Four months. Four months of searching, of bribing informants and chasing whispers through every borough in London, and Richard had answered with a basket on the doorstep and not even the courage toknock.
Footsteps in the corridor snapped him out of his thoughts.
Evander looked up as Godfrey, his estate manager, appeared in the doorway. Godfrey was a lean, gray-haired man who had served the Brightshaw family since before Evander was born, and his capacity for remaining composed under extraordinary circumstances was one of the few things Evander trusted without reservation.
Even Godfrey looked rattled.
“Your Grace.” He stepped into the parlor and closed the door behind him. His gaze moved to the basket. “Is it true, then?”
Evander held up the handkerchief. “Richard’s. And the ring on the basket is the one we gave Lady Charlotte.” He reached intohis coat and withdrew a folded piece of paper. “This was tucked into the blankets. Richard’s hand. I would know it anywhere.”
Godfrey took the note and read it. His brow furrowed. He looked at the sleeping child, then back at the note. “So… It’s a boy. And he’s called Tommy.”
“Apparently.”
“What will you do now, Your Grace?”
Evander pressed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger, trying to forestall a headache that was brewing. “The child is Richard’s. That makes him my responsibility. I will care for him until Richard is found, at which point my brother will answer for every decision he has made in the past four months.”
He dropped his hand and looked at the basket. The baby’s lips moved in sleep, sucking at nothing. Something twisted in Evander’s chest, and he turned away from it.
“It is my duty. That is the end of it,” he finished.
Godfrey folded the note and handed it back. “Your Grace, I must inform you that London is already buzzing. The servants who discovered the basket this morning were not the only witnesses. A crossing sweeper saw the hooded figure at your door. A newsboy saw the basket. By noon, every drawing room in Mayfair will have the story.”
A muscle ticked in Evander’s jaw. “I will handle the press.”
“Bribing the press will not suffice this time.” Godfrey clasped his hands behind his back. “This child needs more than nursemaids and heated milk, Your Grace.”
Evander’s eyes narrowed. “I have already sent for a nursery maid.”
“I do not mean a maid.” Godfrey held his gaze. “I mean amother. Your wife. A duchess. London needs to see stability from this house, and a bachelor duke with a mysterious infant on his hands is the furthest thing from stable.” He paused. “A wedding would divert the public’s attention. It would provide the child with a proper home. And, if I may be direct, Your Grace, you still require an heir.”
“No.” Evander stood. The chair scraped against the floor. “The very last thing I need at this moment is a bride.”
“A child needs?—”
“What a child needs, Godfrey, is for the adults in his life to stop vanishing.” The words came out sharper than Evander intended. The baby flinched in his basket, and Evander lowered his voice. “I will find Richard. Richard will marry Lady Charlotte. They will raise their son. That is the plan.”
“And if Richard cannot be found?”
“He will be.”
Godfrey opened his mouth to argue further, but the parlor door swung open.
“Your Grace.”
Harding, the butler, stood in the doorway with an expression Evander had never seen on the man’s face. It took him a moment to identify it.
Bewilderment.
“Your Grace, pardon me.” Harding cleared his throat. “A bride is here.”
Godfrey’s eyebrows climbed. “Well. That’s convenient.”
Before Evander could respond, Harding was shouldered aside, and a woman swept into the parlor in a blaze of ivory silk.
Her wedding gown trailed behind her like a sail that had broken free of its mast. Her veil was pushed back from her face, and her cheeks were flushed with exertion or fury or both.
