Chapter 7 #2
But she said nothing more. She held his gaze for a long moment, then turned and walked out of the study, closing the door behind her with a soft, final-sounding click.
Roman stood behind his desk and stared at the closed door.
You may not like the answer.
She had spoken as though she already knew something.
He sat back down slowly. He picked up a letter from his desk, stared at it without reading a single word, and set it down again.
He stared into the fire and thought about his mother’s face when she had first seen the basket on the steps. The strange stillness. The way her hands had trembled. The way she had said the front steps as though the words themselves hurt her.
What do you know? He thought. What are you not telling me?
He had no answers. But he was determined to find them.
That evening, Roman sat in the study with Orson and tried not to lose at chess.
He was losing anyway.
“You are distracted,” Orson said, moving his knight with confident ease.
“I am thinking.”
“You are staring at the board as if it has personally offended you. There is a difference.”
Roman moved his bishop. The moment he released the piece, he knew it was a mistake.
Orson raised his eyebrows. “Are you going to take that back?”
“No.”
“Your bishop is about to die.”
“I am aware.”
Orson captured the bishop. “What is bothering you?”
Roman looked at the board. His position was weak, his defenses were crumbling, and his king was dangerously exposed. It felt like a perfect reflection of everything else happening in his life right now.
“My mother said something strange today,” Roman admitted. “She said I may not like the answer when I find out where the baby came from.”
Orson’s hand paused over the board. “What do you think she meant by that?”
“I do not know. But it sounded like she already knows something.”
They sat in silence for a while. The fire crackled in the grate. Somewhere in the distance, a door closed softly.
“Your mother has been acting strangely ever since the baby arrived,” Orson said. “You have noticed it too. I have seen the way she looks at that shawl. The way she looks at the baby. The way she looks at the nursemaid.”
“I have noticed,” Roman replied.
“Do you think she knows something? Something about where the baby actually came from?”
Roman remembered his mother’s face when she first saw the basket. The unnatural stillness. The slight tremble in her hands. The way she had turned and walked back upstairs without saying another word.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “I think she knows something. I just do not know what.”
Orson moved his rook. “Then we keep looking. Someone in this house knows the truth. Someone sent that baby here wrapped in a shawl that came from these very walls. We find that person, and we find the answers.”
Roman nodded. He looked down at the board again, at his exposed king and the mess he had made of his position.
“Checkmate,” Orson said.
Roman stared at the board. Orson had never beaten him with checkmate before. Not once in fifteen years of playing.
“You have been waiting for that,” Roman said.
“I have been waiting for that for a very long time.” Orson leaned back in his chair, looking thoroughly satisfied. “It is almost disappointing. I expected it to feel more triumphant.”
“You are a terrible winner.”
“I am an excellent winner. You are simply a sore loser.”
Roman was about to reply when the door opened, and Mrs. Ames stepped inside, carrying a silver tray.
“Your Grace,” she said. “The evening post has arrived.”
She set the tray on the corner of the desk. There were the usual letters—bills, invitations, and estate correspondence. But one letter immediately caught Roman’s attention. It was addressed to the household rather than to him personally, and the handwriting was unfamiliar.
He picked it up. The seal was plain and unmarked. He broke it open and unfolded the paper.
To the Duke of Langley’s household,
I am writing to inquire after a young woman who may have traveled to your part of the county.
Her name is Thelma Preston. She is my daughter.
She left home without warning several days ago, and I am concerned for her safety.
If she has come to your attention, I would be most grateful for any information you can provide.
Yours,
Albert Preston
Roman read the letter twice. Then he set it down on the desk.
“What is it?” Orson asked.
“A letter from a father looking for his daughter. A runaway, apparently.” Roman shrugged. “It is not our concern.”
Orson picked up the letter and read it. His expression remained neutral, “Thelma Preston,” Orson said. “That is not a very common name.”
“No. It is not.”
“Do you know anyone by that name?”
“No.” Roman took the letter back and placed it on the tray with the rest of the post. “She is probably some girl who ran off with a soldier or a groom. Her father is worried. It is sad, but it is not our problem.”
Orson looked at him for a moment, then nodded and turned his attention back to the chessboard.
“Your move,” Orson said. “Or rather, my move. Since I already won.”
“You are insufferable.”
“I am victorious. There is a difference.”
Roman looked at the letter on the tray once more. He thought about the name. Thelma Preston. He had never heard it before. He was certain of that.
And yet something about it tugged at him. Something he could not quite name.
He pushed the feeling aside and reset the chessboard.
“Another game,” Roman said.
“You just want a chance to win.”
“I want a chance to make you stop smiling like that.”
Orson grinned. “You can try.”
They played. Roman won the second game. Orson won the third. By the time the fire had burned down to glowing embers and the candles had grown low, Roman had stopped thinking about the letter.
But the next morning, when Mrs. Ames came to clear the tray, Roman picked up the letter one last time.
He read the name again, folded the letter, and set it back on the tray.
Not my concern, he told himself.