His blood would run through the veins of all future Daltons.
His daughter would sleep beside the Marquess of Remington.
She’d stand at his side when his father passed, and heinherited the Duchy.
She would first be called marchioness.
She would then be calledduchess.
The only greater title was princess.
The only greater title than that wasQueen.
And her first son, and every first son after—hisgrandson, would beDuke.
But now, no.
Simply because a useless six-year-old girl could not sit ahorse.
For the last two years, he’d had his rats out scavenging inevery corner in every city inHawkvale,Bellebryn,Fleuridia, even allthe way up to the frosty northern shores ofLunwynand across the Green Sea to the continent of Triton.
There was no witch.
There was no sorcerer.
There was no cure.
There was no miracle.
Maxine, with her mother’s leonine hair and eyes, would besix years old…
Forever.
And Edgar would never regain his standing.He’d never entera parlor to smiles and cheers.
He’d never leave this Earth, his legacy being his vastwealth.
And the incorporation of Derryman into a Duchy.
“Milord, sir…sir…sir!”
Edgar snorted, turned, and blinked through the curtains ofhis bed where his servant, Carling, had leant through, holding a candle.
“What the demon?”Edgar groused.
“At the back door…one of your…”—Carling made a face—“associates.He says he has something urgent to tell you.I told him to come at a decenthour, but he said you wouldn’t thank me to make you wait.”
Edgar made to turn his back on the man and resume sleep,murmuring, “Repeat he should come at a decent hour.”
“Sir, milord, he says it’s about your…”
He didn’t finish, and the manner in which he was speakingmade Edgar return his attention to the retainer.
“My what?”he prompted.
“Your daughter,” Carling whispered, blame in his eyes,judgment in his tone.
Insufferable man.
