“I made a mistake.” He heard himself say. “I hurt her. And I do not know how to fix it.”
Oliver considered this with the gravity of a much older soul. “When I make a mistake, Sophia tells me to say sorry and try to do better.” He tilted his head. “Have you said sorry?”
Edward closed his eyes. Such a simple solution. Such an impossible task.
“No.” His voice emerged rough. “I have not.”
“Then you should.” Oliver patted Edward’s arm with the confidence of a child who believed the world could be set right with the proper words. “Sophia is very good at forgiving. She forgave me when I broke her favorite teacup.”
Despite everything, Edward felt his lips twitch. “You broke her teacup?”
“It was an accident.” Oliver’s expression turned sheepish. “I was trying to pour tea for my rabbit.”
Edward looked at the stuffed rabbit, at Oliver’s earnest face, at this small person who had somehow found his way to Edward’s study in the middle of the night seeking comfort.
He put his arm around the boy. Oliver nestled against his side with a contented sigh, as though this was exactly where he belonged.
Perhaps it was.
They sat together in the firelight, the silence between them warm and companionable. Oliver’s breathing slowed, and his small body grew heavy against Edward’s ribs.
Then the boy spoke again, his voice drowsy.
“I came to find you because I did not want to wake Mrs. Palmer.” Oliver yawned. “And I could not find Sophia anywhere.”
Edward stilled. “What do you mean?”
“I looked for her first.” Oliver rubbed his eyes. “But she was not in her room. I knocked and knocked, but no one answered.”
A thread of unease wound through Edward’s chest. Sophia often visited Mr. Colborne’s office at night, but she was always back well before dawn. He glanced at the clock on the mantel. Nearly four in the morning.
“Did you check anywhere else?” He kept his voice calm. “The library? The sitting room?”
Oliver shrugged. “She is not upstairs. I looked everywhere.” He yawned again. “Maybe she is having a nightmare too.”
Edward’s blood turned cold.
She should have been home hours ago. The driver knew to bring her back before the servants stirred. Something was wrong.
He gathered Oliver into his arms and rose from the settee. The boy made a sound of protest but did not wake fully, his head lolling against Edward’s shoulder.
The house was silent as Edward climbed the stairs, his footsteps muffled on the carpet. He reached the nursery wing and rapped on Mrs. Palmer’s door.
She appeared moments later, her cap askew, her eyes bleary with sleep. They widened when she saw Oliver in Edward’s arms.
“Your Grace. Is something wrong?”
“Oliver had a nightmare.” Edward transferred the boy into her waiting arms. “Keep him occupied. Do not let him wander.”
Mrs. Palmer’s brow furrowed with concern. “And the duchess?”
“I am going to find her.”
He did not wait for a response. He strode down the corridor, taking the stairs two at a time, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The entrance hall was dark; the house sleeping, unaware of the fear clawing at his chest.
The stables were empty save for a single groom dozing in the corner. Edward saddled his horse himself, his fingers clumsy with haste. The animal sensed his urgency and stamped with impatience.
He swung into the saddle and urged the horse forward. The streets of London were deserted at this hour, the cobblestones slick with mist, the gas lamps casting pools of yellow light in the darkness.
