Chapter 29
Uncle,
Please accept my apologies for my absence from the ball.
I understand you may consider me an ungrateful individual who prefers to immerse himself in books rather than fulfill his responsibilities and greet numerous young ladies.
You may be correct. Nevertheless, Oxford holds its own principles of duty, which are not disposed to granting second opportunities.
I had an essay on Thucydides due the following morning, and my tutor made it clear that if I failed to meet the deadline, I would face expulsion. I did not believe you would appreciate your carefully devised plans for my progress being impeded by my inability to control the word count.
You might suggest that I should have balanced both a ball and an essay.
I endeavored to do so. Ultimately, sleep prevailed.
Or rather, unconsciousness did. You once advised me that a man must recognize which battles are worth fighting and which will only result in being bloodied on both fronts.
Last night appeared to be such a situation.
I trust that your celebration was a success and that your “impossible widow” did not cause you excessive difficulty.
I shall visit London once the term concludes, should you still desire it. Kindly refrain from complicating my life prior to that time.
Your ungrateful nephew,
Marcus
Blaise’s mouth tightened as he reread the letter.
“Damned child is only responding days later,” he muttered under his breath.
He searched the table for any signs of delicate feminine handwriting, but to his dismay, Iris did not write. She had chosen to vanish instead. A second letter lay waiting. He picked it up, if only because doing nothing felt worse than doing the wrong thing.
The contents were brief, businesslike, almost cheerful in their lack of awareness that the house they discussed had once been the axis of a woman’s world.
Hentley House: the work is complete. Carpentry, paint, and new furnishings. Everything is ready to his specifications. The men wait only for approval on the final accounts.
He sighed and let that letter fall atop Marcus’s.
“Of course it is.”
* * *
The house looked both wrong and exactly as he had imagined.
Hentley House smelled of fresh paint and beeswax, with an undernote he could not name. Then he saw the tall blue-and-white vase in its usual niche, overflowing with pale daisies, and he understood that this place would always smell like her.
The renovations were almost complete, but Iris was still there in every stubborn detail the workmen had missed or preserved.
He shrugged off his greatcoat carefully, handing it to the footman, as though his world had not shifted.
The hall seemed brighter, all the plaster was repaired, and the cracks were gilded.
And a new navy runner carpet masked all the creaking boards on the stairs, but Iris’s signature flowers were all over the place.
Blaise cleared his throat. “They misunderstood my instructions.”
“Your Grace?”
Mrs. Henkings appeared from the corridor, her sturdy frame as immovable as a column. Her eyes, usually sharp, softened with concern.
“Mrs. Henkings.” His voice was soft; he was glad to see her there. “I see you decided to stay.”
“My lady gave me no choice, Your Grace.” She curtsied briskly, but he did not miss the sadness in her voice. “I had tea set in the morning room. I thought you might need it.”
He quirked a smile. “Do I look so in need of consolation?”
She met his gaze calmly. “No, Your Grace.”
Blaise’s spine stiffened as Iris’s loyal housekeeper looked at him with gentle, pleading eyes.
“Thank you, Mrs. Henkings.” He motioned to dismiss her.
Perhaps he was in need of consolation.
What is happening to me?
Blaise made his way to the morning room, which faced the small back garden. New curtains, new chairs, and pale green walls greeted him. He was surprised to see three squat terracotta pots lining the sill, bursting with bright pink geraniums.
Iris would have loved those.
He froze before he lowered himself into a sturdy blue chair, feeling like a trespasser in his own home. The porcelain clinked as a maid poured his tea. And he noticed that even the tea was the preferred shade Iris enjoyed.
He curled his fingers around the cup and allowed the heat to anchor him.
“Consolation tea,” he murmured into the cup before taking a sip.
He did not notice how much he knew about Iris until she left. Even then, he had expected to hear her light footsteps returning in the hallway. Just as her thoughts became unbearable, Blaise got up.
“Is there something you need, Your Grace?” the young maid asked.
“No. I have to go to her,” he responded simply, as if she would understand the intensity of his feelings.
But she would not understand. Only Iris would, and Blaise had to tell her how he felt before it was too late. He set down his cup roughly, causing the tea to slosh. But when he turned to leave, a knock at the door stopped him, and a footman appeared.
“Your Grace. You have a visitor. A Lord Daniel Vale. He insists on seeing you,” the man announced.
Ice slid beneath Blaise’s skin. Daniel was the last person he wanted to see.
“What perfect timing.” Blaise hissed. “Show him to the front drawing room.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” The footman left, and Blaise made his way to the drawing room, slowly flexing his fist.
He almost smiled at the memory of their last meeting. Whatever fresh torment his cousin brought, he would not mind teaching him another lesson.
In the drawing room, above the mantel, there used to be a small oil painting of apricots on a chipped plate, and the shadows were tenderly painted.
This was replaced with a Vale family portrait of Benjamin, their father, Blaise, and Marcus.
Iris loved that ridiculous apricot painting, and Blaise thought about searching for it and returning it to its rightful place because the family portrait currently looked—
“Ridiculous and vain.”
Blaise turned to find Daniel standing inches away, staring at the same painting. Despite what he was, he was right. It was ridiculous and vain, but Blaise would never agree with the likes of him.
“Daniel,” he greeted his cousin coldly.
“Your Grace,” Daniel spat.
Blaise noticed his face, marred by a crooked, swollen nose and the bruises that lingered beneath his eyes, souvenirs of Blaise’s last patience. He flinched slightly when Blaise passed him, his hand raised halfway up defensively, then he dropped it just as quickly.
Blaise chuckled darkly as he closed the drawing room door and made his way back behind a desk.
Daniel twitched his nose. “My nose will mend. It is just delicate.”
Blaise simply nodded. “Consider that a family lesson.”
Daniel eyed the room, noting all the changes. “So, this is Hentley.”
His eyes lingered on the flowers in a nearby vase. Blaise watched him as he poured brandy he did not want and offered none to Daniel.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked his cousin drily.
“Oh, I have urgent news.” Daniel sat, crossing a leg with false ease. “But first—how was the ball?”
Blaise sipped the brandy and allowed it to burn all his anger away.
“It went well because scum like you weren’t invited.”
Daniel feigned a broken heart and laughed.
“And how is your widow?” Daniel tilted his head mockingly. “Have you heard anything… unpleasant about her?”
Blaise’s hand tightened on his glass until he heard it beginning to crack.
“Men who gossip about gentlewomen are small creatures.”
Daniel shrugged and tried to look innocent. “I did not say anything.”
Blaise slammed a fist down and made the thin man jump in his chair. “Do not make me prove it, Daniel,” he growled.
Daniel glanced at Blaise’s scar, then away. That one movement made Blaise realize the truth about his cousin and the type of man he was.
“You know, I always wondered how such stories about me began.” He poured another glass of brandy. “Idle tongues and empty minds are both plentiful.”
Blaise studied Daniel. The slick amusement and calculation were barely hidden.
Daniel smirked. “All I needed to do was make a small remark here and cause a raised brow there. To a lady who cannot keep secrets sewn into her gown or to a club where men repeat filth as scripture. You know how it is.”
Blaise’s veins filled with coldness.
“You spread those rumors then.”
“Do not look offended.” Daniel waved. “You profited. A woman ruined clings to the man who ruined her. I did you a favor.”
“A favor?” Blaise bellowed, setting down the glass before he crushed it. “You took a gentlewoman under my protection and smeared her name for sport.”
“For strategy.” He stood uneasily. “Speaking of strategy, we have reached the tipping point.”
Blaise tightened his jaw. “Get on with it.”
“Gladly.” Daniel paced towards the mantel, warily. “Your beloved nephew and the inconvenient fact of his birth.”
Blaise’s gaze tracked him. “Marcus’s birth is not inconvenient. He is a duke’s legitimate son.”
“Ah, legitimacy.” Daniel traced the mantel’s edge. “Slippery, bound to papers and memories. Imagine if those papers appeared or vanished in court.”
Blaise got up and stepped closer. Daniel flinched, then stopped.
“You said this was urgent,” Blaise spoke dangerously low. “If this is a threat, I will save us both and throw you out.”
He swallowed audibly.
“In two weeks,” Daniel blurted, “I will challenge Marcus’s place at Oxford, his right to the Vale name, and perhaps your new title. Witnesses, registers, and statements swear the late duke never married the girl who bore his child.”
Marcus’s face flashed into Blaise’s mind.
His hands curled at his sides. “You would never touch him.” Each word is a flint. “I will see you ruined before your petition.”
Daniel arched a brow. “And how do you plan to ruin me? By punching me again? Or breaking my face? It all makes no difference in court.”
“Do not tempt me.” Blaise towered over the scrawny man.
Daniel stepped back, shoulders tight, but greed held him steadily.
“I am not your enemy, Blaise,” he said. “This need not be a war. And I did not plan to destroy Marcus or you.”
“You have a strange way of showing affection.” Blaise laughed dryly.
Daniel’s mouth twisted. “I have wanted the title. The place that should have been mine if fate had been fair. I was spare of the spare; Benjamin had it all. Then you, with your fortune and moral superiority.” He spread his arms. “I offer a solution where you can keep Marcus safe, and I finally matter.”
Blaise stared at him, dumbstruck at his audacity. “Pray do tell what your solution is?”
Daniel could not keep eye contact with Blaise as he continued to speak. “If you… disappear. To the Continent or beyond. If the world thinks you are dead, then I can inherit it all. The title, estates, and power to end your family’s scandals.”
He smiled thinly. “I would provide for Marcus at Oxford. He would never question me, and I would continue to take care of him.”
Silence fell heavily in the drawing room.
“You suggest,” Blaise eventually said, “that I fake a death, so you take what you already threatened to steal?”
Daniel lifted his chin. “I protect the boy you love. Marcus will be ruined anyway and out of Oxford. He would be blacklisted and labeled the son of a whore and a coward forever.”
“Do not call his mother a whore!” he roared.
Daniel flinched. “It was a slip of the tongue. She was inconvenient, and Benjamin did what he must.”
“And you want me to trust you?” Blaise cracked. “You would never keep your word! You made society view us as nothing more than the scarred duke and bastard nephew.”
Daniel hesitated. “I never said Marcus was not legitimate. I only said others could be convinced otherwise.”
“You called him a bastard daily.”
“Those were just words from my anger and jealousy. The facts remain unchanged.”
“What are the facts, Daniel?”
His cousin looked around the drawing room as if the answer was hidden there.
“The fact is, Blaise, that I know for certain that Marcus is legitimate.”
Blaise frowned at him. “And how do you know that?”
Daniel chuckled. “Have you forgotten that I was Benjamin’s secretary? I had access to all his documents, including his marriage certificate.”
Blaise’s fists clench. It took all his strength not to charge at Daniel and pummel him into the ground.
For years, Blaise could find no evidence of his brother’s marriage, and it was Daniel who had hidden it all along.
He wanted to kill him, but he had to be smart about this.
Blaise stalked toward the fragile man and stopped just a few inches away from him.
“Get out,” he said through gritted teeth.
Daniel staggered backward in fear, and Blaise stood upright, not allowing his slyness and slippery ways to get to him.
“You will regret this!” His cousin stammered before the door clicked shut behind him.
Blaise stood, heart pounding wildly in his chest. All these months of torture, done by his own family member. It disgusted him how far men would go to overthrow you for a title.
Marcus was legitimate, and that truth burned dangerously in his chest. He needed that proof, and he would get it.
Thoughts of Iris and Marcus filled his mind and heart. A confusing concoction of a word he had long forgotten and was too afraid to say out loud. He would not let Daniel dictate the terms of their lives, and he would not let Iris be a casualty of a war she never chose.
Blaise lowered his eyes to a blank page and dipped his pen in ink.
Where there is a will, there is a way. And, by God, I will find a way.