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Hubert gave him a knowing look. "You have never admitted to losing at cards."

James poured two measures, handed one glass to his uncle, and settled back into his chair.

“You know I trust you with my life, uncle,” James said.

“Indeed and I you,” Hubert said.

“We have always had that special bond. You are like a father to me,” James said.

Even better than my own father.

James attempted to hide the furrow in his brow over that last painful reminder.

He had asked Hubert to investigate the surrounding villages because he trusted him to ask questions without making the entire county aware that the Duke of Glenmore had suddenly developed an interest in abandoned infants. There were already enough rumors attached to the estate without adding that particular curiosity to the list.

Hubert took a slow sip and looked around the room. "I have always loved this drawing room." His gaze travelled over the high windows, the dark wood paneling and the portraits that had watched over generations of Delves children. "I spent half my childhood in this room, you know. Before I left and began living my own life."

James glanced around as well, seeing the room differently for a moment through Hubert's memories. "It is a fine room."

Hubert smiled. "That is all you have to say?"

"What would you prefer? A sentimental speech?"

"Perhaps, this home is deserving of that," Hubert smiled.

"Then you shall be disappointed."

Hubert laughed quietly. "You were always hopeless with sentiment."

James raised his glass. "And yet somehow I survived."

The humor faded as quickly as it had appeared. James set his glass down and looked directly at his uncle. "The report?"

Hubert nodded, understanding that James had no intention of allowing nostalgia to distract him from the matter at hand.

"Yes. I have spoken with people in every village within a reasonable distance of the estate. I made enquiries through the magistrate, the innkeepers, the parish officials, and several families who are likely to hear such news before anyone else."

James listened carefully, his fingers resting against the arm of his chair.

"And?" he asked.

Hubert shook his head. "Nothing. There is no family looking for a missing baby or child. No mother has reported an infant missing, no father has gone searching, and there is no household claiming that a child was taken from them."

James felt something settle heavily inside him. He had expected the possibility, but expectation did little to soften certainty. The little boy had not been lost. He had been left. James stared into the fire, remembering the tiny face, the unusual marking upon the child's skin, and Olivia's expression when she had first gathered him into her arms.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "You have done precisely what I asked."

Hubert leaned back, studying him over the rim of his glass. "You are welcome, though I admit I am becoming increasingly curious."

James looked at him. "Curiosity is a dangerous habit."

"So is ordering one's uncle to investigate missing children without explaining why."

Hubert's dark eyes narrowed. "Why are you searching for a random baby?"

James almost laughed. Random was hardly the word he would have chosen. The child had appeared at precisely the wrong moment, in precisely the wrong place, and yet somehow at the only moment when James had begun to realize that the life he had planned for himself could no longer continue unchanged. Then there was Olivia. She had been reckless, infuriating, compassionate, witty, and entirely unlike any woman he had ever met. Most alarming of all, she had looked at the abandoned child as though he already belonged to her.

"You will know soon enough," James said.