Chapter 26
Only one of Letitia’s feet had touched the cobblestones outside Hugh and Persephone’s house before she was struck by two cannonballs that nearly sent her careening back into the carriage.
“Miss Knightley!” Iris called from where she was clinging to Letty’s knees.
“Oh, Letty, oh my friend, you are here,” Sarah wept into her shoulder. “You have no idea how worried I have been. But you are here. You are here.”
“I am here,” Letitia confirmed, smoothing her friend’s hair. “I am all right.”
Ezra’s hand came to the small of her back, steadying her as she wobbled under the exuberance of her friend and the little girl.
He had been acting like this for their entire journey home—always nearby, always solicitous, always familiar, though notably unthreatening about it. She had tried to ask about it only once, but he had just shaken his head and said they would talk when they were back in London.
She had not argued. She wanted to be home.
And if what he was going to tell her was that he had realized she had been right all along, and that he had only come to help her out of a sense of duty, well. She wanted to soak up as much of this care and comfort as she could.
They were back in London now, though. Her time had come to an end.
“All right, all right,” Persephone said, coming to take Iris by the hand. “Why don’t we let Miss Knightley come inside, hm?”
Iris beamed up at Persephone. “All right, Aunt Percy.” She turned to look at Letitia and Ezra. “That’s what the triplets and I can call her. But Corinna and Nicholas call her ‘Mama,’ because she is their mama.”
For the first time since she had found Peter waiting for her, Letitia started laughing, open, broad, and true.
Iris adopted an expression of outrage. “It’s true!” she exclaimed.
Letitia bent down and cupped the little girl’s cheek. “It is true,” she agreed. “I am not laughing because you are wrong. I am laughing because you are wonderful and clever.”
Iris was appeased. “Oh, very well, then,” she said contentedly.
Iris kept up a cheerful patter as they all went into the house, Sarah clinging to one of Letitia’s arms, Ezra hovering patiently at her other side.
Evidently, Iris had been having a completely wonderful time with her cousins and felt determined to relay every detail of every game they had ever played.
She lost interest in this as soon as the Blackwood children came back into sight—playing was clearly more amusing than talking about playing.
Letitia watched the girl scamper off with a fond smile, then froze as another familiar figure lumbered into view.
“Clio!” she exclaimed. “My goodness, what are you doing here?”
Clio waddled—there really was no more polite way to say it—toward Letitia, stomach first. She wrapped her arms around her former companion. It was awkward, but it was warm and heartfelt, and Letty sank into the embrace.
“What are you talking about?” Clio objected. “Of course, I came. I made Hector pack up the very instant we learned that you were in danger. He made us stop about a thousand times—”
“You are very near your time, my love,” Hector grumbled from the corner in his Northern burr.
“—but we made it, and now so did you.” Clio cupped Letitia’s face in her hands. Tears sparkled in her eyes, but she dashed them away. “Goodness, impending motherhood has made me weep over everything. This is worth it, though. I am so happy you are here.”
“We all are,” Persephone assured her, as Iris, who had darted back over with several cousins in tow, nodded exuberantly.
Letty felt her heart start to melt at the outpouring of kindness from these people who had no real reason to welcome them into their fold.
Well, no reason except…
On impulse, she looked over at Ezra and found him watching her with a look on his face that was so impossibly tender that her breath caught just from looking at it. When he saw her watching, he gave her a quick nod, then slipped away with Hugh and Clio’s husband, Hector.
Letitia tried to shove down the pang of disappointment that she felt watching his retreating back. That was her answer then, she supposed. He had just wanted to safeguard her until he could get her back where she belonged.
“I think we all need some tea,” Persephone declared, drawing Letitia’s attention. “Do you all want tea? Clio? Letitia—may I call you Letitia? I feel as though we all ought to be on familiar terms at this point.”
“Of course you may,” Letty said, smiling. “And tea sounds wonderful.”
Ezra had never been hers to begin with. Hadn’t she been the one saying as much all along? He was a duke, and she was a servant. She ought to be grateful just for the friends she had managed to find—and for Iris, too, of course.
She would focus on what she had. And she would not let the ache in her heart stop her from enjoying all the luck that she had been given.
* * *
“I saw you less frequently when we lived in the same city,” Ezra commented when Xander appeared in his study less than a week after he had left his cousin behind in Belgium.
There was no heat to the words, not like there might once have been.
It turned out that Ezra was not at all displeased to see the Duke of Godwin, even if it was surprising.
Xander gave a thin smile, and Ezra sat up straighter in his seat. Not a social call, then—not that he had truly expected as much, given that his cousin had crossed a continent to reach him.
“I didn’t trust this to the post,” Xander said, drawing a parcel of papers from his coat. “May I sit?”
Ezra waved his cousin to the seat across from him, anticipation and dread clawing at his throat.
Xander clasped his hands.
“After you left Brussels,” he began, “I wasted no time tracking down some of Dugley’s associates.
It turns out that he has spent the past decades consorting with some of the most unpleasant characters you could imagine, but only one of them showed a reaction when I mentioned your father’s name.
He was called Jim Mattigan—an Englishman from up around Manchester who had come to Belgium with Dugley years ago.
It seems that Dugley owes Mattigan a great deal of money—and, when I offered to pay off some of that debt, Mattigan was only too happy to talk. ”
Ezra was listening intently, but when Xander paused, he knew that what came next would not be good.
“Just tell me, Xander,” he croaked. He felt as though he were outside his body. Could it really be happening? Could the answers that he had sought for so many years finally be at his fingertips?
Xander nodded solemnly. “You were right, in a sense,” he said gently.
“Dugley was behind the fire, though Mattigan was the one who actually carried the torch. He is a working man, you see; he posed as a merchant seeking to sell wares and then hid until nightfall. When everyone was asleep, he set the blaze. But it wasn’t Dugley’s idea—he was just the connection to Mattigan, paid for his associations.
The viscount needed money and wasn’t scrupulous about how he got it.
So, Dugley hired Mattigan to set the fire… but it was on your father’s orders.”
Something heavy settled in Ezra’s chest, feeling more like resignation than surprise. He wondered how long he had secretly suspected that his father was not just innocent in all this, and how long he had refused to admit it to himself.
“My father,” he echoed woodenly. “But… Why? He was the one who got burned!”
“Because Mattigan got it wrong—or at least he said he did,” Xander explained.
“He was supposed to start the blaze in the servants’ wing.
Then, when everyone rushed to help put out the blaze, your father was going to rob my father’s study.
He was sick of being the impoverished duke in the family, you see.
He wanted—well. Mattigan wasn’t certain.
He said he thought that your father wanted to kill the rest of the men in the family, but it was possible he was just looking for blackmail. His only job was to light the fire.”
“But something went wrong,” Ezra muttered. The pieces were all falling into place, and they made a distressing amount of sense.
Xander looked skeptical. “Mattigan said it was an accident, but he also told me that France had the right way of things and the only good duke was a dead duke, so it is distinctly possible that he lit up the family wing on purpose.” He paused. “The bastard still took my money for answers, though.”
“So, it was my father,” Ezra said. “All along, it was my father. I thought he was the victim, but…”
“There is proof,” Xander said, nudging the stack of papers closer to Ezra.
“Mattigan kept all the angry letters your father and Dugley sent him—they weren’t pleased that he burned the wrong part of the house, though your father did admit that it was an effective way of getting rid of the other dukes. ”
“I don’t need any proof,” Ezra mumbled. Then, his brain caught up to the second part of what Xander had said. “Oh, fuck! Xander—my father killed your father. I am so sorry. I can never apologize—”
“No,” Xander interjected, gentle but firm.
“If there is any lesson that this family is determined to teach me time and again, it is that we are not accountable for the sins of our fathers—or our grandfathers,” he added wryly.
Ezra made a face of agreement. If any of them could be blamed for Cornelius’ misdeeds, they were all in a great deal of trouble.
“Yes, but—”
“I will not hear any apology. You owe me none,” Xander said finally. “We are a family, Ez. And it’s beyond time that we started goddamned acting like it.”
He stuck out his hand to shake. Ezra didn’t hesitate for a moment before accepting it.
“Family,” he agreed. “Now, in the spirit of such things, do you want to meet your… Well, we don’t exactly know what Iris is, but she calls me ‘Uncle Ezra,’ so let’s just say she’s your niece.”
Xander brightened, and Ezra was reminded, not for the first time, how marriage and fatherhood had softened his cousin.
“I very much do want to meet Iris—though Helen and the children will be positively furious that I met her without them.” He paused again, and a mischievous gleam came into his eye. “Does that mean I will be seeing Miss Knightley as well?”
Ezra should have expected that.
“She is here,” he admitted. “I don’t think she could bear to return to her old rooms, since that was where Dugley attacked her. But… She is not Iris’ governess, no.”
“Well, of course, it isn’t the bloody governess, Ezra!” Xander kicked out at him lazily, as if they were boys in the yard, not grown men and dukes. “I want to know what you are going to do about the fact that you are in love with her.”
Unlike the last time Xander had said such a thing, Ezra didn’t deny it. He had tumbled headlong into love with her so long ago that he hardly knew when it had happened—when she had argued with him over Sarah’s kitchen table, perhaps? When he had first caught her laughing with Iris?
When he thought he might never see her again, he had not been able to deny it any longer.
“I don’t want to pressure her,” he hedged. “She has just had a terrible shock…”
“That is stupid,” Xander said flatly. “If you love her, you should tell her.”
Ezra huffed out a laugh.
“I do,” he said. “God help me, but I do.”
“Splendid,” Xander said, looking very pleased with himself—as if this had anything to do with him. “Before you declare yourself, though, I think there is one more thing that you should know about Miss Knightley…”