too many threats unresolved.

“Where do we start?”

Felix grinned. “The French quarter, naturally. And I know just the place.”

The next three days passed in a blur of cafés, boarding houses, and tucked-away shops where French slipped easily into English and back again.

Felix was a steady presence at his side. His French was better than Owen’s, and his effortless charm broke down barriers that might have kept doors closed.

They found traces of Adele everywhere and nowhere.

A woman matching her description had bought bread at a bakery in Soho. Another had inquired about rooms near the docks. A third had been seen at Sunday mass in a small Catholic church.

But the leads never connected. The timeline was wrong, or the description didn’t quite match, or the witness proved unreliable upon closer questioning.

“It’s like chasing shadows,” Felix complained on their fourth day while slumping in a chair in Owen’s study. “Every time we think we’ve found something solid, it dissolves.”

Owen poured two glasses of brandy, noting how the afternoon light was already fading. Today allowed for another late return home and another missed dinner with Iris. He saw a familiar pattern developing and sensed her unspoken questions behind her polite facade.

“Perhaps that’s answer enough,” he said, handing Felix a glass. “If she’s gone to this much trouble to disappear, perhaps we should leave her be.”

“And leave questions unanswered? Threats unresolved?” Felix shook his head. “That’s not like you, Owen. You’re the man who plans for every contingency.”

“Some contingencies can’t be planned for.” Owen moved to the window so he might watch carriages pass in the street below. “Some risks have to be accepted.”

“Is this about Adele or the way you’ve been avoiding your wife?”

The quiet question made Owen’s muscles stiffen. “I’m not avoiding anyone.”

“No? When’s the last time you shared a meal? The last time you spent an evening at home instead of prowling through London’s underbelly?”

“We’re searching for?—”

“We’re searching for excuses.” Felix set down his glass with more force than necessary. “At least, you are. I’m thinking this whole enterprise is less about finding Adele and more about giving you a reason to stay away from home.”

The accusation stung more because it held a grain of truth. Each night spent searching was another night Owen didn’t have to face Iris across the dinner table. It gave him another evening where he could avoid the careful conversations and loaded silences that had become their norm.

“I do not appreciate your meddling in my private life, Halston.”

“This again. Come on, Carridan; you are distracted. Half your attention is on whatever domestic drama you’re avoiding.” Felix stood up and straightened his coat. “Find a way to resolve things with Iris or call off this investigation. But stop using it as an excuse to run from your problems.”

After Felix left, Owen stayed at his desk. His eyes remained fixed on the map scattered with their useless leads.

He didn’t want to admit it, but the truth sat heavy in the room. They weren’t going to find Adele. Either she was dead, or she’d vanished so thoroughly that no amount of searching would bring her back.

It was time to turn his attention to what he could still repair. And that started with the wall he’d built between himself and Iris.

The next evening, for the first time in days, Owen emerged early from his study. The dining room was set for two, candlelight dancing across polished crystal and porcelain. But when Peters announced that dinner was served, only one place setting had been laid.

“Her Grace sends her regrets,” Peters informed him. “She’s taken a tray in her room.”

Of course, she had. After days of eating alone, why would she expect him to join her tonight?

Owen climbed the stairs after his solitary meal and paused outside Iris’s door. Light filtered beneath the wood, but no sound emerged.

He raised his hand to knock, then stopped.

What would he say? How could he explain his absences without revealing the search for Adele?

Instead, he continued to the nursery. The room was dark except for the small lamp Iris always left burning. Evie slept peacefully in her cradle with one tiny fist tucked beneath her cheek.

Owen settled into the rocking chair so he might watch his daughter sleep.

Tomorrow, he would call off the search. Tomorrow, he would start healing the rift between himself and Iris. Tomorrow, he would start building the family Evie deserved.

But tonight, he would simply sit in the darkness, listen to the soft sounds of the baby’s breathing, and try to remember what it felt like to hope for something beyond mere survival.