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Silence answered her.

Helena pushed the door open. The study was bathed in deep shadow, the table sat meticulously organized, but the chair behind it was unoccupied.

A prickle of unease rippled down her spine. She stepped out of the study and hurried to his bedchamber. She knocked firmly, calling out, but once again, her voice echoed back to her.

She opened the door and peeked inside. The bed was made and the coverlet pulled smooth over the mattress. A quick glance into his dressing room revealed his riding boots missing, along with his travelling coat.

Her heart began to beat faster. The massive estate suddenly felt suffocatingly hollow.

She rushed downstairs, her gait hurried with anxiety. On the floor below, Mr. Gibbs was supervising a footman polishing the brass door fittings.

"Where is His Grace?" Helena asked.

The old butler turned immediately, pausing in his duties. "I believe His Grace has stepped out, Your Grace."

Helena took a step closer, her gaze searching his weathered face for answers. "Where?"

"I was not told, Your Grace," Mr. Gibbs replied softly.

Helena let out a trembling breath, her eyes widening with disbelief. "He left no word? No indication of when he intends to return?"

"No, Your Grace. I do not know when he will return."

Giving up her frantic search, her thoughts turned instantly to the only anchor remaining in her world. She reached the nursery and pushed it open.

Resting within his carved cradle was Oliver. He was sleeping soundly, his round face serene and tiny chest rising and falling in a rhythm.

You have it so wonderfully easy, little one, untouched by the dark storms that rage between your uncle and me.

She reached down into the cot, to smooth the blanket over his shoulders, when her eyes caught a piece of parchment, folded into a rectangle beside the pillow.

It was a letter, jagged handwriting streaking across its surface. To Her Grace, Helena Percy.

With fingers that trembled so violently she could scarcely grip the paper, Helena lifted the letter. She broke the wax seal with shaking hands and unfolded the thick page.

Across the center of the stark white page were six short words: Take care of him for me. — G

Chapter Twenty-Nine

George commanded, his voice sharp as he pushed open the door of his old bachelor lodgings. "My business here is brief, Miller. I require only a few hours to gather my personal ledgers and private papers before we depart."

"Will Her Grace be joining us?" Miller, the coachman, asked innocently, looking toward the carriage outside.

George answered coldly. "The Duchess will not be joining me. You may leave me. I shall call for you if I require anything further."

"As you wish, Your Grace," he murmured, bowing his head. George closed the door behind him and stood alone in the center of the silent room.

It was strangely disorienting to stand within these walls once more, surrounded by the stagnant air of a life he thought he had left behind. The lodgings he had taken after his father's death and up until his departure for the Grand Tour remained frozen in time. Dust motes danced in the light filtering through the curtains, illuminating the familiar surroundings with museum-like stillness.

He moved slowly across the carpet. On the mantelpiece sat a half-empty decanter of tawny port, its crystal stopper clouded with age. Beside the decanter rested a single ivory chess piece—a knight—that had once belonged to his grandfather's set. George picked it up, feeling the familiar contours against his thumb. It reminded him vividly of the man he used to be: guarded, cynical, and fiercely determined to live his life in absolute isolation.

He set the knight down and turned to the writing desk standing near the window. He needed his private estate rolls, his personal banking drafts from Coutts, and his foreign passports before he made his way to the coast. "Focus on the business at hand, George," he muttered under his breath, sitting down and pulling open the top drawers of the desk. Gather the papers, settle the accounts, and leave.

He pulled out bundles of yellowed receipts and old balance sheets. As he reached into the lower drawer, his fingers brushed against a thick box. He pulled it out carefully and across, written in bold ink was his own name, inscribed in an elegant hand he knew far too well. Edward's handwriting.

George froze, his pulse racing. There is no purpose in opening this now. It belongs to a past that cannot be undone. He was about to push it back into the drawer when the box slipped from his hand, and a letter fell out. The date caught his attention – three days before he left for Paris.

As he picked up the letter, the memories he had spent years suppressing came flooding back with clarity. He remembered his father's venomous voice, praising Edward above him at every turn.