Page 120 of The Lost Duke of Wyndham

Jack looked over at Thomas. Who he found was looking over at him.

He supposed they were just meant to go in.

So they did.

The office was larger than Jack would have expected, given the tight quarters of the rest of the rectory. There were three windows, one on the north wall and then two on the west, flanking the fireplace. A small but tidy flame was burning; Jack walked over to warm his hands.

“Do you know what a parish register looks like?” Thomas asked.

Jack shrugged and shook his head. He stretched his fingers, then flexed his feet as best as he could within the confines of his boots. His muscles were growing tense and jumpy, and everytime he tried to hold still, he realized that his fingers were drumming a frantic tattoo on his leg.

He wanted to jump out of his skin. He wanted to jump right out of his—

“This may be it.”

Jack turned. Thomas was holding a large book. It was bound in brown leather, and the cover showed signs of age.

“Shall we?” Thomas asked. His voice was even, but Jack saw him swallow spasmodically. And his hands were trembling.

“You can do it,” Jack said. He could not fake it this time. He could not stand there and pretend to read. Some things were simply too much to bear.

Thomas stared at him in shock. “You don’t want to look with me?”

“I trust you.” It was true. Thomas could not think of a more inherently trustworthy person. Thomas would not lie. Not even about this.

“No,” Thomas said, dismissing this entirely. “I won’t do it without you.”

For a moment Jack just stood there unmoving, and then, cursing under his breath, he went over to join Thomas at the desk.

“You’re too bloody noble,” Jack bit off.

Thomas muttered something Jack could not quite make out and set the book down, opening it to one of the first pages.

Jack looked down. It was a blur, all swirls and dips, dancing before his eyes. He swallowed, stealing a glance at Thomas to see if he’d seen anything. But Thomas was staring down at the register, his eyes moving quickly from left to right as he flipped through the pages.

And then he slowed down.

Jack clenched his teeth, trying to make it out. Sometimes he could tell the bigger letters, and frequently the numbers. It was just that they were so often not where he thought they should be, or not what he thought they should be.

Ah, idiocy. It ought to have been familiar by now. But it never was.

“Do you know what month your parents would have married in?” Thomas asked.

“No.” But it was a small parish. How many weddings could there have been?

Jack watched Thomas’s fingers. They moved along the edge of the page, then slid around the edge.

And flipped it. And stopped.

Jack looked at Thomas. He was still.

He’d closed his eyes. And it was clear. On his face. It was clear.

“Dear God.” The words fell from Jack’s lips like tears. It wasn’t a surprise, and yet, he’d been hoping…praying…

That his parents hadn’t married. Or the proof had been lost. That someone, anyone, had been wrong because this was wrong. It could not be happening. He could not do this.

Just look at him now. He was standing there bloody well pretending to read the register. How in God’s name did anyone think he could be a duke?

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