She inhaled deeply, gathering her composure as Alastair took the seat beside her. Across from them, Gilbert straightened his spine as the inspector retrieved his notepad.
Daisy folded her hands in her lap.
Finally, she would have some answers.
THE STATEMENT
The officer turned to Alastair. “Your uncle’s statement is being taken as we speak, but we’ll need your account as well. Start from the beginning, if you will.”
Alastair hesitated.
Daisy saw it—the flicker of restraint in his posture. He exhaled, slow and measured, then looked at her.
Where had it all begun?
“This is Miss Daisy Montgomery,” Alastair finally said, his voice steady, sure. “We were engaged but forced apart a decade ago—when my father fell ill.”
Daisy’s breath caught.Engaged.
He turned to her then, and she saw the weight of memory settle over him.
“I was called to London for his final hours, but then I, too, fell ill.” His breath a little shallower now. “Over the course of my illness, I wrote to Miss Montgomery—letters explaining everything. But they never reached her.”
Daisy’s pulse thrummed.He had written.
She could barely think over the rush of emotions colliding inside her—the pain, the years lost.
Alastair’s voice dropped, low and cold. “My uncle confessed to me that he’d had them intercepted.”
Of course they were.
All those years of silence. The unanswered pain. And now, at last, the truth.
“You were ill?” she turned, searching his eyes. Until she’d read about him in the newspapers, there had been times she’d wondered if he was still alive.
“Cholera—my father succumbed to it, but I had youth on my side.”
This time, it was Daisy who squeezed his hand. She’d come so close to losing him forever. More than once.
“How bad was it?” She didn’t want to know, and yet, she needed to know everything now.
“I was out of my head for weeks, bedridden for months. It felt like a lifetime.”
The inspector cleared his throat. “But you recovered, obviously, and have since reunited.” His gaze flicked meaningfully to where Daisy’s fingers were laced with Alastair’s, the way she unconsciously leaned into him, as though needing the reassurance of his presence. “What does all of this have to do with my officers?”
But Alastair turned to Daisy, his thumb brushing slow, deliberate circles over the back of her hand.
“The fact that I was behind your shop was not a coincidence. It was not fate.” His voice was low, rough.
Daisy barely managed to draw breath. “But how?—”
“Honeysuckle.” His mouth tipped into a small, wry smile, but his gaze was intense. “Your soap.”
From the corner of her eye, Daisy noted the inspector’s puzzled expression, but she couldn’t look away from Alastair, not when his fingers traced along the inside of her wrist as if committing the feel of her to memory.
“I don’t understand.”
“I caught the scent while dancing with one of your clients at a ball,” Alastair explained. “The Countess of Grassley mentioned you, and… I wasn’t certain, but I had to find out.” His voice softened, his gaze searching hers. “I was coming here that day—when they stopped me.” He lifted a hand, hesitating, as if resisting the urge to touch her cheek. “I was on my way to you, Daisy.”
