Page 86 of Duke of Iron
Logan tucked the child under one arm, the rabbit under the other, and marched from the room with the certainty of a manwho knew exactly where he was going. Which, as it happened, was not the case.
He did not relish the idea of a walk in Hyde Park, nor did he wish to parade the baby about town for the benefit of gossips and shopkeepers. There was an errand, however, that had lingered at the bottom of his conscience for weeks. It was time to cross it off the list.
The carriage was readied with brisk efficiency, and soon they were rattling through the city’s labyrinth of streets. Rydal watched the world with greedy eyes, flapping his arms and gumming at the buttons of Logan’s coat.
They arrived at Green Street, and Logan climbed the steps with the baby in his arms, a vision he imagined was as disturbing for the servants of the Beamond household as it was for himself. The butler who answered the door was the same who had greeted Logan during his last, far more official, visit. The man blinked at the sight, but kept his composure.
“Mr. and Mrs. Beamond are expecting me,” Logan said.
“Indeed, Your Grace. Please, this way.”
He was ushered into a subdued parlor, all heavy curtains and the faint odor of dried flowers. The room was already occupied—Mrs. Beamond sat at the window, hands folded in her lap, while her husband stood behind her, one arm draped awkwardly over her chair. They both rose as Logan entered, but it was Mrs. Beamond who spoke first.
“My goodness,” she said, voice trembling just slightly. “He is… he is larger than I imagined.”
Logan regarded the baby, who was now chewing on his own fist with single-minded dedication. “He is relentless in all things,” Logan said.
The couple seemed to absorb the sight, as if it were too much to take in all at once.
Mrs. Beamond waved them closer. “May I?” she asked, and Logan—after a quick scan for any obvious threat—handed the baby to her. Rydal looked up, unbothered, and continued his campaign of self-destruction on her string of pearls.
Mrs. Beamond laughed, a sound that had the edges of tears. “He looks nothing like Rebecca,” she said, stroking the child’s hair. “But he does have her stubborn mouth.”
Mr. Beamond cleared his throat. “Your Grace, we are grateful that you agreed to come.”
Logan inclined his head. “I owed you the courtesy. And I thought it right that the boy knows his family.”
Mrs. Beamond kissed the baby’s cheek, eyes glistening. “He will not remember us, of course.”
Logan did not answer. He did not know what to say.
The baby shrieked with pleasure, then clamped onto Mrs. Beamond’s finger with his teeth. She smiled at the pain, then passed the child to her husband, who regarded the little fist with a mixture of awe and terror.
After a few minutes of this, Mr. Beamond said, “Your Grace, I wonder if we might speak—man to man. In the other room.”
Mrs. Beamond nodded, wiping her cheeks. “I will keep him here,” she said.
Logan followed Mr. Beamond into a study that was the opposite of his own at Irondale—small, cluttered, the papers and books stacked with no discernible method. The older man shut the door, then leaned against it, as if requiring the support to stand.
“You are a man of duty, are you not?” Mr. Beamond asked.
Logan considered the question. “I was raised to be,” he said.
Mr. Beamond nodded. “I was not. I was raised to be agreeable, to never cause a scene. I see now that it was a mistake.”
Logan said nothing. He suspected he was not required to.
“We cast out our daughter,” Mr. Beamond said, “for a single moment’s indiscretion. She was found in a room alone with a gentleman—nothing more, nothing less. But the world demanded we act. The world, and my wife’s family, and all thepeople who spend their lives enforcing the rules they themselves cannot keep.”
Logan listened, hands folded behind his back.
“We sent her away,” Mr. Beamond continued. “To Italy. To die in a place where no one would ever think to find her. I thought it would save her, or at least save us, but it did neither.”
He looked at Logan, eyes red but unflinching. “If I had been a man of duty—if I had been like you—perhaps she would still be here.”
Logan shifted his weight. “I am not the example you want, Mr. Beamond. My own father?—”
“Your father was a monster,” Mr. Beamond interrupted. “But you are not he. That is why we asked you here today.”
