Inside was a single sheet of paper. Mrs. Whitcombe read it once, then again, her face draining of color.
"Mama? What is it?"
Mrs. Whitcombe looked up, her expression dazed. "The debt. The debt to Mr. Harrison; the one we have been struggling to pay for the past year. He writes to inform us that it has been settled."
"Settled?"
"Paid in full. By an anonymous benefactor." She held out the letter with hands that shook. "We owe him nothing, Lillian. The debt is gone."
Lillian took the letter and read it herself. The words swam before her eyes:pleased to inform you... balance cleared... generous patron who wishes to remain unnamed...
The physician. The roof. The debt.
Three gifts, each one anonymous, each one precisely targeted at the pressures that had been crushing her family. It was too thorough, too deliberate, too perfectly calibrated to be coincidence.
Daniel had not simply sent help. He had studied their situation, identified their needs, and systematically addressed every one of them; all while maintaining the fiction of anonymity, all while asking for nothing in return.
Lillian folded the letter carefully and tucked it into her pocket alongside the physician's card and the foreman's receipt.
"I am going to Wynthorpe Hall," she said.
"Yes." Mrs. Whitcombe's voice was steady now, her composure regained. "I rather thought you might."
***
The ride to Wynthorpe Hall felt longer than usual.
Lillian had borrowed the elderly mare that was all that remained of the family's stable, and the animal's pace was sedate at best. It gave her time to think—too much time, perhaps. Her mind churned with questions she did not know how to answer, with feelings she did not know how to name.
She was going to confront a duke. She was going to demand an explanation for his generosity, to understand why he had done what he had done, to discover what it meant for both of them.
And she was terrified.
Not of Daniel; she had long since stopped being intimidated by his title and his coldness. But of what she might learn. Of what he might say. Of the possibility that she had misread everything, that his assistance was merely kindness, that his feelings did not run as deep as she had begun to hope.
Or worse—that they did. That he loved her, and she loved him, and none of it mattered because the world would not allow a duke to marry a woman of her station.
The gates of Wynthorpe Hall appeared before her, and Lillian urged the mare forward with a determination she did not entirely feel.
She would find Daniel. She would speak with him. And whatever happened next, she would face it with the same practical courage that had carried her through every other crisis of her life.
She only hoped it would be enough.
***
The butler admitted her with an expression of carefully concealed surprise.
"Miss Whitcombe. We were not expecting you today. Lady Rosanne is in the drawing room, if you wish..."
"I am not here to see Lady Rosanne." Lillian's voice was steadier than she felt. "I am here to see His Grace. Is he at home?"
"His Grace is in his study. I am not certain he is receiving..."
"Please tell him I am here. Tell him it is important."
The butler hesitated, his professional composure flickering for just a moment. Then he nodded and disappeared into the depths of the house, leaving Lillian to wait in the entrance hall with her heart pounding against her ribs.
The minutes stretched like hours. Lillian counted the tiles on the floor, examined the paintings on the walls, did everything she could to avoid thinking about what she was about to do.
