Chapter 23
DIANE
Finally in the quiet and comfort of the master bedroom at Darcy House, I stretch out on the bed and catch a quick nap while Sebastian showers.
Lucky bastard—he had no problem sleeping on the plane.
“I’m off to the office,” he says, emerging from the bathroom all crisp and kissworthy. “Lots of catching up to do.”
“Go catch them all up, darling!” I produce a nauseatingly saccharine smile. “What’s a little jet lag to a captain of industry?”
He laughs. “What about you?”
“Bath. Pajamas. Sleep.”
“It’s only four in the afternoon.”
I give him a so-what look.
As soon as Sebastian is gone, I take a long bath and put on my PJs.
The problem is I can’t sleep. With no industry to captain and no catching up to do, I should’ve dropped off the moment I shut my eyes.
But my wayward brain has decided otherwise.
After thirty minutes of vain attempts to cop some z’s, I give up and get dressed.
Too tired to read, I decide to explore the last unchartered area of Darcy House—the attic.
Vast and high-ceilinged, it’s used for storage—an unpardonable waste of space in any normal person’s point of view.
As I climb the wooden staircase and step into the loft, I remember Sebastian telling me his father wanted to install an indoor swimming pool in here.
But the city of Paris denied him the permit, what with the mansion being classified as a historic building.
Poor rich man, he must’ve been heartbroken!
I wander around, running my hand over mismatched pieces of furniture and unveiling old paintings stacked against the walls.
Specks of dust dance in the light coming in through dormer windows.
The place smells of old wood and the lavender hanging from the ceiling beams in little dried bunches.
The attic has so much character and charm that if I were the real mistress of this house, I would’ve wiped the dust, washed the windows, and set up my workspace here.
But as things stand, I’m the fake mistress of this house, and my goal is to find dirt on my fake husband.
Get to work, Diane.
I begin with the massive chest of drawers in front of me and work my way through the loft, leaving no object unturned.
Two hours later, just as I begin to tell myself this is pointless, I pull out the middle drawer of an unpretentious little desk that’s hiding behind a gigantic throne-like armchair and stacks of old magazines.
Weird… The drawer looks shallower than its siblings.
Using my tiny Swiss army knife—Lionel drilled into me to always have it handy—I hook the false bottom of the drawer and lift.
Bingo!
Concealed underneath is a secret compartment that holds a bundle of four letters.
I open the first one. It’s from Sebastian’s mom, accusing her ex-husband of having turned their older sons against her and insisting Raphael would be much better off living with her in Nepal than with him in Paris.
Why only Raphael, I wonder before remembering that Noah was already with her and Sebastian must’ve been around twenty by then.
The second letter is more or less the same as the first with the addition of a few choice adjectives I wouldn’t’ve expected from a high-society lady.
The third letter, again from her and again on the same topic, ends with this passage:
I was hoping it would never come to this, but your blatant refusal to meet me halfway leaves me no choice.
So here goes. Do you remember how I was already pregnant with Sebastian when we married?
I’m sure you do. What you don’t know is that I wasn’t pregnant by you.
That’s right—Sebastian, your adored firstborn, your rock and your heir, is not your son.
He’s Emmanuel’s. If you don’t believe me, you’re welcome to steal a few hairs from Sebastian’s comb and have them tested.
Once you’ve done that, it’s up to you to wait until I tell him the truth or to send Raphael to live with me.
Marguerite
I reread the passage twice more and then open the fourth—and last—letter and read the following:
Thibaud,
I’m glad you did the paternity test. Now that you have proof that I wasn’t bluffing, will you please send Raphael to me?
I promise that if you do, I’ll never tell Sebastian the truth.
It would break his heart. But I’m prepared to do that if you leave me no choice.
It is my duty to shelter Raphael, who lacks his older brother’s sense of purpose and moral rectitude, from your debauched lifestyle.
I hope you understand my motives and will do the right thing.
Marguerite
The letter is dated a month before Darcy senior overdosed.
This revelation must’ve been the straw that broke his back.
He’d already lost his wife, his good name, and his youngest son.
He was being blackmailed and pressured to send his middle son to a faraway country.
But, perhaps worst of all, he’d been robbed of his oldest and favorite boy.
Not in the literal sense, but on that fundamental fruit-of-my-loins level, which means more to us than it should.
With shaking hands, I fold the letters and stick them in the back pocket of my jeans.
That’s it.
My mission is accomplished. I’ve found the muddy, stinky dirt that I’ve been looking for.
The dirt that could destroy Sebastian Darcy.