He was looking at one of the church registers. The dates were wrong, though. Jack’s parents would have married in 1790, and these were all far too recent.
Thomas looked over his shoulder to say something to Jack, but he was standing stiffly by the fire, his shoulders drawn up toward his ears. He looked frozen, and Thomas realized why he had not heard him moving about the room, looking for the register.
Jack had not moved since they had entered.
Thomas wanted to say something. He wanted to stride across the room and shake some bloody sense into him because what the devil was he complaining about? He, not Jack, was the one whose life would be ruined at the end of the day. He was losing his name, his home, his fortune.
His fiancée.
Jack would walk out of this room one of the richest and most powerful men in the world. He, on the other hand, would have nothing. His friends, he supposed, but they were few in number. Acquaintances he had in abundance, but friends—there was Grace, Harry Gladdish…possibly Amelia. He found it difficult to believe that she would wish to see him after all was said and done. She would find it too awkward. And if she ended up marrying Jack…
Then he would find it too awkward.
He closed his eyes, forcing himself to refocus on the matter at hand. He was the one who had told Amelia that she must marry the Duke of Wyndham, whoever that might turn out to be. He couldn’t bloody well complain because she followed his instructions.
Thomas put the parish register back on the shelf and pulled out another, checking the dates that led each entry. This one was a bit older than the first, concluding at the very end of the eighteenth century. He tried another, and then a fourth, and this time, when he looked down at the careful, elegant handwriting, he found the dates he was looking for.
He swallowed and looked at Jack. “This may be it.”
Jack turned. The corners of his mouth were pinched, and his eyes looked haunted.
Thomas looked down at the book and realized that his hands were trembling. He swallowed. He had made it through the day up to this point with surprising purpose. He’d been a perfect stoic, prepared to do what was right for Wyndham.
But now he was scared.
Still, he pulled from his reserves and managed an ironic smile. Because if he could not behave like a man, then what was left of him? At the end of the day, he had his dignity and his soul. That was all.
He looked up at Jack. Into his eyes. “Shall we?”
“You can do it,” Jack said.
“You don’t want to look with me?”
“I trust you.”
Thomas’s lips parted, not quite in surprise—because, really, why wouldn’t Jack trust him? It wasn’t as if he could alter the pages right there in front of him. But still, even if he was terrified by the outcome, wouldn’t he want to see? Wouldn’t he want to read the pages himself? Thomas could not imagine coming all this way and not looking down as each page was turned.
“No,” Thomas said. Why should he have to do this alone? “I won’t do it without you.”
For a moment Jack just stood there unmoving, and then, cursing under his breath, he went over to join him at the desk.
“You’re too bloody noble,” Jack bit off.
“Not for long,” Thomas muttered. He set the book on the desk, opening it to the first page of records. Jack stood beside him, and together they looked down at the tight, sensible penmanship of the Maguiresbridge vicar, circa 1786.
Thomas swallowed nervously. His throat felt tight. But he had to do this. It was his duty. To Wyndham.
Wasn’t that his entire life? Duty to Wyndham?
He almost laughed. If ever anyone had accused him of taking duty too far…
This had to be it.
Looking down, he turned the pages until he found the correct year. “Do you know what month your parents would have married in?” he asked Jack.
“No.”
It was no matter, Thomas decided. It was a small parish. There were not many weddings.
Patrick Colville and Emily Kendrick, 20 March, 1790 William Figley and Margaret Plowright, 22 May, 1790
He moved his fingers along the page, sliding them around the edge. Breath held, he turned the page.
And there they were.
John Augustus Cavendish and Louise Henrietta Galbraith, married 12 June, 1790, witnessed by one Henry Wickham and Philip Galbraith.
Thomas closed his eyes.
So this was it. It was gone. Everything that had defined him, everything he possessed…
Gone. All of it.
And what was left?
He opened his eyes, looking down at his hands. His body. His skin and his blood and his muscle and bone.
Was it enough?
Even Amelia was lost to him. She’d marry Jack or some other, similarly titled fellow, and live out her days as some other man’s bride.
It stung. It burned. Thomas could not believe how much it burned.
“Who is Philip?” he whispered, looking down at the register. Because Galbraith—it was Jack’s mother’s name.
“What?”
Thomas looked over. Jack had his face in his hands.
“Philip Galbraith. He was a witness.”
Jack looked up. And then down. At the register. “My mother’s brother.”
“Does he still live?” Thomas didn’t know why he was asking. The proof of the marriage was right there in his hands, and he would not contest it.
“I don’t know. He did the last I knew. It has been five years.”
Thomas swallowed and looked up, staring off into space. His body felt strange, almost weightless, as if his blood had changed into something thinner. His skin was tingling and—
“Tear it out.”
Thomas turned to Jack in shock. He could not have heard correctly. “What did you say?”
“Tear it out.”
“Are you mad?”
Jack shook his head. “You are the duke.”
Thomas looked down at the register, and it was then, with great sadness, that he truly accepted his fate. “No,” he said softly, “I’m not.”
“No.” Jack grabbed him by the shoulders. His eyes were wild, panicked. “You are what Wyndham needs. What everyone needs.”
“Stop, you—”
“Listen to me,” Jack implored. “You are born and bred to the job. I will ruin everything. Do you understand? I cannot do it. I cannot do it.”
Jack was scared. It was a good sign, Thomas told himself. Only a stupid man—or an exceedingly shallow one—would see nothing but the riches and prestige. If Jack saw enough to be terrified, then he was man enough for the position.
And so he just shook his head, holding Jack’s gaze with his own. “I may be bred to it, but you were born to it. And I cannot take what is yours.”
“I don’t want it!” Jack burst out.
“It is not yours to accept or deny,” Thomas said. “Don’t you understand? It is not a possession. It is who you are.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Jack swore. His hands were shaking. His whole body was shaking. “I am giving it to you. On a bloody silver platter. You stay the duke, and I shall leave you alone. I’ll even be your scout in the Outer Hebrides. Anything. Just tear the page out.”
“If you didn’t want the title, why didn’t you just say that your parents hadn’t been married at the outset?” Thomas shot back. “I asked you if your parents were married. You could have said no.”
“I didn’t know that I was in line to inherit when you questioned my legitimacy.”
Thomas stared down at the register. Just one book—no, just one page of one book. That was all that stood between him and everything that was familiar, everything he thought was true.
It was tempting. He could taste it in his mouth—desire, greed. Fear, too. A galling dose of it.
He could tear out that page and no one would be the wiser. The pages weren’t even numbered. If they removed it carefully enough, no one would realize it w
as gone.
Life would be normal. He would return to Belgrave precisely as he’d left, with all the same possessions, responsibilities, and commitments.
Including Amelia.
She should have been his duchess by now. He should never have dragged his feet.
If he tore out that page…
“Do you hear that?” Jack hissed.
Thomas perked up, his ear instinctively tilting toward the window.
Horses.
“They’re here,” Thomas said.