over to a sideboard and grabbed up a leather pocketbook. “How much money do you need, Atwood, until we see you again? Did you still want that thousand?”
Coleman would have gladly taken a thousand but it felt wrong exploiting his sister’s family—his family—that way. “Twenty dollars will do.” That would at least buy enough informants to help Matthew hunt down those girls.
“Twenty? Don’t be absurd. The cheapest ticket to cross the ocean to get to us will cost you almost ten.”
“You asked me how much I wanted and I’m telling you. Twenty. There is no need to insult what I consider to be a lot of money.”
The duke paused, pulled out a banknote and tossed the pocketbook onto the sideboard, his silvery hair glinting in the candlelight. Striding over, the duke also retrieved a small silver case from his coat pocket. Pulling out a calling card, he held it out, along with the crisp banknote. “You will find us at this address in London.”
“Thank you.” Coleman tugged both loose. Shoving the banknote and card into his pocket, he held out a hand, knowing he ought to be civil. “I appreciate knowing I have someone other than my boys to depend on. I haven’t been able to say that in years.”
His brother-in-law shook his hand and eyed him. “I have something else for you. Before you go.” The duke strode toward the four-poster bed on the other side of the room.
Slipping a hand beneath the pillow and linen, the duke withdrew a leather-bound book which had been fastened closed by a red velvet sash. Fingering it for a long moment, the duke drew in a breath, turned and strode back. “It was Augustine’s diary. Half of it pertains to you. She ceased writing in it when we married. She tried to move on. Despite her trying, she never could. She never did.” The duke blinked back his emotion and held out the diary.
Coleman felt those damn tears assaulting him again. He stared unblinkingly at the leather-bound book.
Although a part of him wanted to refuse it, to keep the past at a distance, he knew that by refusing it, he would be denying himself an opportunity to say goodbye to his sister. He doubted if he’d ever be able to bring himself to read it, but at least he’d be able to hold it until he was ready to go back to London.
Coleman grasped the book, his fingers grazing the soft velvet sash. He stilled, remembering her writing in it. He remembered seeing her dark head intently bent over its pages, writing under a lone candle’s light whilst sitting at her desk in New York. He’d once trudged into her room and had asked her why she kept a stupid diary, to which she had looked up and said, We all have secrets, Nathaniel. I simply happen to write mine down.
He never had to write his down.
He was his own secret.
And damn it all, he couldn’t pretend anymore. He couldn’t pretend he was anything but Viscount Nathaniel James Atwood, the boy who had disappeared at ten. He had spent his whole life waiting for a sign as to what he should do with the secret he had carried for almost thirty years. And here, this, was his sign.
It wasn’t meant to be a secret anymore.
CHAPTER THREE
Why should a man, whose blood is warm within,
Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster?
—P. Egan, Boxiana (1823)
London, England, February 1831
The Weston House
L ADY I MOGENE A NNE N ORWOOD traced a lone finger across the window, staring out into the cold, still night. Despite the darkness and shadows, a full moon illuminated the cobblestone street beyond the carriage gates and eerily outlined the oaks that swayed in the wind.
She glanced toward the French clock beside her bed, dimly lit by a single candle. A quarter after two and still no Henry. She doubted if her brother realized how much she worried about him. He smoked like a stove filled to the grates with ashes and spent most of his time watching men box as if seeing blood spray gave him genuine satisfaction.
He used to be so much more. But poor Henry had
Coleman would have gladly taken a thousand but it felt wrong exploiting his sister’s family—his family—that way. “Twenty dollars will do.” That would at least buy enough informants to help Matthew hunt down those girls.
“Twenty? Don’t be absurd. The cheapest ticket to cross the ocean to get to us will cost you almost ten.”
“You asked me how much I wanted and I’m telling you. Twenty. There is no need to insult what I consider to be a lot of money.”
The duke paused, pulled out a banknote and tossed the pocketbook onto the sideboard, his silvery hair glinting in the candlelight. Striding over, the duke also retrieved a small silver case from his coat pocket. Pulling out a calling card, he held it out, along with the crisp banknote. “You will find us at this address in London.”
“Thank you.” Coleman tugged both loose. Shoving the banknote and card into his pocket, he held out a hand, knowing he ought to be civil. “I appreciate knowing I have someone other than my boys to depend on. I haven’t been able to say that in years.”
His brother-in-law shook his hand and eyed him. “I have something else for you. Before you go.” The duke strode toward the four-poster bed on the other side of the room.
Slipping a hand beneath the pillow and linen, the duke withdrew a leather-bound book which had been fastened closed by a red velvet sash. Fingering it for a long moment, the duke drew in a breath, turned and strode back. “It was Augustine’s diary. Half of it pertains to you. She ceased writing in it when we married. She tried to move on. Despite her trying, she never could. She never did.” The duke blinked back his emotion and held out the diary.
Coleman felt those damn tears assaulting him again. He stared unblinkingly at the leather-bound book.
Although a part of him wanted to refuse it, to keep the past at a distance, he knew that by refusing it, he would be denying himself an opportunity to say goodbye to his sister. He doubted if he’d ever be able to bring himself to read it, but at least he’d be able to hold it until he was ready to go back to London.
Coleman grasped the book, his fingers grazing the soft velvet sash. He stilled, remembering her writing in it. He remembered seeing her dark head intently bent over its pages, writing under a lone candle’s light whilst sitting at her desk in New York. He’d once trudged into her room and had asked her why she kept a stupid diary, to which she had looked up and said, We all have secrets, Nathaniel. I simply happen to write mine down.
He never had to write his down.
He was his own secret.
And damn it all, he couldn’t pretend anymore. He couldn’t pretend he was anything but Viscount Nathaniel James Atwood, the boy who had disappeared at ten. He had spent his whole life waiting for a sign as to what he should do with the secret he had carried for almost thirty years. And here, this, was his sign.
It wasn’t meant to be a secret anymore.
CHAPTER THREE
Why should a man, whose blood is warm within,
Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster?
—P. Egan, Boxiana (1823)
London, England, February 1831
The Weston House
L ADY I MOGENE A NNE N ORWOOD traced a lone finger across the window, staring out into the cold, still night. Despite the darkness and shadows, a full moon illuminated the cobblestone street beyond the carriage gates and eerily outlined the oaks that swayed in the wind.
She glanced toward the French clock beside her bed, dimly lit by a single candle. A quarter after two and still no Henry. She doubted if her brother realized how much she worried about him. He smoked like a stove filled to the grates with ashes and spent most of his time watching men box as if seeing blood spray gave him genuine satisfaction.
He used to be so much more. But poor Henry had
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