She might have dropped the cold hand within hers, had it not been feather-light. She might have told the duke to go to the devil, if it were not so clear he was already there.
“I killed him.” He resumed weeping. “I killed my son.”
She didnotlike the sound of his breath. She may be running out of time, but the duke was nearly out.
“He is alive,” she said quietly. “You don’t deserve a decent end, but you will have one. Cheverley is alive.”
He dropped his hands. In his expression she read the mirror image of the hope she’d carried for so long.
“Bring him to me,” he pled. “Please.”
~~~
Cheverley followed Thaddeus up the servants’ stair.
Thaddeus moved through a short corridor off a landing. “This one goes to His Grace’s chamber. That one”—he indicated door on the other side—“takes you to the duchess’s room. That’s where my mother sleeps.”
Chev had often used the servants’ stair to sneak in and out of the house, but he’d never before entered either the duke or the duchess’s chambers. They’d been hallowed places. Forbidden.
Especially for a mere second son.
“Shall I take you inside?” Thaddeus asked, clearly hoping the answer would be no.
“Your mother asked me to come alone.”
“Yes, well. You better get on,” Thaddeus replied.
Cheverley eased open the servants’ entrance to the duke’s bed chamber, and then shut the door behind him. Hidden halls and stairwells snaked throughout the manor, built specifically so that the servants would be little seen.
All scions of Ithwick preferred the illusion they existed entirely on their own.
The air within the bedchamber had a heavy feel. The abundance of gold didn’t surprise him. Nor did the over-large bed, though he knew for a fact the bed had never been occupied by anyone but the duke. Alone.
An outsized bed for a man with an out-sized sense of his power. Only, the person in the bed did not seem powerful at all. Gone was the commanding force of his presence. All that remained was a withered body, mouth ajar and sheets anxiously clutched at his chin.
Across the room, the doorway to the duke’s sitting room stood open. Penelope lay asleep on a chaise. In contrast to the duke’s ragged breath, hers was deep and even.
Quietly, Chev closed the door.
She’d given Thaddeus no explanation why Chev should meet her here. Thaddeus’s message was only that Pen needed him.
As for why—the answer lay in the horrible rattle in the duke’s breath.
She may not have acknowledged Chev as her husband, but she had known. And now, she was giving him this chance—a private moment with the father who he’d feared but not respected, who he’d loved but never admired.
He sat down on the duke’s bed. How could someone so fearsome appear frail?
“Your Grace,” Chev whispered. “Father.”
The duke opened his eyes, his body stilled. His breath stopped. Then, slowly, his pale gaze settled on Chev.
“Cheverley.” The syllables of his name broke into distinct peace within the duke’s labored breath.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Chev acknowledged. Leave it to the duke to be the only one who recognized him at first sight.
Why did words disappear when most needed? Why, when Chev had so much to say, could he only stare into his father’s gaze, wrestling with the overwhelming urge to weep?
“Hades.” Fear flickered behind the duke’s eyes. “Are you here to take me?”
