Forever a Lord. Delilah Marvelle
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much?”
“A thousand.”
“A thousand?”
“Yes. Dollars. Not pennies. Consider it a bargain. You look like you can afford more.”
“So you actually know something?”
“Yes.”
Lord Yardley lowered his shaven chin against his silk cravat. “You wouldn’t be the first claiming to know something. The question is, do you?”
Coleman wasn’t about to trust either of these men to shite. “I need a thousand before I say another word.”
Lord Yardley narrowed his gaze. “Keep at this and I will personally ensure you forget your own God-given name. The information comes first. Money last.”
The Duke of Wentworth approached. “Yardley. Enough. Calm down.”
Swinging away, Yardley threw up both hands. “These people are leeches. Every last one of them. All they want is money. What happened to humanity wanting to help others for the sake of goodwill? I’m going for a walk down Broadway. It’s the only thing that ever calms me down.”
The duke pointed. “No. No walks. Not now. You will stay and finish whatever this is.” Brown eyes that were surprisingly intelligent, albeit solemn, observed Coleman for a moment. “We have been in New York, sir, for months making endless inquiries. We are beyond exhausted and are hinging a breath of hope on the possibility that you may know something. Do you?”
Coleman shifted away from the duke, trying to distance himself from the eerie reality that the past was tapping on his shoulder. “It depends on what you want with the information.”
Those features tightened. “If Atwood still lives, which we hope he does, inform him that his sister’s husband and her son are here to collect him. If, however, he is dead, we also wish to know of it. All we want is information that will lead us to resolve this matter and give it peace.”
Coleman stared, his plan to claim the money crumbling with every word. This man was married to his sister? It wasn’t possible. Trying to keep his voice steady, he confided, “Allow me to speak to his sister first. I will decide then.”
The duke swiped his face. “I cannot produce her.”
“Why not?” he demanded, unable to remain calm.
“She died.” That voice, though well controlled, bespoke a deeply rooted anguish.
Coleman staggered, the marble floor beneath his boots momentarily swaying. For the first time in a very, very long time, tears connected to who he had once been pricked his eyes. Auggie was barely six years older than him. She couldn’t be dead. This had to be a trap. “I don’t believe you. Auggie isn’t dead. You’re lying.”
The duke’s gaze snapped to his. “How did you know her name?”
Lord Yardley watched Coleman. “Glass-blue eyes and black hair. And his accent. ’Tis anything but American.” He stepped closer, lips parting. “Dearest God. It’s him. It’s Atwood. It has to be.”
Fuck. He’d stupidly outed himself. Coleman swung away and stalked toward the entrance of the hotel. He wasn’t staying for this. He didn’t even want to know what had happened to Auggie. He didn’t.
Booted feet drummed faster down the lobby, after him.
“Nathaniel?” the duke called out. “Nathaniel, stay. For God’s sake, stay! Atwood? Atwood!”
Sucking in a breath, Coleman darted toward the entrance leading out to the street. Grabbing the oversize doors, he tried to shove them open, but his scab-ridden hands were too disconnected from his body to cooperate.
“Atwood!” The duke grabbed his shoulders and yanked him away from the doors.
Though his fists instinctively popped up to swing, Coleman knew pulverizing his own sister’s husband was not what he owed her. “Atwood doesn’t exist anymore,” he rasped.
The duke slowly turned him. “I have stared at the painted miniature of you as a child so many times. No one has eyes quite like yours. I don’t know why I didn’t see it. The bruises on your face were very distracting.”
Coleman couldn’t breathe.
The duke leaned in. “Your sister devoted everything to the hope of finding you. And this is how you repay her? By running from her family when they come to you? Don’t you care to know what happened to her? Or how she died?”
A warm tear trickled its way down the length of Coleman’s cheek. He viciously swiped at it, welcoming the pinching from grazing the bruise on his face.
The duke held his gaze. “She died in childbirth. Many years ago. It would have been a girl. Our third. Neither survived. I just lost our eldest son, as well. Typhus took him. Yardley here is all I have left of her.”
Coleman stumbled outside that grasp and leaned back against the door, feeling weak. He had been running and running from the past to the point of delusion, and now, it would seem, he had become that delusion. At least he had protected Auggie’s good name to the end.
Dearest God. None of this seemed real. “And what of my mother? Is she dead, too?”
The duke shook his head. “No. She is very much alive.”
He drew in a ragged breath. “I’m glad to hear it.” He nodded. “She was good to me.” He swallowed, trying to keep his voice steady. “And my father? The earl?”
“Still alive.”
Coleman set his jaw and tapped a rigid fist against his thigh. “Of course he is.” He pushed away from the door, knowing his father’s face had replaced so many faces in the ring since he took up boxing at twenty. His pent-up hatred for the man was but one of many reasons why he’d never sought his family out. Because he would have smeared his father’s blood across every last wall in London. “Is he here in New York?”
Yardley approached. “No. He doesn’t know we have been looking for you.”
Coleman raked long strands of hair from his face with a trembling hand. “And why doesn’t he know?”
The duke sighed. “Augustine always believed he was responsible for your disappearance. And I have seen more than enough to believe her. I therefore opted to never include him in whatever investigations we conducted. Including this one. We feared he would impede.”
These men clearly knew his father.
Yardley leaned in. “Come upstairs and have a brandy. Talk to us in the privacy we all deserve. Please.”
Coleman half nodded and drifted across the lobby alongside them, submitting to the request. He followed them up, up red-carpeted stairs until he was eventually ushered into a sweeping lavish room graced with windows facing out toward Bowling Green Park.
It was like he was ten again and looking out over New York City for the first time. It was eerie. He awkwardly sat in the leather chair he was guided into.
A glass filled with brandy was placed into his hand. He could barely keep it steady. The amber liquid within the crystal swayed. The last time he had touched crystal of similar quality was when he had smashed a decanter against that cellar wall he was being kept in and screamed until he could feel neither his body nor soul. He felt like a freak then. And he felt like a freak now. For here he was sitting with his long hair and butchered face holding an expensive tonic meant to be sipped by lace-wearing fops. He’d never felt like he truly belonged anywhere. He was neither fop nor street boy. His boxing was the only world that made sense. Fight or fall.
Yardley slowly sat in a chair across from him. “My mother had a dream you were still alive. It induced her to create a map of your whereabouts which I had kept since her death. That is why we are here. Because of her. Her soul was clearly connected to you. She was never able to let you go.”
Coleman