Page 71 of The Feared Duke’s Found Family

Fanny with her quick, warm smiles, her gentle voice that had softened the sharp, cold edges of his house, her quiet determination to bring laughter back into his children’s lives. Fanny, who had held his hand in the dark while his son burned with fever.

She forgot. She was frightened. She forgot. It has to be that.

But as he stood there in the silent room, listening to the rain beat against the glass, the cold, dark ghost of his past crept back in, whispering that trust was a luxury he had never been allowed to keep.

Twenty-Seven

The rain hammered a steady, dull rhythm against the leaded panes as Lysander stepped out of his study. The corridor was cold and stretched before him like a tunnel, silent except for the muffled creak of floorboards above.

He didn’t make a sound as he walked, his boots sinking into the runner. His hand stayed buried in his coat pocket, his fist clenched so tight his forearm throbbed. He turned the corner into the morning room, stopping just inside the doorway.

Fanny stood by the window, her back turned to him. The gray morning light caught the delicate curve of her neck and the stray wisps of dark hair escaping her knot. She held a small cloth in her hands, folding it, unfolding it, her fingers moving in restless, repetitive motions.

When his shadow fell across the rug, she turned. Her face was pale, the dark smudges beneath her eyes stark against her skin.

“Lysander,” she breathed, taking a half-step forward. Her hands dropped the cloth onto a side table. “How is he? Has Dr. Thorne returned?”

Lysander didn’t answer right away. He stood in the frame of the doorway, his broad frame blocking the hall, his eyes searching her face with a heavy, unblinking intensity.

“Lysander?” Her voice faltered, her brows drawing together.

“The tea, Fanny,” he said. His voice was low, gravelly, stripped of any warmth.

Fanny blinked, her head tilting slightly. “What?”

“The tea,” he repeated, stepping into the room. He didn’t close the door behind him, but his presence seemed to crowd the air out of the space. “Yesterday evening, before we left for the ball. In the nursery.”

A faint shadow passed over her eyes—not guilt, but the sudden, sharp jolt of a forgotten memory snapping back into place. Her breath caught in her throat, her hand flying to the base of her neck.

“The silver tray,” Fanny whispered, her eyes widening as the pieces locked together. “I set the cup down beside his bed, Lysander. Oh, God... I gave him the tea myself.”

Lysander’s jaw set hard. “You didn’t mention it to the doctor.”

“I tried to tell you,” she said, her words coming faster now, her fingers knotting together in her skirts as her eyes met his. “Lysander, I was about to say something, but then Michael started screaming, and the physician was shouting for the basin—everything descended into chaos before I could get a word out. It was only chamomile and sweet mint. A simple, quiet blend to help him sleep because he was so restless during his lessons…”

“Show me,” Lysander cut in. The command was sharp, flat, leaving no room for argument.

Fanny stared at him for a second, her lips parting, but the dark, rigid line of his jaw silenced whatever she meant to say. She gave a single, stiff nod, brushed past him into the corridor, and led the way down the rear stairs toward the pantry wing.

The lower hallway was cool and smelled of dried rosemary and stone. Fanny pushed open the heavy wooden door to the herb pantry, stepping into the dim, narrow room lined with glass jars and tin canisters. She reached for a tall ceramic crock sitting on the middle shelf, her hands remarkably steady despite the tension vibrating between them.

“Here,” she said, turning and offering him the crock. “Mrs. Gable keeps the soothing infusions in this row. I scooped two spoons from this exact jar yesterday afternoon, steeped them in hot water, and brought the cup upstairs.”

Lysander took the crock from her hands. He didn’t look at her. He carried it to the small worktable near the high window, where the cold daylight spilled over the wooden surface.

He lifted the lid. Inside lay dried, crushed green leaves and pale yellow flower heads. He didn’t just look; he dipped two fingers into the jar, rubbing the dried herbs between his thumb and forefinger until they crumbled into dust. He brought his hand to his face and inhaled deeply.

Chamomile. Mint. The faint, sweet smell of dried apple peel.

There was no bitter chemical edge, no trace of the sharp, metallic tang that usually accompanied unrefined poisons. It was ordinary tea.

Fanny watched him, her arms folded tightly across her chest, her posture growing stiffer by the second.

“What is wrong?” she asked, her voice dropping into a dangerous, quiet register. “Why are you examining the tea as if it were hemlock?”

Lysander set the jar down against the oak table. He turned to face her, his massive shoulders blocking the light, his shadow stretching across the flagstones to touch the hem of her skirts.

“Michael drank that tea at seven,” Lysander said, his tone clipped, precise, and ruthless. “By midnight, he was twisting in his bed. By dawn, he was retching and screaming that his stomach was on fire. Thorne says it is an acute, violent inflammation. I need an explanation, Fanny. Why did his body collapse the moment that cup touched his lips?”