Page 70 of The Feared Duke’s Found Family

“Speak clearly, Veronica.”

Veronica swallowed hard, the long line of her throat working as she pressed the handkerchief to her mouth for a brief, trembling second. When she lowered her hand, her chin quivered slightly, though her dark eyes remained fixed on the rug between them.

“It was yesterday evening,” she began, her tone measured, awkward, as if every word were being dragged from her against her will. “Just before the children were set to sleep. Her Grace was in the nursery wing. She… She had brought a small silver tray up from the lower kitchens herself.”

The room seemed to shrink. The cold air grew thin.

“A tray?” Lysander repeated, his voice dropping an octave, flat and unreadable.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Veronica said softly, her chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths. “A small porcelain cup. It was an herbal infusion—a warm tea, she said—to help young Michael rest. She told me the boy had seemed restless during his reading lesson, and that a brew of dried chamomile and sweet mint would settle his spirits for the night.”

She paused, wringing the lace handkerchief until the fabric creaked. She glanced up at him, her gaze lingering on his face for a fraction of a second before darting to the window.

“I thought nothing of it at the time,” Veronica continued, her words tumbling out with careful, apologetic haste. “Her Grace was only showing motherly concern, of course. She sat at his bedside and encouraged him to drink the entire cup. She was so gentle with him, sir. So attentive.”

“Go on,” Lysander rasped. His fingers curled into fists at his sides, the skin stretching tight across his knuckles.

“Her Grace gave it to him just before you both left for the ball, Your Grace,” She said quietly, her voice trembling as she wrung her hands. “A soothing chamomile tea to settle his nerves. Master Michael drank it all, and Her Grace carried the cup down herself. But it was less than an hour after you departed that the boy began to turn in his sleep. By midnight, he was whimpering. And by dawn…”

She trailed off, pressing her hands back over her waist, her posture straight, rigid, and deeply uncomfortable.

“I am certain the tea was harmless,” she added quickly, her voice rising slightly in pitch. “A simple household remedy. Fanny could not possibly have known that… that whatever was in that cup would disagree so violently with his constitution. I only mention it because… because when Dr. Thorne asked what had entered the boy’s mouth over the past forty-eight hours…”

She looked at Lysander then, her eyes wide, soft, and filled with a quiet, sorrowful pity.

“…She said nothing at all.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Lysander stared at Veronica.

She stood before the cold hearth, her hands folded, her chin tucked low, the picture of a devoted, heartbroken servant driven by duty to speak an uncomfortable truth.

The tea.

Lysander’s mind raced backward, tearing through the suffocating chaos of the morning. He recalled the crowded sickroom, the metallic stench of vomit, and the clink of the physician’s glass vials. Dr. Thorne stood over the bed, demanding to know every morsel, every drop of liquid that had passed Michael’s lips.

He remembered Fanny standing beside him. Her small hand buried in his. Her chest heaving beneath the jet buttons of her bodice as she watched Michael thrash against the pillows. She had opened her mouth. She had looked as though she were about to speak—then the boy had screamed; the doctor had shouted for assistance, and she had backed into the shadows beneath the bedposts.

She had said nothing about tea.

“She probably forgot,” Lysander growled, the words forcing their way past the raw tightness in his throat. His voice sounded hollow, even to his own ears. “The room was in chaos. The boy was screaming. She must have forgotten.”

Veronica bowed her head further, her shoulders dipping in a posture of complete submission.

“Of course, Your Grace,” she whispered smoothly, her tone entirely free of malice, yet weighted with a heavy, devastating solemnity. “I am sure that is all it was. A simple lapse of memory in a moment of panic. I only thought… as his father… you ought to have every piece of the puzzle.”

She took a slow step backward toward the heavy oak door, her skirts rustling softly against the floor.

“I shall return to the nursery now, Your Grace,” she murmured, her hand reaching behind her to grasp the brass latch. “Mrs. Gable may need help with the fresh linens.”

Lysander didn’t answer her. He couldn’t.

The door opened, glided smoothly on its hinges, and shut with a soft, final click. He was left alone in the freezing gloom of the study.

He turned back to the desk, staring down at his hands. They trembled. A fine, uncontrollable tremor ran through his fingers—the hands of a duke, a master of an ancient estate, a man who had commanded men and managed vast lands, yet stood helpless before an invisible, creeping poison.

Fanny.