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When Edward had attempted to reach out to him when he left, he refused every single chance. In his rage, George burned Edward's letters unread and finally left England on his Grand Tour. It was only while staying in Florence that he had received word of Edward's death.

With trembling hands, George unfolded the letter slowly, eyes tracing the familiar script that he had ignored for so long. He took deep breaths; his heart could not bear the weight of his brother's words echoing from beyond the grave.

My Dear George,

I have just learned that your trunks are packed and that you depart for Dover at first light to begin your Grand Tour. I know you have refused to see me ever since Father's death, and I know you returned my previous letters unopened, but I pray to God you will grant your brother this final missive before you cross the Channel.

Brother, I congratulate you with all my heart on finally taking this journey. Do you remember when we were boys, hiding in the old stable loft, planning how we would sail to Italy together? We promised we would see the ruins of Rome and the grand galleries of Florence side by side. It grieves my soul that circumstances have kept us apart, but I rejoice that you are finally stepping into the world.

George paused, closing his eyes tightly. He could almost hear Edward's light laughter echoing around him, vibrant and full of life. He opened his eyes again, his gaze drifting to the next paragraph.

I know what Father said to you before he passed, George. I stood by the door that night. I know how deeply his words wounded you. But you must hear me now, even if you hate me for saying it: Father was a bitter, broken man who saw his own failures reflected in those he ought to have loved. You must never let his cruelty convince you that you are cruel, or cold, or unworthy of happiness.

You have always been the better man, George.

George gripped the edge of the desk, his heart pounding loudly. His entire life, his father had hammered the exact opposite into him, drilling into him the conviction that he was flawed, dangerous, and incapable of warmth. Yet, written in the honest hand of his favored brother, was the contradiction of his father's lies.

His eyes flowed to the remainder of the page, where the handwriting grew noticeably weaker, the strokes slighter and more erratic.

I am happy, George, with my beloved Charlotte, waiting only on the child we know must come to make our joy complete. But I wish you to know the truth, if the worst should ever come to me. If something happens - a fall, a fire, an illness - I beg that you take care of any children we may leave behind. Love them equally, so that our father's mistakes will not stamp themselves upon my children.

The letter shook violently in George's grip as the truth crashed over him. Edward had been dying, desperate to see him one last time, reaching out to the only man he trusted to protect his son and George had turned his back, packed his bags, and boarded a ship to take him far away.

George stopped reading, the letter slipping from his fingers. He pressed his palms against his face, his breathing coming in shallow gasps.

"You were wrong, my brother. Always a better man than I. I could not have mustered this much forgiveness. If I had, then maybe…" George's voice was a fractured whisper in the empty room. He stared at the letter, the words blurring before his eyes as a wave of guilt washed over him.

Shaking his head, he corrected himself bitterly. "No, it wouldn't have mattered because I never listened. Never bothered to read your letters."

He carefully picked up the letter, his fingers tracing Edward's signature one last time before slipping the letter into the breast pocket of his coat. But am I really the man Edward said I am? Do I even deserve Helena's love?

Miller knocked softly, pushing the door open to a crack. "Pardon the intrusion, Your Grace. We are ready to depart whenever it pleases you."

George stood up slowly, his voice steady and hollow. "I wish to travel to Dover. How long will the journey take?"

The coachman shifted his feet, estimating the distance in his head. "If we leave immediately, Your Grace, perhaps four hours, depending upon the roads."

"Then we leave immediately."

Miller lingered in the doorway, his brow furrowing. "And Cavendish Manor, Your Grace?"

George paused, his hand coming to rest on the door handle. The image of Helena flashed in his mind — her soft hair that easily caught sunlight, her emerald-green eyes burning with intelligence, her sharp wit matching his every turn. He swallowed hard, forcing the image away with ruthless determination. "It will continue without me."

He walked past Miller without another word, stepping out into the street. A moment later, Miller cracked his whip and the horses surged forward.

George leaned his head back, watching the brick townhouses slip past the window. But no matter how fast the horses ran, he could not escape the ghost sitting beside him in the carriage. Edward's words continued to echo endlessly in his mind, repeating against the clatter of the wheels. You have always been the better man, George... Take care of my little boy...

His thoughts shifted to Oliver. He pictured the little boy sitting in his crib, remembering the surprising warmth of Oliver's tiny fist wrapping around his finger.

Unfortunately, he was doing to Helena and Oliver the exact same thing he had done to Edward. Cowering behind his pride, hiding behind his guilt, and fleeing from the terrifying, beautiful reality of love because he was too much of a coward to face it.

Chapter Thirty

"Miller, can these horses press no faster?" George called out, lowering the glass pane of the carriage window.

From atop the high box, Miller pulled his heavy woolen collar higher against the wind and shouted back. "We are pushing at a fair gallop already, Your Grace! The roads past Dartford are narrow and pitted from the autumn rains. If we press them any harder, we risk throwing a shoe or snapping an axle before we even reach Maidstone!"

"Keep the pace steady, then," George instructed. "Only see to it that we do not lose a single minute. We must reach Dover before the morning tide."