Chapter 22 #5
"She is dead," Roman said, his voice flat, dropping the words like heavy stones. "Your daughter is dead. She died on a road in Bristol, having lived her entire life believing she was a burden to a country magistrate."
His mother let out a sharp, ragged sob, her knees buckling slightly as she leaned heavily on her cane, staring down at the faded emblem on the shawl.
"And her daughter," Roman continued, stepping closer until he towered over her, his eyes burning with a fierce, unforgiving light.
"Your granddaughter. And the woman who loved her enough to walk into the lion's den to save her...
they are currently locked in a freezing cellar outside Farnham.
Because the woman you invited into this house, the woman you tried to force me to marry, hired thugs to throw them away just like you did. "
His mother looked up, her eyes wide with horror. "Daphne? No... no, she told me she sent them to the turnpike. A charity..."
"She sent them to die," Roman snarled. He turned away from her, unable to look at her face for another second. He walked to the heavy oak bureau in the corner of the room.
The dowager stood, trembling. "Roman..."
"There will have been a record," Roman said, his voice dropping from a roar into something far colder. "A physician attended the birth. A physician does not attend a duchess without writing something down, and you are not a woman who burns paper that might be useful to her one day. Where is it?"
His mother’s hand went to the chain at her waist before she seemed to realize she had moved it. “Roman…”
“I am not asking if it exists,” Roman said. “I am asking where.”
She stared at him for a long moment, and her expression crumpled slightly.
His mother unhooked a small, iron key from the chain at her waist and crossed to the bureau herself, her cane tapping an uneven rhythm against the floor.
Her hands shook so badly it took her three attempts to fit the key to the lock.
“I told myself I kept it in case the physician’s family ever came asking for payment,” she said, low, almost to herself. “I never let myself finish the other thought.”
She pulled the drawer open. Beneath a stack of old ledgers sat a small, sealed envelope, the wax long since gone brittle and dark. She lifted it out and held it toward him. Her hand was not steady enough to keep it level.
“Open it,” she said. “I have never been able to.”
Roman took it from her and broke the wax himself.
Inside was a birth record, dated thirty years ago. A female infant. Born to the Duke and Duchess of Langley.
Roman folded the paper and shoved it deep into the inside pocket of his riding coat. It was the only proof Yvette had ever existed, the only proof that Liliana belonged to their house by blood, not by charity.
He turned back to the room. Preston was standing now, leaning heavily against the chair.
"I am riding to Farnham," Roman said, his voice dropping back to a lethal, focused calm. He strode toward the door, retrieving his heavy riding crop from the desk. "Orson and I will find the house. We will pay the men, or we will kill them. I do not care which."
Preston nodded, his eyes shining with unshed tears. "Bring my daughter home, Your Grace."
"She is not a nursemaid," Roman said softly, looking at the old man. "She is the bravest woman I have ever known. And I will bring her back, or I will not come back at all."
He did not look at his mother again. He walked out of the study, his boots striking the polished floorboards of the gallery with a heavy, relentless rhythm.
The courtyard was slick with rain, the heavy gray clouds pressing down low over the Yorkshire moors.
Orson was already mounted on his bay, holding the reins of Roman’s massive gray stallion.
The horse was restless, stamping its iron-shod hooves against the wet cobblestones, its breath pluming in the cold air.
Roman swung himself into the saddle, the wet leather groaning under his weight. He reached down and pulled a heavy, flintlock pistol from the saddlebag, checking the powder in the pan before sliding it back into the holster.
Orson looked at him, the rain running down the brim of his hat. "Farnham is a two-hour ride in this mud, Roman."
"Then we will do it in one," Roman said, gathering the reins in his fists.
Albert Preston stood under the stone portico of the grand entrance. The old magistrate leaned against the heavy oak pillar, his clothes still soaked, his silver hair plastered to his skull.
But for the first time in thirty years, the crushing weight of the lie he had carried for the Duke of Langley was gone from his shoulders. He had finally told the truth to the one man who had the power to make it right.
Roman met Preston's eyes through the driving mist. He gave a single, sharp nod.
He kicked his spurs into the stallion’s flanks. The massive horse leaped forward, its hooves tearing up the wet gravel of the drive, Orson riding hard at its shoulder.
They passed through the great iron gates of Langley Hall without slowing down, disappearing into the heavy, gray fog of the eastern road, riding toward the dark.