PART 2

Edmund returned six days later.

Not in the carriage.

Alone on horseback.

Clara found him standing beside the gate just after sunrise.

He looked tired.

Mud stained his boots.

There was no valet.

No coachman.

No polished entourage.

Only the duke himself.

“You came back,” Clara said.

“I did.”

She waited.

Edmund dismounted.

“I’ve agreed to your condition.”

Clara studied him.

“You understand what that means?”

“I’ll live here.”

“You’ll wake before sunrise.”

“I’ll try.”

“You’ll work.”

“I expected that.”

“You’ll eat whatever I cook.”

He hesitated.

“That may be the hardest condition.”

She almost smiled.

Almost.

Then his expression became serious.

“There is something else.”

“What?”

“I must have an heir.”

The warmth left Clara’s face.

Edmund continued before she could answer.

“The settlement requires a marriage to preserve the estate while I’m alive. But after my death, the inheritance pᴀsses differently. A legitimate son would secure it.”

“And if we have no child?”

“Then you will not be blamed.”

She searched his face.

“You mean that?”

“Yes.”

“Because men say that now and regret it later.”

“I won’t.”

There was something in his voice that made her believe him.

They sat at her kitchen table for nearly two hours.

They spoke about money.

Land.

Marriage.

Duty.

And finally, the things neither had intended to reveal.

Clara told him about her father.

About the accounts he had falsified before his death.

About how she’d discovered he had secretly borrowed against the farm to cover another man’s debts.

She had burned the false ledgers herself.

Edmund told her about his mother.

About the reason he’d refused every arranged marriage.

About the secret he’d carried for a decade because it belonged to a woman who could no longer defend herself.

By the time the candle burned low, they were no longer strangers.

They married three weeks later.

Not at Ashcombe.

Not in London.

At the little parish church five miles from Clara’s farm.

Forty-two people attended.

No orchestra.

No grand reception.

No duchesses whispering behind gloves.

When Clara asked why, Edmund answered simply:

“Because I don’t want our marriage to belong to anyone else.”

The following morning, the seventh Duke of Ashcombe woke at four forty-five to the sound of chickens.

He opened his eyes.

For several seconds, he had no idea where he was.

Then he remembered.

The farm.

The marriage.

Clara.

He got out of bed.

There was no valet.

No bell cord.

No polished servant waiting outside.

He dressed badly.

Found one boot.

Lost the other.

Walked downstairs.

The kitchen was empty.

A dying fire sat in the stove.

A bucket of water waited beside it.

Edmund stared at both.

He had commanded soldiers.

Signed estate contracts.

Sat through Parliament.

Negotiated with men who controlled half the county.

He had never once learned how to start a kitchen fire.

He picked up the poker.

Nothing happened.

He tried again.

Smoke filled the room.

Edmund coughed.

A voice came from behind him.

“You’re killing it.”

He turned.

Clara stood in the doorway.

She was already dressed for work.

She looked at the smoke.

Then at him.

Then at the poker.

“I was attempting to light it.”

“You were attempting to bury it.”

She stepped past him.

Their shoulders brushed.

Something small and unexpected moved through him.

Not desire.

Not yet.

Something quieter.

The beginning of belonging.

Clara knelt beside the stove.

Edmund watched her hands.

“You really intend to live like this?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“You’ll hate it.”

“Probably.”

“You’ll regret marrying me.”

“No.”

She looked up.

He met her eyes.

“I may regret many things,” he said. “You aren’t one of them.”

For a moment, neither moved.

Then Clara stood.

“I need to show you something.”

She walked toward the back door.

Edmund followed.

They crossed the yard.

Pᴀssed the barn.

Pᴀssed the old orchard.

Then she stopped beside a small stone wall hidden beneath ivy.

“There is something you don’t know about this farm.”

Edmund looked at her.

“What?”

Clara pulled a rusted iron key from beneath her collar.

“My father told me never to open this.”

She inserted the key into a narrow lock hidden inside the stone.

The mechanism clicked.

A section of the wall shifted inward.

Behind it was a small underground chamber.

Edmund stared.

Inside were wooden boxes.

Old papers.

Sealed letters.

And a leather-bound ledger bearing the crest of the Ashcombe family.

His face changed.

“Where did you get this?”

“My father found it twelve years ago.”

Clara looked at him.

“He believed someone had altered the original inheritance records.”

Edmund stepped into the chamber.

His hands trembled as he opened the ledger.

The first page contained a name.

His father’s.

The second contained a date.

The third contained a sentence that made the room seem suddenly colder.

The inheritance clause requiring Edmund to produce an heir had been added years after the original will was signed.

And beneath it was another name.

A man Edmund trusted completely.

Clara watched his face.

“What does it mean?”

Edmund closed the book.

His voice was barely audible.

“It means my marriage may never have been necessary.”

“And your inheritance?”

He looked at her.

“It may never have belonged to my cousin.”

A silence settled between them.

Then Edmund turned another page.

His expression hardened.

Because the final entry wasn’t about money.

It was about murder.

And the name written beside it was the same name belonging to the man who had spent ten years making certain Edmund never discovered the truth.

The man who had known exactly where Clara’s farm was.

And exactly what she had been hiding.

Edmund looked toward the open doorway.

For the first time since arriving at the farm, he understood something terrifying.

He had not simply married Clara Whitlock.

He had walked directly into the secret that could destroy his entire family.