"Uncle Calvin," he said. His voice was calm, but his body coiled tight.
Lord Calvin Frampton looked up from the papers in front of him, his jaw going slack.
For a long, stretched moment, he did nothing but stare. Then, suddenly, he lurched back so violently that his chair nearly tipped over. “My God!” he gasped, scrambling to his feet. “What the devil—? How?—?”
A flicker of something crossed his uncle’s face. Shock. Fear.
Guilt?
But just as quickly, as if by sheer force of will, the emotions smoothed over into a practiced mask of relief.
Alastair’s gaze drifted over his uncle—the elaborate lace at his wrists, the rich purple velvet of his jacket, the finely embroidered waistcoat beneath.
And then…
The ring.
His ring.
Resting on the man’s left pinky as though it had always belonged there.
She was right.Of course.
Daisyhad been right all along.
A strange calm settled over Alastair, one that came with the brutal clarity of truth. The last missing pieces of the puzzle clicked into place, and in a rush, he remembered everything.
“Who, precisely, are you calling on for help, Uncle?” Thewords left his mouth before he could stop them, low and lethal. “God… or the devil?”
The locked pages of his mind had opened. It was as if they’d never been closed.
Alastair had never forgotten Daisy. He had never stopped searching for her.
And for all that time, he had assumed his uncle had been his greatest ally.
The man before him—his father’s own brother—was someone Alastair had trusted without question.
But he had not known this man. Not truly.
Lord Calvin clumsily reached across the desk, as if to draw him closer, his expression carefully measured. “My boy… where in God’s name have you been? We were beginning to believe the worst had happened.”
Alastair recalled the article. His uncle had all but declared him dead.
His lip curled. “Not the worst. Not quite.”
He stepped forward, extending his hand.
His uncle hesitated but took it—Alastair clasped it firmly, searching his face, watching for the flicker of truth beneath the mask. “What did you think happened?”
The older man withdrew his hand almost immediately.
“Well, we had no idea,” Lord Calvin said, not meeting Alastair’s eyes, but smoothing down the lace at his wrists. “Scotland Yard has been turning the city upside down. One day you were here, and the next…” He gave an elegant shrug. “You were not.”
“You must have been devastated,” Alastair said, his tone as dry as dust.
“I was. I was! We must… er, celebrate.” Then, obviously forcing his enthusiasm, his uncle turned and tugged the bell pull—summoning tea, or perhaps something stronger.
Alastair did not move.
