Chapter 1 #2
Dominic clenched his jaw. Working as a Bow Street Runner, he had seen what happened to children in workhouses—starvation, disease, injury… or worse. It was no place for anyone, let alone a child trying to care for his mother.
“No,” Dominic said. “He’ll come home with me.”
Surprise flashed briefly in the doctor’s eyes, but he recovered quickly. “Very good, my lord.”
Dominic knelt beside Tristan, placing a hand gently on the boy’s bony shoulder. “Come, Lad. Let’s get you something warm to eat.”
Tristan’s wide eyes darted from his mother’s pale face to Dominic. “But… what about my mum? I don’t want to leave her.”
Dominic met the boy’s gaze. “The doctor’s going to look after her. I promise she’ll be in good hands.”
Tristan’s lower lip trembled. “Can’t I stay?”
“I’m afraid not,” Dominic said. “But you’ll see her again once she’s stronger.”
The boy gave a small, reluctant nod. Dominic helped him to his feet, and together they walked towards the door.
As they started to walk away, Dominic glanced back one final time at the fragile woman on the bed. Please hold on, he thought. For Tristan’s sake.
The hackney carriage lurched to a halt, its wheels grinding slightly against the cobblestones as it came to an abrupt stop. Dominic reached for the handle and swung open the door, stepping down onto the clean, well-swept pavement just outside his home.
Tristan scrambled after him, landing beside him with a soft thump. He froze as his gaze lifted to the towering red-brick townhouse before them. His mouth parted slightly in awe.
“Is… is this where you live?” the boy asked.
Dominic allowed himself a small smile of pride. “It is,” he said. “Come along now. A gentleman does not loiter on the pavement.”
Tristan hurried to match his stride. They ascended the wide stone steps and the door swung open. Standing on the threshold was Wright, his white-haired butler, dressed in his immaculate black tailcoat and white gloves, his expression calm and composed as ever.
“Welcome home, my lord,” Wright greeted, stepping aside and opening the door wider.
“Thank you, Wright,” Dominic replied, entering the grand foyer with measured steps.
The hall beyond stretched out in quiet splendor with marble flooring gleaming beneath their feet, soft light filtering in through tall windows framed with heavy curtains, and a grand chandelier hanging overhead like a frozen cascade of crystal.
Tristan stood stiffly just inside the door, his eyes wide as they darted around the hall. He looked impossibly small in such an opulent space.
Dominic gestured towards him. “This is Tristan. He’ll be staying with us for the foreseeable future. See to it that he is properly outfitted—new clothes, boots, whatever he needs.”
Wright bowed his head slightly. “Of course, my lord. I shall see to the arrangements immediately.”
“Good,” Dominic said with a nod. “Also, inform Mrs. Dawson we’re ready for our midday meal.”
Without further prompting, Wright departed, his footsteps silent against the marble. Dominic turned back to Tristan, who remained rooted in place, his mouth slightly agape as he stared up at the chandelier like it might fall on him.
Dominic couldn’t help but smile. “You’re allowed to look. It’s all real, I assure you.”
Tristan blinked rapidly, then looked up at him. “You really live here?”
“I do. Though sometimes, I still find it difficult to believe.” He rested a hand lightly on the boy’s shoulder. “Come, let’s adjourn to the dining room. You look like you haven’t had a proper meal in days.”
Tristan gave a vague nod and followed as Dominic led him through the corridor, past a pair of double doors, and into the dining room. The space was warm with late-day sunlight, the long table gleaming with polish. The scent of roasted meat and freshly baked bread wafted faintly through the air.
Dominic walked to the head of the table and seated himself. Before he could speak, a footman silently approached and pulled out a chair for Tristan. The boy froze, looking up at the man like he had grown a second head.
“Sit,” Dominic instructed.
Tristan obeyed, lowering himself into the chair as though afraid it might collapse beneath him. “I’ve never sat at a table like this before,” he admitted.
“It’s just a table,” Dominic replied with a shrug.
“But what if I dirty it?”
Dominic smirked. “Then I shall have it cleaned.”
Tristan gave a nervous laugh, but his expression softened. After a pause, he glanced towards the footmen by the door and murmured, “My mum used to work in a house like this.”
“Was she a maid?”
“A lady’s maid,” Tristan said proudly, straightening his back. “She used to help the mistress dress, do her hair… all that. But she was let go.”
“Why?”
Tristan frowned. “The mistress said she stole an earring. But my mum’s no thief.”
Dominic raised a brow, keeping his voice even. “But you are?”
Tristan didn’t flinch. He just shrugged. “Someone has to make sure there’s food on the table. I’m the man of the house.”
Dominic studied him for a moment. There was no guile in the boy’s tone—only a kind of quiet desperation he recognized all too well. “What happened to your father?” he asked gently.
The boy’s gaze dropped to the gleaming surface of the table. “He is dead.”
“I’m sorry,” Dominic said.
Bringing his gaze up, Tristan asked, “Do you think I could work here?”
Dominic pretended to consider it. “I do think we can arrange something, but let’s not worry about that until your mother recovers.”
Before Tristan could respond, the door opened and two footmen stepped inside, carrying silver trays. The lids were lifted, revealing bread, carved meats, and soft cheeses arranged beside bowls of fruit and preserves.
Tristan’s eyes widened again. “Is that all for us?”
Dominic gave him a small nod. “It is. Go ahead, eat.”
And for the first time since they’d met, Tristan smiled—small, uncertain, but real. He reached for the bread and took a large bite.
As Dominic reached for a slice of roasted venison, the dining room door opened with a quiet creak. Wright entered with his usual composed demeanor, but there was a slight apologetic tilt to his posture.
“Pardon the interruption, my lord,” he said with a slight bow. “Mr. Wells has arrived and is requesting a moment of your time.”
Dominic stilled. His solicitor. Of course. He had intended to meet with Mr. Wells that very morning, but his detour to the hospital—and everything that followed—had derailed the day entirely.
He pushed back his chair, rising. “Very well. I shall go speak with him.” He turned to Tristan, who looked up with cheeks puffed, stuffed with bread and cheese.
“Chew before you swallow. I’ll be back shortly,” Dominic said.
Tristan gave an enthusiastic nod, clearly more interested in the feast before him than anything else.
Dominic exited the dining room and made his way down the long corridor to his study. It was a warm, book-lined room tucked into the rear of the townhouse, with long windows overlooking the gardens. The fire had been stoked, casting flickering amber light across the dark mahogany furniture.
Standing near the hearth was Mr. Wells. He was a short, barrel-chested man with thinning gray hair, wire-rimmed spectacles, and a satchel slung over his shoulder.
“Mr. Wells,” Dominic greeted him as he entered. “I must apologize for missing our appointment. Something urgent came up this morning.”
The solicitor waved a dismissive hand. “No harm done, my lord. I suspected as much. I thought it best to bring the documents here directly.”
Dominic circled around to his desk and took his seat, gesturing for Wells to do the same. “That was very considerate of you.”
Wells lowered himself into the chair and set his satchel on the floor beside him. “I’ve brought the documents concerning the Sidmouth estate. Everything is in order. I just need your signature in a few places.”
“Very good,” Dominic said. “Let’s see it.”
Wells withdrew a sheaf of crisp, neatly folded documents and placed them on the desk. He opened them one by one, indicating the spots for Dominic to sign with a gloved finger. Dominic took up the quill beside the inkpot and began signing with practiced ease.
When the last page had been signed and the ink allowed to dry, Wells gathered the papers and began slipping them back into his satchel.
“Well done, my lord,” Wells praised. “You are now the proud owner of a profitable estate on the coast. Excellent land and healthy tenant yields. You’ve done quite well for yourself.”
“Let’s hope the numbers bear that out,” Dominic remarked.
Wells hesitated as he clasped the satchel shut. His brows furrowed slightly. “There is another matter, if I may… something of a more delicate nature. It is not my place, but I feel compelled to say something.”
Dominic looked up, curiosity piqued. “Go on.”
The solicitor resumed his seat slowly, folding his hands atop his knee. “I’ve been continuing to send a stipend, as per your wartime instructions, but I must inform you that your wife appears unaware that you are still alive.”
Dominic stared at him in stunned silence. For a moment, the room seemed to tilt. “My… what?” he asked.
“Your wife,” Mr. Wells repeated calmly, though his eyes flicked to Dominic’s clenched jaw.
Dominic rose from his chair so abruptly it scraped back with a screech against the floorboards. “I do not have a wife,” he growled.
Wells remained seated, unflinching. “You do, my lord. The marriage is legal and was witnessed. I even verified the marriage license myself. It took place on the Continent while you were stationed abroad. The bride was a Dorothea Haverleigh.”
Dominic’s mind was reeling. The name struck a distant chord—Dorothea Haverleigh, the dutiful daughter of his commanding officer.
He remembered her sitting by his bedside after he was wounded, bringing him broth, reading from her books in a soft voice.
But marriage? He had no memory of proposing, of exchanging vows—nothing.
“That cannot be right,” he said, his voice hollow with disbelief. “I remember her… but I do not remember marrying her. There must be a mistake.”
Wells looked at him with what could only be construed as pity. “I wish it were so, my lord. But the marriage is legally recorded, and there were several credible witnesses. I’m afraid it is not in dispute.”
Dominic’s thoughts spun in chaotic circles. He had survived war, come home with scars both visible and not. So how could he have forgotten something as monumental as marrying someone? Had the fever clouded his memory? Or was there something more sinister at play?
“And you did not think to inform her that I had returned?” he demanded.
“I did not believe it was my place, nor did I tell her about your elevation in status,” Wells replied. “I assumed you would make that decision yourself once you had… settled. Furthermore, her brother is rather protective of her and has refused to allow me to meet with her.”
Dominic turned away, pacing towards the fireplace. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. “Can the marriage be annulled?”
Wells shook his head. “As you are no doubt aware, annulments require approval from Parliament and are rarely granted, even under compelling circumstances. And if the union was consummated—”
“I wouldn’t know,” Dominic snapped. “I don’t even remember the wedding!”
“Then perhaps it would be prudent to speak to your wife before considering such a step,” Wells said carefully, rising to his feet. “She may shed light on what you cannot recall.”
Dominic turned to face him, jaw tight. “Where is she?”
Wells reached into his coat and withdrew a folded sheet of paper. “She is currently residing with her brother at a townhouse not far from here on a quiet street of Mayfair.”
Dominic took the paper and opened it, scanning the address written in Mr. Wells’s precise hand. His grip on the page tightened.
“Good day, my lord,” the solicitor said with a bow before quietly exiting the study.
Dominic barely acknowledged his departure. He stared down at the address, his heart pounding and mind churning.
No. This couldn’t be real.
He had not come back from war to find himself tethered to a past he couldn’t even remember. To a woman he hardly knew. He wouldn’t accept it. He couldn’t.
He let the paper fall onto the desk and turned for the door, his long strides purposeful, his face set with grim resolve.
He needed answers—and he would get them.
Starting with his wife.