Jack took the offered envelope.

“Mr. Beckwith, out of curiosity, I would very much like to know who Lovingdon named in the second will,” Olivia said.

For the first time, Beckwith seemed uncomfortable. “I fear there was no second will. The duke insisted I say one existed. Perhaps he knew his son better than one might think.”

“He went to a lot of trouble for something that might have never come to pass,” Jack growled, not at all surprised by the anger he heard seething in his voice. The icy shock of what he’d just learned was beginning to thaw and in its place was a savage fury.

“He knew it would come to pass, sooner than he wished,” Beckwith said solemnly. “The duke was dying—a cancer for which there was no hope of a cure. If you will not think me callous, the fall gave him a quick death, which quite honestly, I think he preferred. At least he maintained a bit of dignity that his illness was certain to have stripped from him.”

“He never said anything,” Olivia murmured, and Jack heard the regret in her voice that Lovingdon had chosen to endure his pain alone.

“He didn’t wish to trouble you,” Beckwith responded.

“But I was his wife.”

“I truly believe he meant to spare you of any worry. As he told me on numerous occasions, he was quite fond of you.”

But fondness was not love. Silence permeated the air. Jack could only imagine what Olivia was feeling. His rage at Lovingdon was increasing with each tick of the timepiece. Lovingdon had not appreciated what he’d possessed. Jack reached out and squeezed her hand, hoping she understood with that simple touch that their marriage would hold no secrets, that every aspect of their lives would be shared.

“If you have no further need of me, I bid you both good day.” With a quick bow, Beckwith took his leave.

The silence did not dissipate. If anything it grew heavier, thicker. Finally Olivia turned her palm over and threaded her fingers through Jack’s. “I feel as though I’ve been hit by a carriage. I can hardly imagine what you must be feeling. You had no idea he was your father?” she asked quietly.

“No.” He roamed his gaze over her beloved face, certain he knew the answer before he asked. “Did you?”

She slowly shook her head. “I hadn’t a clue. I was married to him for six years and I knew him not at all. I want to be angry and lash out at him for not telling me all this. He was dying and I had no idea. But that was so typical of our relationship. He never truly shared anything with me. I may as well have been a broodmare.”

“Don’t say that, Livy. The man was a fool not to have recognized what he had in you.”

She smiled softly. “Here you are comforting me when you must be more than devastated by this news.” She indicated the envelope. “Are you going to read it?”

He swallowed hard and nodded. “But not here. I need to be alone. I will share it later—”

Reaching out, she cradled his cheek, touched her thumb to his lips. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me, Jack Dodger.”

He stood, bent down, and kissed the top of her head. “I love you, Livy,” he whispered.

He strode from the library, down the hallway, to the door that led outside. He enjoyed the gardens because he always felt closest to his mother there. He made his way to the bench nestled among the roses and sat. Very slowly, he opened the envelope and removed the letter.

My dear son,

I always had grand expectations where you were concerned. The fact that you are now reading this letter is proof I judged your character correctly.

You took after your mother in that regard. She possessed all the fine attributes I lacked. Your sweet mother was a servant in this household when I fell in love with her. She was only fifteen when she discovered she was with child, my child. While I was seventeen, young and foolish. And weak, so incredibly weak. I did not have the courage to go against my parents’ wishes, and perhaps far more unforgivable, I did not have the courage to stand beside my precious Emily as she faced society’s censure with her head held high in order to bring you into the world. To protect my name, she never told anyone who fathered her child. Such was her admirable strength. She was turned out of the household, to make her way as best she could—and I did nothing to stop the injustice of it all.

The day I met you at Claybourne’s I could hardly believe my fortune, that fate had brought you back to me. I was older then, wiser. I couldn’t let such an opportunity pass. From afar, I watched your impatience with Claybourne’s teachings, and I knew you would not remain with him for long, that you were far too independent and would quickly strike out on your own, and so I became your anonymous benefactor—anonymous because I still lacked the courage to face you and the sins of my past.

It was my greatest desire to embrace you as my son. On a few occasions I went to your club with that purpose in mind. But in the end, fearing the deserved disgust for my abhorrent behavior that I might see reflected in your eyes, I remained true to my character, I remained a coward.

I have no doubt that under your guardianship my second son will learn to harbor the strength his father lacked.

I do not expect you to think well of me. I do not expect you to think of me at all, but should I pass through your mind from time to time, I hope it is with the realization that I lived my life with nothing except regret—and perhaps that was punishment enough. It is my fervent hope, that God, in his infinite mercy, will grant me in death what my cowardice denied me in life: a place at your mother’s side. It is not what I deserve, but then that is the beauty of mercy. It allows even the worst of sinners to be forgiven.