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Page 34 of The Duke’s Untouched Bride (Regency Second Chances #3)

“ S he’s grown heavier since yesterday.” Owen’s voice was full of wonder as he lifted Evie from her cradle. The baby blinked sleepily as the morning light streamed through the nursery window.

Iris stood beside him in her robe. Her hair was still mussed from sleep, but she looked more beautiful than any woman had a right to at such an early hour.

“Babies do that,” she said softly, moving to straighten the blankets. “Mrs. Pemberton says they grow in spurts. One day they fit perfectly in your arms, the next they seem to have doubled in size.”

Everything felt different this morning. The careful distance that had defined their interactions for months had vanished and was replaced by something warmer, more intimate. They moved around each other with an ease that spoke of shared purpose rather than polite obligation.

Evie made a small sound of contentment. Her tiny fist opened and closed as she studied Owen’s face with that serious expression she wore when concentrating. Without thinking, he offered her his thumb, expecting her to ignore it as she usually did.

Instead, her fingers closed around it with surprising strength, holding fast as if she had no intention of letting go.

This small creature, who shared nothing of his blood but everything of his heart, trusted him completely. She depended on him. Evie saw him not as the cold Duke the world knew, but simply as the man who would keep her safe.

“Owen?” Iris prompted. “What’s wrong?”

He couldn’t speak past the tightness in his throat. How had he convinced himself that distance would protect them? That caring less would somehow keep them safer? Looking down at Evie’s perfect face, feeling the trust in her grip, he understood he would move heaven and earth to protect this child.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he managed finally. “Everything’s exactly as it should be.”

They had breakfast together in the morning room. Evie sat propped in Iris’s slap, contentedly drinking from her bottle while batting at a silver rattle with her free hand.

“She’s getting so much stronger,” Iris observed. “Look how she grips that rattle now. Mrs. Pemberton says she’s quite advanced for her age.”

“Brilliant already. She’ll fit right into this family.”

The word slipped out naturally, but it carried weight neither of them had acknowledged before. Family. Not the careful arrangement they’d constructed, but something real and chosen and worth fighting for.

“Felix is coming by this morning,” Owen added while he reached for the newspaper. “We have a promising lead on Adele’s whereabouts.”

Iris looked up sharply. “You found her?”

“Possibly. A boarding house outside London reported taking in a sick French woman a few months ago. The timing matches, and the description is close enough to warrant investigation.”

“Will you go yourself?”

“I’m sending Felix to make initial inquiries. If it proves promising, then yes.” He folded the paper carefully. “But no more disappearing without explanation. No more secrets. You’ll know exactly where I am and why.”

Relief flickered across her features. “Thank you.”

“You shouldn’t have to thank me for basic honesty.”

“Perhaps not. But after this past year…” She trailed off and focused on Evie with renewed attention. “It means something to be trusted with the truth.”

Felix arrived precisely at ten, looking remarkably fresh for someone who’d spent the previous evening investigating the less savory districts of London. He accepted coffee and settled into his chair with the grace of someone perfectly comfortable in any setting.

“Well?” Owen prompted.

“Mrs. Hartford at the Crossroads Inn remembers a French woman fitting Adele’s description.

Arrived in poor health, paid for a week’s lodging in advance, then vanished before the time was up.

” Felix consulted his notes. “Left behind a few personal items, including a small prayer book with an inscription.”

Owen leaned forward. “What sort of inscription?”

“French words she couldn’t read and when I asked to see it, she seemed reluctant to show it to me.

But she kept the book, thinking the woman would return for it.

” Felix’s expression grew serious. “According to Mrs. Hartford, the woman seemed to be saying goodbye to someone. Asked specifically about churches in the area, wanted to know which offered services in French.”

“When exactly?”

“Two months ago. Which would put it just after Evie’s was left on your doorstep in the country, at Carridan Hall. It is unclear how she made her way from there to London, but…”

Owen stopped listening. The travel arrangements Adele made previously were irrelevant. He focused solely on the timeline. If Adele had been at the boarding house two months ago, alive but ill, what had happened to her since? Had she simply moved on, or had something more sinister occurred?

“I’ll ride out this afternoon,” Owen decided. “Question the innkeeper myself and examine whatever she left behind.”

After Felix left, Owen spent the morning attending to correspondence and estate business. The mundane tasks felt strange after the emotional intensity of the past day. But even as he reviewed contracts and responded to letters, part of his attention remained focused on the sounds from upstairs.

Iris sang to Evie. Then he heard the baby’s occasional laughter. This domestic symphony quickly became the backdrop of his days.

He was sealing the last letter when Iris appeared in the doorway to his study with Evie in her arms.

“We’re disturbing you,” she said, though she made no move to leave.

“You’re not.” He set down his quill and gave them his full attention. “What can I do for you, ladies?”

“Nothing specific. I was simply wondering when you planned to leave for the inn.”

“Within the hour. Peters is preparing the carriage now.” He studied her face, noting the careful way she held herself. “What’s troubling you?”

“Nothing. I simply…” She shifted Evie to her other arm. “I worry when you’re away. Especially about your safety.”

The admission touched something deep in his chest. After months of careful distance, she was allowing herself to express concern for his welfare by acknowledging that his absence affected her.

“I’ll be careful. And I’ll send word the moment we learn anything significant.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

She moved closer to his desk, close enough that Evie could reach out and grasp the papers scattered across the surface. “Take this with you.”

She pulled a small object from her pocket and pressed it into his palm. It was a locket, silver and warm from her touch, with an inscription on the back he couldn’t make out in the dim light.

“What is it?”

“Something to bring you home safely.” Color rose in her cheeks. “I know it’s foolish but humor me.”

Owen opened the locket carefully and found a small portrait inside. It was not Iris, as he’d expected, but of Evie, painted in miniature with exquisite skill.

“When did you commission this?”

“Last week. Before I knew the truth about her parentage.” Iris’s voice softened. “I wanted something to remember her by, if circumstances ever changed. If she were taken from us.”

The fear in her voice made his chest tighten. She’d been living with the same fear that haunted his nights, the possibility that their fragile happiness could be shattered without warning.

“She won’t be taken from us,” he said firmly, closing the locket and sliding it into his waistcoat pocket. “Whatever threats exist, we’ll face them together.”

The fierce declaration seemed to ease the tension in her expression. She rose on her tiptoes to kiss him softly. The gesture was so natural it might have been a habit for years rather than hours.

“Come home to us,” she whispered against his lips.

“Always.”

The ride to the Crossroads Inn took most of the afternoon. Peters proved excellent company. His steady presence and practical observations helped to pass the time without dwelling on what they might discover.

The inn itself was a modest establishment, clean but unremarkable, the sort of place where travelers might rest without attracting undue attention. Mrs. Hartford was a woman of middling years with sharp eyes and a practical manner that suggested she missed little of what happened under her roof.

“French lady, yes. I remember her well,” she said while leading them to a small parlor where they could speak privately. “Polite as anything, but clearly unwell. Coughing something dreadful, and thin as a rail.”

“What exactly did she want?” Owen asked.

“Lodgings for a week. Paid in advance, which was unusual. Most folks pay as they go.” Mrs. Hartford settled herself with the air of someone preparing for a lengthy tale.

“But she seemed to have business in the area. Asked about churches, about coaches to London, about where a person might go if they needed to disappear.”

“Disappear?”

“Her words, not mine. Said she needed to go somewhere no one would think to look.” The innkeeper’s expression grew troubled. “I got the feeling she was running from something. Or someone.”

Owen and Peters exchanged glances. If Adele had been running, then that meant the danger was more immediate than they’d realized.

“Did she mention why she needed to disappear?” Peters asked.

“No, but she seemed frightened. Jumped every time someone came to the door, kept looking over her shoulder when she thought no one was watching.” Mrs. Hartford shook her head. “Poor thing. Whatever she was running from, it had her well and truly spooked.”

“And she left before her week was up?”

“Third night. Woke up to find her gone, along with most of her things. Left behind a few items, including that prayer book I mentioned. I suppose at this point, it wouldn’t hurt to show it to you, Your Grace.

” The woman rose and moved to a small table in the corner.

“I kept these things, thinking she might return.”

She produced a worn leather satchel containing a few personal items. There was a comb with several teeth missing, a small bottle that might have once held perfume, and at the bottom, a prayer book bound in cracked leather. Its pages were soft with age and use.

Owen opened it carefully to find an inscription on the first page, written in fading ink. The words were in French, but he could make out enough to understand their meaning.

Pour ma chère Adele. Que Dieu te garde. -Maman

For my dear Adele. May God protect you. -Mama.

The simple inscription made the woman’s desperation feel real. She’d carried this book from France, kept it through whatever circumstances had brought her to England, and clung to it even when fleeing into an uncertain future.

“Did she say anything else? Any indication of where she might go next?”

Mrs. Hartford thought for a moment. “She asked about the coast. Wanted to know how far to Dover and whether there were boats to France. I got the impression she was thinking of going home.”

The conversation continued for another quarter of an hour but yielded no additional information of significance.

Adele had arrived sick and frightened, stayed for three days, then vanished into the night. Whether she’d made it to Dover, or France, or anywhere at all remained a mystery.

The ride back to London passed in contemplative silence. Both men were lost in their thoughts.

As the lights of the city appeared in the distance, Owen found his hand moving instinctively to the locket in his pocket.

Whatever had happened to Adele, whatever fate had befallen her, his family was safe and waiting for him in the warm glow of home.

That had to be enough. For now, it had to be everything.

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