Page 77 of A Family Bargain with the Duke

Julian looked up. “What?”

“If you cannot say what you mean in a letter, don’t send her a letter full of things you do not mean.”

“I know.”

“Good. Now, let us go ruin our family’s reputation.”

Julian gave him a look.

Piers smiled. “There. You almost laughed.”

“I did not.”

“You did.”

“I assure you⁠—”

“Come along.” Piers gathered the papers. “Mr. Harding is waiting.”

* * *

Mr. Harding was already at his desk when they entered, a stack of papers squared before him with the particular precision of a man trying to look calmer than he felt.

Julian saw Thomas Whitmore first. The man was standing at the window, his back half-turned, one hand braced against the frame as though the daylight beyond it were the only thing in the room he trusted.

Julian stopped in the doorway. Behind him, he heard Piers stop as well.

Thomas turned. For a moment, neither man moved. Then Thomas straightened, and the stillness in him hardened into a formal look.

He bowed. “Your Grace.”

“Mr. Whitmore.” Julian inclined his head.

He hated how strange the exchange still felt after the last time they had spoken.

Piers moved past them to the desk, already reaching down to shift a chair into place and slinging his coat over a chair. “I assume everything is ready?”

“As ready as these things can be, My Lord.” Mr. Harding rose halfway, then seemed to think better of standing on ceremony and sat back down, drawing a single folded sheet from beneath the others. “I have made the alterations Your Grace requested.”

Julian crossed the room and took it. The paper was still warm from the desk, the ink barely dry at the last line. He did not look at Thomas as he read it, though he was aware that the man had turned fully from the window and was watching him do it.

“You are certain, Your Grace?” Thomas asked when Julian had finished.

“Yes.”

“You understand what this will mean for your family and your reputation?”

“Yes.” He said it plainly, without weight, because he had already carried the weight of it for three sleepless nights and had no wish to carry it again now in front of witnesses.

Thomas’s jaw worked. “I had not intended⁠—”

“You did not ask me to do this,” Julian cut him off with enough finality that Thomas clamped his mouth shut. “I chose it.”

Thomas looked down at his hands.

“You asked for your father’s name to be cleared,” Julian continued, quieter now. “That is what I intend to do.”

Something flickered across Thomas’s face—gratitude, maybe, or grief wearing gratitude’s shape. “My father would have been grateful.”