The Walls of Ashworth Keep
The travel from The back garden of the townhouse, near the servants’ gate. to The medieval library of Ashworth Keep. consumed the next hour. Headlights cut cold through the gathering dusk.
The medieval library of Ashworth Keep smelled of dust and old leather, the air heavy with centuries of silence. Seraphina sat in a tufted armchair that had likely been placed there when Victoria was still on the throne, her hands wrapped around a teacup she hadn’t touched. Across from her, Dante stood with his back to the fire, the flames casting long shadows across his face as she finished speaking.
The clock on the mantel ticked. Five seconds passed. Ten.
“My father didn’t lose the business,” she said, her voice steady now, the worst of it already bled out onto the Persian rug between them. “Victor Whitmore engineered the collapse. He planted false ledgers, bribed the auditors, and when my father tried to contest it, Owen produced a witness who swore under oath that my father had been cooking the books for years.”
Dante’s hand moved to the mantel, fingers gripping the carved stone. “And you have proof of this.”
“I have the original ledgers. My father kept them hidden in a wall safe after he first suspected the irregularities. He never got the chance to use them.” She paused, the memory of the funeral still sharp. “I found them six months after he died. But by then, the Whitmores had already consolidated their position. No solicitor would touch the case. The Ashford name was mud.”
“They bankrupted your family to ensure you couldn’t pursue a claim to the dukedom.”
“They bankrupted us to ensure I couldn’t afford a barrister, couldn’t afford to travel, couldn’t afford to breathe without their permission.” She set the teacup down, the china clinking against the saucer. “And then Owen proposed marriage. A merger, he called it. He said it would restore my family’s honor. He meant it would give them legal control over any claim I might have through Oliver.”
Dante turned from the fire, his face unreadable in the dim light. “You refused him.”
“I ran. I changed my name, moved to the edge of the city, and worked as a seamstress for three years. I told myself that if I stayed small enough, quiet enough, they would forget I existed.”
“But they found you.”
“They found Oliver.” Her voice cracked on the name. “A year ago, a man came to my door. He said he was from the parish, checking on families with young children. He asked Oliver’s name, his age, his father’s name. I lied, told him my husband had died at sea. The man left, but I saw him again three days later, standing across the street, watching the house.”
Dante’s jaw was a hard line, but he didn’t speak. He walked to the window, his back to her, and stared out at the darkening grounds. The fire popped, a log shifting in the grate.
“I moved again that night,” she continued. “Four times in the last year. Each time, they found me within months. I don’t know how. I don’t know who’s feeding them information. But they always come.”
“They won’t come here.” His voice was flat, absolute. “Ashworth Keep has stood for six hundred years. It has walls three feet thick, a moat that can be flooded in under an hour, and a security chief who served twelve years in the Queen’s Own Rifles. Grant has already swept the perimeter. There are no spies within five miles.”
Seraphina wanted to believe him. She wanted to let the weight of his certainty carry her. But she had learned, in the long years of running, that safety was an illusion.
“What if they follow us here?”
“They won’t.” He turned to face her, and for the first time, she saw something beneath the cold exterior—a crack in the marble. “Because I won’t let them.”
—
The stables at Ashworth Keep were a cathedral of stone and hay, the light filtering through high windows in golden shafts. Oliver stood at the entrance, his eyes wide, his small hand gripping the doorframe.
“Is that a horse?” he whispered.
Dante followed his gaze. The chestnut mare stood in her stall, her breath misting in the cold air, her ears swiveling toward the sound of the boy’s voice.
“That is Lily,” Dante said. “She is seventeen years old, gentle as a lamb, and she has been waiting for someone to ride her for the better part of a year.”
Oliver looked up at him, suspicion and wonder warring on his face. “Can I touch her?”
“You can ride her, if you have the courage.”
The boy’s chin lifted. “I’m not afraid.”
Dante felt something twist in his chest. The child was so small, so fragile, his bones still soft, his voice still high. And yet he stood there, shoulders squared, refusing to show fear in front of a man he barely knew.
*He has her eyes,* Dante thought. *And her spine.*
He led Oliver into the stall, showing him how to let the horse smell his hand, how to stroke her neck with a gentle pressure, how to speak in a low, calm voice. The boy listened with an intensity that reminded Dante of himself at that age—hungry for knowledge, desperate for a father’s approval he had never received.
They saddled Lily together, Dante adjusting the girth, Oliver asking questions about every buckle and strap. By the time they led her into the training yard, the boy was talking freely, his earlier reticence forgotten.
“Did you learn to ride when you were my age?” Oliver asked.
“I learned when I was seven. My father put me on a horse and told me not to fall off.”
“Did you fall off?”
“Three times. The fourth time, I stayed on.”
Oliver grinned. “I’ll do it in two.”
Dante found himself smiling. It was a strange sensation, foreign and fragile. He hadn’t smiled in years, not truly, not in a way that reached his eyes. The last time, perhaps, had been at his mother’s funeral, when the priest had tripped over his robes and the entire congregation had gasped.
He lifted Oliver onto the saddle, showed him how to hold the reins, how to sit with his weight balanced. The boy’s legs barely reached the stirrups, but he gripped the pommel with both hands, his face set in determination.
“She responds to pressure,” Dante said. “Squeeze gently with your calves to move forward. Pull back lightly to stop. Lean into the turn. She will follow your body.”
Oliver squeezed. Lily walked forward, her hooves crunching on the gravel. The boy’s face lit up like sunrise.
“I’m doing it!”
“You are.” Dante walked beside them, one hand resting on the horse’s shoulder. “Now try a turn. Left, toward the gate.”
Oliver leaned. Lily turned. The boy laughed, a pure, unguarded sound that echoed off the stone walls.
From the doorway of the stable, Seraphina watched. She had come to check on them, to see if Oliver was safe, if Dante could be trusted. She hadn’t expected to see her son’s face transformed by joy, to see the cold duke walking beside him with a patience that seemed impossible in a man of his reputation.
She stayed in the shadows, watching, and felt something shift in her chest.
—
That evening, after the servants had cleared the dinner dishes and Oliver had been put to bed in a room larger than their entire London flat, Dante found her in the library.
She was standing at the window, looking out at the moonlit grounds. The keep was silent, the fires banked, the household settled for the night.
“He asked if you would teach him again tomorrow,” she said without turning.
Dante stopped in the doorway. “And what did you tell him?”
“I told him that depended on whether you had time for a boy who has never had a father.”
The words hung in the air, sharp and honest. Dante walked to the fireplace, picking up the poker and stirring the embers.
“I have time,” he said. “I have nothing but time.”
She turned to face him. “You have a dukedom to run. An estate to manage. A war to fight with the Whitmores.”
“All of that can wait.” He set the poker down, his hands resting on the mantel. “The boy is my son. He has been without a father for eight years. He will not be without one for another day.”
Seraphina’s breath caught. She hadn’t expected the words, hadn’t expected the weight they carried.
“You don’t have to do this,” she said. “You don’t have to be his father just because of blood. You can provide for him, ensure his future, and still keep your distance. It might be easier.”
“Easier for whom?”
“For you. For me. For him.” She shook her head. “I know what this life is like. I grew up in it. The expectations, the obligations, the constant scrutiny. Oliver is not prepared for that. I am not prepared for that.”
“Then we will prepare him.” Dante stepped closer, his voice low, intense. “I lost my parents when I was twelve years old. I was raised by tutors and solicitors and servants who were paid to care for me. I know what it is to grow up without a family, to feel like an heir to a title but a stranger to love.” He stopped, his eyes meeting hers. “I will not let that happen to Oliver.”
Seraphina felt tears prick at her eyes. She blinked them back, refusing to let them fall.
“You barely know him.”
“I know he is brave. I know he is curious. I know he loves his mother more than anything in the world.” Dante’s voice softened. “And I know that you have given up everything to protect him. That is not the act of a woman who is trying to trap a duke into a false paternity claim. That is the act of a mother who would burn the world to keep her child safe.”
She looked away, her hands trembling. “I didn’t tell you because I wanted your pity.”
“I know.”
“I told you because I was tired. So tired of carrying it alone.”
“You don’t have to carry it alone anymore.”
He moved to the sideboard, pouring two glasses of whiskey. He handed one to her, and she took it, their fingers brushing.
“I owe you an apology,” he said.
“For what?”
“For the background check. For the suspicion. For treating you like a gold digger when you were running for your life.” He raised his glass. “I am a fool who forgot how to trust. I have spent so long building walls against the world that I forgot how to let anyone through.”
Seraphina took a sip of the whiskey, the burn grounding her. “I understand why you did it. Your position, your history. I would have done the same in your place.”
“That doesn’t make it right.” He set his glass down, his eyes meeting hers. “I don’t know if I can be the father Oliver needs. I don’t know if I can be the man you deserve. But I can promise you this: I will try. Every day, I will try.”
She looked at him, at the hard lines of his face softened by the firelight, at the vulnerability he was showing her, a man who had probably never shown it to anyone.
“That is all I can ask,” she said.
They stood in silence, the weight of the day settling around them. Outside, the wind howled across the moors, rattling the windows. But inside, for the first time in years, Seraphina felt something she had almost forgotten.
She felt safe.
—
The telegraph machine in the back room of the Rusty Nail clattered to life, its brass fittings gleaming in the lamplight. Owen Whitmore stood over it, his hands steady, his expression cold.
The operator, a nervous man with a thin mustache, waited for the signal to clear.
Owen dictated the message, his voice low and precise, each word measured for maximum impact.
*“The boy is the weakness. Find his school. Isolate the mother.”*