Page 65 of The Heart of an Earl

“I am. No thanks to you or those cowards you employ.” Des’s look flickered past him to the foyer. Unlike last time, no footmen had appeared with Gatlong’s arrival to the room. “I will see Jules today.”

Gatlong took two short strides farther into the room, his voice as heavy as his belly. “I understand your anger, son. And I’m sorry. I never should have done what I did to you.”

“What?” Des’s head cocked to the side, his fingers twitching, aching to grab one of his pistols as his eyes narrowed at Gatlong.

“I should have let you stay—should have welcomed you last time. I was—I was in shock. If I had…if only I had.” He sighed, his head shaking. “If I had—she wouldn’t have gone out—gone with you.” His meaty forefinger and thumb went to his face, squeezing the bridge of his nose. “If I had only let you stay—she never would have run.”

Des stilled, his voice grave. “What are you speaking of, Lord Gatlong?”

His fingers dropped from his nose, his look piercing Des. “She died, son. Pneumonia—it took her quick. She was frozen to the bone after she ran into the storm with you—we warmed her, but it was too late—it was in her lungs by then and she died two weeks ago.”

The words hung in the stale air of the drawing room, Des unable to hear them properly.

Lord Gatlong stared at him until Des found a way to shake his head. “No. You are mistaken.”

“I am not, son.” He sighed, his jowls arranging into undulating folds. “She is dead. My only child.”

“No.” Des charged across the room, his hand wrapping around Gatlong’s throat and he shoved him back against the wall, hitting a sconce and sending the glass of it to shatter on the floor. “What the hell are you saying, old man?”

“She’s dead. Dead, son. Two weeks. She’s been gone two weeks.” He choked out the words through Des’s grip on his windpipe. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry about it all. Sorry about everything—the damn curse.”

Des pulled him away from the wall and then slammed him back into the plaster. “I don’t believe you.”

His head shaking, Gatlong’s finger clasped onto Des’s wrists. “Come—come—I’ll show you.”

Lies. Bloody lies.

Kill him. Kill him now before he hurt Jules further.

It took every miniscule scrap of control Des possessed to peel his fingers away from Gatlong’s throat.

Jules’s father coughed, bending over as he choked in air. “Come.” He waved his hand at Des. “Come. I’ll show you.”

Gatlong walked out of the drawing room to the front door, dismissing Mr. Charles with a flick of his wrist as he passed him.

Without stopping to gather a coat, Gatlong opened the front door and walked into the snow, his steps dragging tracks through the drifts.

Des followed him, his feet stomping in the snow behind the odious man. Silent, Des’s stare fixed on the thin line of brown hair at the base of his balding head.

It wasn’t until Gatlong’s feet slowed that Des looked up from the strip of brown hair.

A cemetery.

Gatlong opened the latch on the gate into the graveyard and shoved his weight against the metal, pushing it against the snow far enough to get into the cemetery.

He walked to the middle of the headstones, stopping at a tall obelisk gravestone in the middle of the burial ground.

“Here.” He heaved a breath. “She’s here.”

For all Des couldn’t bear to lift his eyes—to look at the tall granite spire that pointed toward the heavens, Des forced his gaze upward to the letters etched in the cold stone.

Julianna Fiona Hawnley. Beloved daughter.

Des stumbled backward. Falling. Tripping over headstones. One, then another, his feet beneath him gone. He landed hard on the ground, the heels of his boots kicking at the snow, kicking him away.

“No. No. No.”

Gatlong turned around to him, his cold blue eyes haunted. “I am sorry, son. I wish—I wish so many things. I am sorry.”

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