Chapter Two
London, Two Days Later…
The carriage wheels clattered to a halt on the cobblestones outside his townhouse, and John drew a breath filling his chest with relief and dread in equal measure. London air felt heavier than Oxford’s—coal smoke and river damp, pressed close—but this house was home.
He tugged at his cravat, smoothed his dark coat over his shoulders, and ran a hand through his short blond curls, only making them more unruly.
Maisie would scold him, but he didn’t care.
He had rehearsed this moment the entire way from Oxford: walk in, greet them, and say it plain—I want to bring a woman home after graduation.
I want her to be part of our family. I want her to be mine.
He was four-and-twenty now, no longer the half-wild boy who had first come through these doors, starved for safety and staggering with grief.
He carried the title Marquess of Stonefield, master of lands and tenants, a name that would carry weight in Parliament.
Yet he had forged his truest self inside these walls: son to Felix and Maisie Leafley, brother to their children, a boy reborn by their love.
And he wanted Theresa here. In this house. In his arms forever.
The townhouse loomed before him, its brick front catching the low afternoon light.
His birth father had purchased it as Stonefield’s London seat, but had not lived to use it; his mother had died soon after, leaving John bereft in a haze of loss.
But Maisie had turned the shell into a home filled with stews and baking bread, pressed flowers in vases, servants who treated him not as a young marquess to be feared but as her child to be loved.
And Felix, dutiful Felix, had guided him not just through childhood ailments but through the darker sickness of grief and into adulthood.
For all that mattered, Maisie and Felix were his parents.
They had remade him here.
Key in hand, he unlocked the door, and his voice rang through the hall. “It’s me! I’m home!”
Silence—the pop of the fire, the faint clink of crockery from the kitchen.
Then chaos.
A scatter of small feet. The thud of bodies against banisters. Shrieks of his name.
Impact.
His three-year-old twin sisters hurtled into his legs, curls flying, cheeks flushed with health.
They clung like ivy, leaving smudges of jam—or ink, or both—on his coat.
Behind them came the boy, seven now, with Felix’s solemn eyes and Maisie’s stubborn chin.
He tried to hang back, as if he were already a man grown, but then flung himself forward, colliding with John’s chest.
John staggered beneath the weight of all three and laughed, wrapping them tight in his arms. “Look at you—stampeding like wild horses. I thought the house was under attack.”
The boy puffed his chest. “Next time, I’ll come to Oxford with you. I’ll guard your books from trolls.”
John kissed the boy’s crown. “Oxford isn’t ready for you yet. Perhaps in a few years.”
And then—Maisie.
“My boy!” Her voice held the warmth of a hearth fire.
She swept down the stairs with no care for dignity, skirts gathered in her hands, curls tumbling loose. She folded herself over the children and pressed a kiss to his brow as if he’d returned from battle.
“Look at you,” she murmured, eyes bright. “My sweet John.”
The words struck him deeply. He was taller than Felix now, broad-shouldered, taller than her by a head, but to Maisie, he was still a boy. And he let her hold him. Always.
They tumbled into the drawing room together, noisy, breathless, the fire roaring, chestnuts roasting, the air hinting at freshly brewed tea, jams, and bread.
Felix rose, tall and composed, with spectacles low on his nose. He moved with the quiet authority of a man who had healed too many bodies ever to need to raise his voice.
He embraced John firmly. “My son. Home again. We missed you.”
“Father.” John breathed him in—ink, mint, cloves—and steadied.
Then Alfie approached. Uncle Alfie, though not bound to John by blood, shared a bond with him stronger than any.
He had stood at the hearing when John’s fate was decided, when the law required a gentile guardian over Stonefield’s lands.
Felix and Maisie had taken John’s heart; Alfie had safeguarded his inheritance.
For over a decade, he had been part of John’s life—reliable as the tide, legitimizing the family in the world’s eyes, though John had never cared for such distinctions.
“Uncle Alfie.” John clasped his hand warmly. “It’s good to see you.”
“And you.” Alfie smiled, his eyes crinkling. “We said only yesterday we hoped you’d come this weekend.”
Alfie’s hand moved quickly, slipping a folded paper behind his back—a creased sheet, tucked away in an instant.
John froze. “What’s that?”
Felix cleared his throat too quickly. “Nothing of concern. Sit, John. You’ve had a long journey. There’s tea.”
But John’s gaze held fast, flicking from Felix to Alfie. The warmth of the room pressed heavily now, too close, too bright.
They were hiding something from him.