Page 72 of The Wolf of Mayfair
Clasping it quick, he let himself inside. The hinges, as well oiled as they’d always been, allowed him a noiseless entry.
He did a sweep of this space he passed often but never entered.
That wasn’t true.
A lifetime ago, back when he’d been invisible and useless to the duke, as a younger son and spare to the heir, then as a half-deaf son, Wingrave had visited these rooms and often.
Stepping inside was like stepping back in time. His mother’s office remained unchanged.
Unlike the dark, somber selection of wallpapering, curtains, and furnishings which adorned the duke’s offices, the duchess’s door opened to reveal a summery, fairy-tale setting. A pale-pink-and-white floral Louis XV gilt, upholstered sofa set formed a semicircle near the white stone fireplace, adorned in rose and peony carvings which carried the theme of that flower from the entrance and into the whole of the duchess’s office.
The white Italian lace curtains were drawn back to allow the vibrant afternoon light to stream through.
The sun, which continued to wrestle for a place in the stubbornly grey sky that day, chose this very moment to peek out from behind the clouds.
Long, dazzling rays brought a brightness shining down upon the gleaming mahogany desk near the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the gardens below.
In his mind’s eye, he saw a younger version of the duchess and himself.
Back then, though, when he’d been a small boy, he’d only ever beenAnthony.
His mother would pull up a special chair she’d kept just for him and drag it over so he could join her. Wingrave had attended his pretend work, while she’d attended her business.
He’d sat alongside her, drafting made-up battle plans for his future as a commissioned soldier in the King’s Army. Both that dream and expectation had died the day Wingrave’s hearing in his left ear was lost.
He’d still continued to visit his mother here, but he’d stopped with the imagined work he’d eventually do as a soldier and instead sat next to her and scrawled various verses, sentences, and pictures.
The thing of it was that not once in all those years had Wingrave given thought to what kept his mother busy here.
It wasn’t until he had landed the unwanted role of ducal heir and been forced to spend time with the ruthless, heartless, menacing figure who’d sired him that he understood the duchess came here to escape her domineering husband.
At once, he contemplated whether she’d done more here, away from the duke’s unforgiving eye.
Compelled forward, Wingrave’s gaze remained locked on that desk across the room.
He reached the white-painted, rotating, rattan desk chair and stopped in his tracks.
The matching seat of smaller proportions she’d had commissioned remained tucked in the corner, as it had always been when Wingrave was a boy.
How ... peculiar. She’d kept that unnecessary furnishing designed with a child’s measurements in mind. She’d not only held on to the chair, but it occupied the precise spot it had always occupied.
Some strange feeling came over him, a queerness that suffused his chest.
Taking in a shaky breath, he swiftly averted his gaze, returning it to the duchess’s workplace.
This won’t take long.
He seated himself and then got on with examining the contents of his mother’s desk. Wingrave started at the center drawer and moved around methodically.
He’d always taken the duke as meticulous and tidy in the organization of his records and business. The duchess, however, took that skill to an even more impressive level. Not only were her stacks of notes and correspondences, receipts of transactions, and charity work neatlyorganized, they’d also been each tied with ribbons of differing colors and properly labeled.
As such, Wingrave flew through his search, and then stopped.
He stared at a small pile of letters aged yellow with time. The top identifying label contained but two names—Angelaand ...Anthony.
Not Wingrave, as she now only ever referred to him as.
But Anthony, his Christian name that only Helia insisted on using.
