The Duke Found His Maid’s Secret Baby in the Gallery No One Was Allowed to Enter—Then She Raised Both Arms Toward Him. He Had Come to Fire Her Mother, but for the First Time in Years, He Lowered Himself to His Knees.

PART 11

Arthur spread maps and property ledgers across the long table while men came and went with names, addresses, and scraps of information.

Lord Marcus Vane owned very little under his own name. A riverside mill near Calder belonged to a cousin. An abandoned hunting lodge was held through a trust. Three cottages near Hargate were leased to men who officially worked as gamekeepers.

Each answer created another question.

Julian did not sit. He had not eaten since receiving the forged letter. He had not changed his coat. The only sign of exhaustion was the loosened knot of his cravat.

Shortly before ten, a stable boy found Clara’s glove beside the eastern toll road.

An hour later, a farmer reported seeing a dark carriage turned toward the older mill — a property Vane had purchased through an intermediary six months earlier.

Captain Graves marked the location on the map.

“The mill has been empty for years.”

“Not this week,” Arthur said. “A coal merchant delivered fuel there three days ago, paid in cash.”

Julian looked at the map. “How many men?”

“We do not know. Then assume twice what seems reasonable.”

Graves studied him. “You are not going inside.”

Julian slowly raised his eyes.

“You were required to say that once. You have said it.”

“Your grace—”

“Enough.”

Arthur stepped between them before the argument could become useless.

“We have another problem. Vane may not be at the mill. If he has Clara and Lily, he will want something.”

As if summoned by the thought, the telegraph clerk from the village arrived, breathless, with a message addressed to the Duke of Westbridge.

Julian tore it open.

The words were brief.

Western Ridge and the railway corridor. Sign the transfer by noon tomorrow. Your household returns unharmed. No police.

Julian read it twice.

Arthur’s jaw hardened. The Western Ridge and railway corridor together were worth a fortune. But that was not why Vane wanted them. Control of that land would make Hargate the gatekeeper between two industrial towns, and destroy years of Julian’s planning.

“He thinks you will sign,” Arthur said.

Julian folded the telegram.

“He is correct.”

Every man in the room looked at him.

“Prepare the transfer.”

“Julian—” Arthur used his given name only when the title became less important than the man.

“Prepare it.”

Julian’s voice did not rise.

“Paper can be challenged. Land can be recovered. Lily cannot.”

Arthur stared at him, then nodded.

“And while I prepare it—” Julian looked at Graves. “We find them.”

Near midnight, in a locked room on the second floor of the old mill, Clara sat with her wrist tied to the arm of a chair.

Lily was curled against her chest beneath the loosened binding. Exhausted from crying.

Vane’s men had learned quickly that separating mother and child created too much noise. So they allowed Clara to hold her daughter, as long as she remained still.

Clara whispered the same song again and again, though her throat hurt and she could barely remember the words.

Lily’s cream giraffe was gone. It had fallen from the carriage when Clara tried to open the door on the east road.

That had upset the child almost as much as the strange men.

“Papa,” Lily whimpered once — a new sound she had been practicing, without anyone quite understanding it.

Clara closed her eyes.

“He is coming,” she whispered.

She did not know whether it was a promise or a prayer.

Downstairs, Marcus Vane poured himself brandy.

He was a thin man in his fifties, with silver at his temples and the easy manners of someone who had spent years mistaking refinement for virtue.

He glanced toward the ceiling. “The child has finally stopped.”

One of his men shrugged. “The woman keeps singing.”

Vane smiled. “Let her. By tomorrow, Hawthorne will sign away the only piece of land he has refused me for ten years. And after that — the mother and child go home.”

The man looked unconvinced.

Vane noticed.

“I have no interest in harming them. They are valuable only because he cares.”

What Vane did not understand was that the sentence itself had already condemned him in Julian’s mind.

At one in the morning, Captain Graves returned with mud on his boots and a torn sleeve.

“It is the mill.”

Julian was on his feet before Graves finished.

“Certain — as certain as I can be without entering. Two hired horses in the rear stable. One bears the mark of Fenwick’s yard. A lantern on the second floor. Four men outside. Probably more within.”

“And this.” Graves placed something on the table.

The cream-colored giraffe.

One fabric ear was dark with mud.

Julian stared at it.

For a moment, the room disappeared. He saw Lily laughing in the nursery, biting that same ear while Clara pretended to scold her.

He picked up the toy and brushed his thumb over the stained cloth.

“We go now.”

Arthur blocked the door. “The transfer papers are not finished.”

“Finish them. If this is a trap, it is a trap.”

Julian tucked the giraffe inside his coat.

“The difference is, I know it.”

A large party would announce itself long before reaching the mill. Julian chose only the men whose experience mattered. Captain Graves. Arthur, despite his protests. Samuel Reed, who had served as a sergeant before returning to farm Hawthorne land. And two former cavalrymen, now employed on the estate.

The head groom remained with the horses on the ridge road.

No one wore livery.

Once they left the lane, no lanterns were carried.