Chapter 22
“Tell me everything.”
Penelope’s voice held no tremor. She had crossed the study in three strides and now stood before him, her hands fisted at her sides, her chin lifted with that quiet, immovable determination he had come to recognise as the most formidable weapon in her arsenal.
Behind her, the drawing room door still hung open—the room beyond it emptied of Whitcombes but not of their poison.
Alastair looked at his wife. Chalk-pale, yes. Shaken, certainly. But her spine was iron and her gaze was fixed on him with an intensity that left no room for evasion.
“Whitcombe believes Rose is his granddaughter.” He kept his voice level, clinical—a surgeon delivering a prognosis. “Marianne’s child. He came with a solicitor and the full intention of taking her.”
Penelope’s breath left her in a single, sharp exhalation. Her hand found the back of the nearest chair, her fingers pressing into the upholstery hard enough to dent the fabric.
“On what grounds?”
“Blood. Timing. The scandal sheets, apparently, have been most informative.” He dragged a hand across his jaw.
The skin still felt tight where he’d clenched it for the better part of an hour.
“He intends to petition the courts. Claims we’re unfit guardians—a rake and a girl barely out of the schoolroom, his words—and that the child was taken from his daughter without consent. ”
The colour that had drained from her face did not return. But something else did—a hardening behind her eyes, a squaring of her shoulders that reminded him, absurdly, of a soldier bracing a wall.
“And you refused him.”
“I threw him out of my house.”
“Good.” The word came out low, fierce, stripped of every social nicety she’d been trained to maintain. “Because I do not care what solicitors he brings or what courts he petitions. He will not touch Rose.”
“No. He won’t.”
“You sound very certain for a man who just had his drawing room invaded by a lord with legal counsel.”
“I am certain because I intend to make it impossible.” He rose from the chair, and the movement felt deliberate in a way that surprised him—as though something in his body had decided, even before his mind had caught up, exactly what needed to happen next.
“Whitcombe’s entire claim rests on the assumption that Rose has no one to speak for her.
No parents willing to come forward, no family willing to fight. If we can change that—”
He stopped.
Penelope’s brow creased. “If we can change that, what?”
“Then Whitcombe has no standing whatsoever. A grandfather cannot claim a child whose parents are alive and willing to raise her.” He met her gaze, weighing how much to reveal.
The suspicion that had lived in his chest for weeks pressed against his ribs, demanding release.
But suspicion was not proof, and he would not burden her with half-formed theories when what she needed was certainty. “I must go to London.”
“London.” She said the word as though he’d suggested the moon. “Now? After what just—”
“Tomorrow. At first light.” He crossed to her, close enough that he could see the faint shadows beneath her lashes, the pulse beating hard at the base of her throat.
“I know people in the city, people who have sources who can find… nearly anything. I want to find out more about Rose. I… have to. She deserves to know where she comes from and we…”
He swallowed.
“We need to find out whose daughter she is before we forget that she does not belong to us.”
She held his gaze for a long moment. Then, slowly, she nodded.
“Go,” she said. “Find your answers. But Alastair—” She caught his sleeve as he turned, her fingers curling into the fabric with a grip that was fiercer than her expression betrayed. “Come back with them.”
He looked down at her hand on his arm. At the knuckles gone white with the force of her hold. His ribs tightened—a slow, crushing compression, as though his body were trying to contain a thing too large for the space it had been given.
“I will,” he said.
And meant it in ways he was not yet brave enough to examine.
* * *
The boxing hall smelt exactly as it always had.
Leather and sweat and sawdust and the faint metallic undertone of old blood that no amount of scrubbing could fully erase.
Alastair pushed through the door and the familiar assault of noise engulfed him—the rhythmic thud of fists against canvas bags, the sharp crack of knuckles meeting jaw, the shouts and laughter of men who came here to shed the weight of their daily lives one blow at a time.
He had not been here in weeks. Not since Rose. Not since Penelope. Not since his entire existence had been upended by a wicker basket and a letter signed with a single damning initial.
The regulars glanced up as he entered—a few nods of recognition, a muttered “Your Grace” from old Brennan behind the makeshift counter—but no one made a fuss. That was the mercy of this place. Within these walls, a duke was simply another man with bruised knuckles and too much restless energy.
He spotted Thomas almost immediately.
His friend was in the far corner, wrapping strips of linen around his hands with the methodical precision of long habit.
He looked thinner than when Alastair had last seen him.
His shirtsleeves were rolled to the elbows, and there was a drawn quality to his face—a hollowness around the cheekbones that spoke of too many missed meals or too many sleepless nights.
For a moment, Alastair simply stood and watched.
Thomas Reed. Honest, loyal, stubborn Thomas, who had built his life from nothing and carried himself with more dignity than half the aristocrats in London combined.
It was good to see his friend, even if this were the only good thing to come out of his visit to the city.
Rose’s parentage still remained a secret.
No one knew a thing about her, and if they did…
they were not speaking of it. He was naturally careful to ask questions about Marianne Whitcombe too.
He crossed the room.
“You look terrible,” he said by way of greeting.
Thomas’s head came up. For a fraction of a second, surprise flickered across his weathered features—followed immediately by a smile that did not quite reach beyond his mouth. “Could say the same about you. Married life not agreeing with you?”
“On the contrary.” Alastair shrugged out of his coat and tossed it onto the nearest bench. “I find domesticity agrees with me alarmingly well. My tailor is distraught. I’ve hardly needed evening clothes in weeks.”
“The scandal of the Season.” Thomas’s tone held the ghost of their old rhythm—easy, familiar, built on a decade of friendship that had survived differences in station, circumstance, and the general absurdity of London life.
But something was off. The warmth was thinner.
The silences between words carried more weight.
They squared up in the ring without discussing it—muscle memory and mutual understanding requiring no negotiation. The first few exchanges were tentative, exploratory, two men relearning each other’s timing after an absence.
Thomas threw a jab that Alastair sidestepped. He answered with a hook that Thomas blocked with his forearm.
“Haven’t seen you in a while,” Thomas said between breaths, circling left. “Thought perhaps you’d forgotten us common folk now you’ve gone and got yourself a wife and a country estate.”
“Impossible. You’re the only man in London who can land a decent punch. I’d never find a suitable replacement.”
Thomas almost smiled at that. Almost. But the humour faded as quickly as it arrived.
He needed to be careful. Thomas was proud—quietly, fiercely proud in the way of men who had earned everything they possessed through labour rather than inheritance. Pushing too hard, too fast, would make him retreat behind that dignity and refuse to answer.
Between rounds, they dropped to the bench. Thomas reached for a rag, dragging it across his face, and Alastair saw it.
A small, embroidered star.
It sat just below the collar of Thomas’s shirt, stitched into the linen with the sort of careful, deliberate needlework that spoke of love rather than fashion.
A five-pointed star, no larger than a thumbnail, worked in thread that had once been white but had faded with years of washing into something closer to cream.
The world narrowed.
Alastair’s breath caught—a sharp, involuntary hitch that he disguised by reaching for his own water. Because he had seen that star before. Not on a shirt collar. Not worked into linen worn close against skin.
On the corner of a baby’s blanket.
He had dismissed it. Weeks ago, examining Rose’s blanket in the morning room, his attention had been consumed by the roses and the delicate floral tracery that dominated the fabric.
But there, half-hidden in the fold of the hem—stitched so small it could have been mistaken for a loose thread or a seamstress’s mark—had been a star.
The same star. The same careful, deliberate hand.
His fingers had traced it without registering its significance. Now, sitting on a scarred wooden bench in a boxing hall that stank of sawdust and sweat, the significance struck him with the force of Thomas’s best uppercut.
“That star on your shirt.” He kept his voice steady with an effort that cost him more than he would ever admit. “I’ve been meaning to ask about it.”
Thomas glanced down, his hand moving instinctively to the embroidery. His face changed—the hard edges loosening into something so private, so unguarded, that Alastair looked away. It felt like reading a letter not addressed to him.