Page 56 of Duke of Iron
Logan stepped through the doorway. The room was bare except for a battered desk, a single chair, and a man in it.
The man was smaller than expected. Middle-aged, with thinning hair and the kind of face one never remembered—neither handsome nor ugly, just… ordinary. His hands were folded on the table, fingers twitching in a nervous rhythm.
He looked up as Logan entered and gave a half-smile. “Your Grace,” he said. “Thank you for coming.”
Logan stood over him. “Who are you?”
“My name is Abel Forge.”
Calenham joined them, leaning against the wall with the studied boredom of a man who had once been ejected from three clubs in a single night.
“Why did you leave a baby on my doorstep?” Logan asked.
Forge swallowed. “I was paid. Two guineas and a bottle of port.”
“By whom?”
“I never saw his face. Always wore a scarf, always waited until the bell rang the hour, and the street was empty.”
Logan’s hands clenched at his sides. “You expect me to believe you have no idea whose child it is?”
Forge gave a little laugh, barely more than a cough. “I never said that. I know whose baby it is. It’s just not mine to tell.”
Logan leaned over the table, bringing his eyes level with the man’s. “It is very much your job to tell me. Start now.”
Forge shrugged. “You are the Duke of Irondale, yes? That’s what the boy is to be told when he’s old enough. That he’s heir to a fortune. That he’s noble by blood and birth. That’s all I know.”
Logan’s brain stalled for a moment. “Heir to Irondale? Are you mad?”
Forge shook his head. “Only repeating what I was told.”
“And the mother?” Logan pressed. “You must have seen her.”
Forge shook his head. “Never. Always the man. Always the instructions, written down. I was to make sure the child was well-fed, then bring him to your door and leave him there. If I were caught, I was to say nothing.”
Calenham said, “But you’re saying something now.”
“Because the runner offered me five guineas and a promise to keep me out of Newgate.”
Logan’s blood ran cold. “What else do you know?”
Forge looked at his hands. “Only the child’s name. That was in the final note, before the delivery.”
Logan drew himself up, certain he would not like the answer. “What is it?”
Forge said, in a quiet voice, “William Blackmore.”
The words hit the room like a blow.
Logan took a step back. “That is not possible.”
Forge met his eyes. “It’s what I was told. William Blackmore, born to inherit everything you have.”
Seventeen
“Repeat that,” Logan said.
Forge did not cower, but his eyes bounced from Logan to Calenham and then to the scarred surface of the table. “I said, the boy’s name is William Blackmore.”
