Page 73 of The Wolf of Mayfair
Wingrave turned the stack over in his hands. Something in reading through his mother’s personal notes about him added a level of wrongness to his futile hunt.
He made to return the one with explicit mention of him and then stopped.
Why shouldn’t he be knowledgeable of whatever business his mother discussed about him? Frowning, he tugged an end of the intertwined blue and white ribbons. They fluttered to the immaculate surface of her desk.
Setting aside the rectangular scrap of paper bearing his Christian name, Wingrave reached for the top note addressed to him.
He skimmed his gaze over the handful of sentences written in the duchess’s elegant scrawl.
My dear boy,
If you are reading this, I trust I’m no longer of this world. I also expect your father will not bother examining the contents of my desk. As such I also expect you and your sister, Angela, are the first to come across these letters.
I wish to begin by saying the duke has certainly not been the warmest, most amiable, or involved father.
Wingrave snorted. A greater understatement had never been put to page.
I oft said the duke loved you as he was able—even if at times, it may have not seemed to be the case.
A bark of laughter burst from Wingrave, and he gave his head a wry shake. Now this wastoomuch.
He discovered himself capable of another emotion—pity. This time, that sentiment was directed at his mother. The duke had been born of stone, with a heart of steel and soul of ice that couldn’t have thawed under the hottest summer sun.
He went back to reading.
The fault lay not with your father, but rather the generations of expectations borne by the Talberts before him.
Wingrave gave his head a shake and tossed aside the letter, not needing to read another bit of this postlife drivel where his mother, who’d been absent in his adult years, attempted to play peacemaker between the husband and children she’d left behind.
Frustration surged through him, a restiveness that left his muscles twitching. This was what his search of Helia Wallace had yielded. Absolutely nothing other than the duchess’s hopeful wishes for the duke and the children he viewed as helpful chess pieces upon the board of His Grace’s existence.
He stilled. That was how itshouldbe. Wingrave frowned. He himself understood the expectations which went with the Talbert title, and he took pleasure in fulfilling his role—though not for his sire. God rot the old bastard’s festering soul.
No, because in Wingrave’s adhering to that order, a ruthless impassivity took puling emotions out of the proverbial equation. That detachedness was what had compelled him to track down his betrothed after she’d gone gallivanting about England with another man. An adherence to duty and title was what kept life ordered and clear.
His frown deepened. He’d gotten away from those tenets which had guided him in his adult years.
Having allowed Helia Mairi Wallace, a captivating stranger, into his household, Wingrave had reverted to the pathetic child he’d once been.
He’d not make that mistake again.
With that renewed resolve, he made a swipe for the pile. In his haste, Wingrave knocked the stack over the side of the desk. Faded ivory, white, and yellowed letters rained down upon the floor.
Cursing, he stood, dropped to his haunches, and proceeded to gather up his mother’s belongings.
Once he’d them all tidied and stacked, Wingrave made to rise, and then stopped.
From the corner of his eye, he caught a small, lone scrap—another rectangular label. This one did not contain his or Angela’s name, but rather, an unfamiliar one: Mairi.
Haltingly, Wingrave looked at the pile of his mother’s correspondences, and he came slowly to his feet.
He sifted through the envelopes. Each bore his mother’s name.
Who was Mairi? And why had his mother kept those letters?
Scrunching his brow, Wingrave set the bundle back on the desk, and reached for one.
He unfolded it and skimmed the words written there.
