“That’s why they have the same handwriting. They are the same man. When your mother died, your grandfather wouldn’t fund your father’s expedition to Egypt. The marquess did, in exchange for a story that would explain where I’d been for ten years.”
“My father invented Mr. Darington?”
William nodded.
“And he’s been writing to you about me for years?”
“Yes.”
“You swear that’s the truth?” She sounded stunned.
“I swear on my honor, my heart, anything and everything. It’s the truth.”
She looked away from him, stared at nothing, her eyes bright in the moonlight. “I was never sure if he read my letters.”
“He must have.”
“But, all the things Mr. Darington has done. The adventures. The exploits.”
“Your father.”
“I can hardly believe it.” She sounded as if she did not.
“I had it from the marquess’s mouth moments before he died.”
“Would he have lied? To trick you?”
“Not this time. He was overjoyed to impart the news. He thought it would turn me against your father.”
She turned back to him, worried. “Did it?”
“No.” William understood. He sympathized with Duke Solworth’s need to run from his pain, and wouldn’t let a single, simple lie tarnish their friendship.
“I’m sorry your father died,” Lanora said, her voice soft.
“I’m not.” William didn’t hide the bitterness in his tone.
She considered that. “Lethbridge said he knew about your brother.” Her tentative tone made the statement a question.
William closed his eyes for a moment. She had a right to know. He wanted her to. Someone must, aside from the dead marquess and Lethbridge. Even Cecelia didn’t know. “When I was four, the marquess beat my older brother, Charles, to death, because he was afraid of horses. Charles was six.”
Lanora gasped.
“He’d always been violent, but he’d never gone that far. My mother took me, and she ran. She didn’t take much with her, for she made her escape quickly. She had nowhere to go he couldn’t find her. A man has all legal right to his wife and child. We disappeared into the streets of London. She worked as a washwoman.”
William’s mind filled with images of that life. The cold winters. Hunger a daily companion. Learning to defend what was his, little though it was. “It wasn’t a bad life. It wasn’t a good one, either.”
“You were so young,” Lanora said. “Your poor mother.”
“There was happiness. We had a slate. She taught me to read, to speak Italian and French. My figures. She made stories of history and the classics. Likely, I learned more at her side than I ever would have from some dry tutor.”
“How did he find you?”
It was the question, the memory, he dreaded. He swallowed. “When we left the marquess, she didn’t tell me why. I didn’t know Charles was gone, only that we had to leave. When I was fourteen, she fell ill. I did all I could for extra coin, to buy treatments from that hack of a doctor who keeps shop at the edge of the borough.” He took another breath, aware his words were torn with anger, guilt and grief.
“You don’t have to tell me.” Lanora’s voice was gentle, a soothing balm. “I don’t need to know your past, only the man you’ve become.”
He squeezed her hand tighter in his. “Every man is his past. I want you to know.” He gathered calm to him. “She grew so ill, she became delirious. I knew the tonics weren’t helping. I had vague memories of the marquess, the staff. Clean rooms and beds. I went to find him. It didn’t take long. He knew me the moment he set eyes on me. He seemed...happy. The happiest I’ve ever known him to be.”
