Page 57 of Duke of Iron
A silence pooled in the small room, thick enough to smother. Calenham straightened against the wall. Logan let the name turn over in his mind like a coin—one side stamped with his own, the other blank. Impossible.
He said, “You’re sure of this.”
Forge nodded. “It was all I was told. William Blackmore, to be raised in the manner of his birthright.”
“My birthright,” Logan said, fighting the urge to shout the words. “Who delivered the message?”
“I told you, Your Grace, I never saw his face. It was always the same arrangement. He left the note, I collected it, and I did as instructed.”
Calenham, voice unexpectedly gentle, asked, “What did the notes say, precisely?”
“Nothing I haven’t already told you. Deliver the child, well-fed and clean, to the Duke of Irondale. Say nothing if questioned. Never return to the house.”
Logan paced, one hand clenched and the other raking through his hair. “No other names? No address, no further instructions?”
“None. The money came wrapped in brown paper.”
“So the child is meant to be my… What?” Logan turned on him. “Heir? Ward? I have never…” He broke off, the implication refusing to resolve.
Forge seemed to shrink into the chair. “That is all I know, Your Grace.”
Logan stared down at his hands. He wanted to punch the desk, the wall, or the world. Instead, he forced his voice to be calm. “If I find you are lying, Forge, I will see you delivered to Newgate myself.”
“I believe him,” Calenham said. “Men like this don’t invent stories. Not when they can simply disappear instead.”
Forge dipped his head. “May I go now, Your Grace?”
Logan waved him away, not trusting himself to speak.
The runner showed Forge out. Logan remained, rooted. Calenham waited until the sound of boots on stone faded, then said, “You are taking this remarkably well.”
“Am I?” Logan muttered.
Calenham pulled out the other chair and straddled it. “Logan. If you are certain you’ve never sired a child, then this is an elaborate game. The question is who is playing it, and why.”
Logan’s mouth twisted. “The line ends with me, Edward. I made damn sure of it.” He shook his head, the oath from years past echoing in his mind. “My father—he wanted only an heir. I was not enough. I told myself I would never pass on his blood, not if the Crown itself ordered it.”
Edward studied him. “You seem less convinced now.”
Logan could not answer. Every memory of his father’s house, every cut and bruise and shout, rose inside him, clawing for dominance. Yet there was the child, left at his door, carrying his name. William Blackmore.
He forced himself up. “If this is a plot, I will untangle it. If it is real…” He let the rest die.
Edward followed him into the hallway. “What will you do?”
“Find the next piece,” Logan said. “And hope it does not cut deeper than the last.”
They parted ways at the corner. Calenham gave a mock salute and vanished into the fog, while Logan turned for home with the weight of generations pressing on his shoulders.
He reached Irondale House in time to hear a scream—smaller and higher than any he’d heard in his worst nightmares. The foyer was chaos—two footmen looked as though they’d rather desert than approach the staircase, and Bexley stood like a man about to face execution. The noise came from above, the familiar nursery wail, except this time it sounded less like a baby and more like a banshee possessed.
Logan took the stairs two at a time.
He found the nursery door open, and the maids inside frantic. Rydal (or William, as his mind now insisted on calling him) lay in the cradle, red-faced and howling with fresh fury. The two maids looked at each other, at the crib, then at Logan, their expressions a study in horror.
“Where is the wet nurse?” Logan demanded.
“She’s—she’s gone, Your Grace,” one maid stammered.
