The hallway leading to the master suite was very quiet. The door was pushed open just a few inches. Carcel reached out and pushed it open fully, stepping inside without making a sound.
The room was warm, lit by the soft orange glow of the fireplace.
He saw Delaney sitting by his bed.
She was sitting in a wooden chair pulled very close to the mattress. She was wearing a simple, pale blue dress. Her dark hair was loose, falling softly over her shoulders. She was holding Rowan’s hand between both of hers, resting it gently against her cheek. She was staring at Rowan’s sleeping face with a soft expression.
Carcel paused near the door. He felt a deep sense of respect for the young woman. She had survived a terrible crash, yet she was not resting. She was openly caring for the man she loved.
Carcel cleared his throat softly to announce his presence.
"Miss Kingsley," he said, keeping his voice low so he would not startle her.
Delaney looked up quickly. When she saw the Duke of Carleton standing near the door, she imdiately lowered Rowan’s hand back to the white sheets. She stood up from her chair and smoothed the front of her skirt.
Delaney greeted him politely, bowing her head. "Your Grace."
Carcel walked further into the room. He saw a small, velvet armchair resting near the fireplace. He moved it closer to the bed and sat down.
He looked at Rowan. The white bandage around Rowan’s head was clean, but the Duke was still very pale. Carcel’s jaw tightened briefly at the sight of his strong friend looking so vulnerable, but he trusted the doctor’s work.
Delaney saw Carcel looking at Rowan’s bandages. She wanted to reassure him.
She replied with a soft, genuine smile. She reached out and gently adjusted the blanket over Rowan’s chest, caring for him openly without any sha or hesitation.
"He will wake up soon," Delaney said softly. Her hazel eyes shone with quiet hope. "The doctor confird it this morning. His breathing is strong, and his fever has broken."
Carcel looked away from Rowan and looked at Delaney. He saw the sheer devotion in her eyes.
Carcel replied, "That’s good to hear. We need him awake and angry."
He rested his hands on his knees. The gentle, brotherly tone left his voice, replaced by the sharp, focused tone of a man ready to fight a legal war.
"Miss Kingsley," Carcel said.
Delaney turned her full attention to him. She clasped her hands together in front of her waist. "Yes, Your Grace?"
He looked at her directly. He did not want to soften the news. He wanted her to understand exactly what had been stolen from her.
"Are you aware your father wrote a will and made you his primary heir over his estates?"
Carcel asked.
The room went completely, utterly silent. The only sound was the soft crackling of the logs in the fireplace.
Delaney stared at Carcel. Her hazel eyes widened slowly. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound ca out. She blinked, shaking her head slightly, entirely certain she had misunderstood his words.
"I..." Delaney started, her voice a breathless whisper. She stopped and tried again. "I beg your pardon?"
Carcel leaned forward in his chair. He kept his dark eyes fixed on her face.
"Your father, Baron Arthur Kingsley," Carcel explained slowly and clearly, "drafted a legal will two weeks before the carriage accident. Vance and I found the original docunt hidden deep in the archives of a retired London solicitor."
Delaney’s hands began to tremble. She gripped the back of her wooden chair to steady herself.
"But that is impossible," Delaney said, her voice shaking with disbelief. She looked down at the floor, her mind racing back to the terrible days following her parents’ death. "My uncle Cole told the magistrate that my father died without a will. Because I am a woman, the title and the entire estate automatically passed to my uncle as the closest male relative. He took the house. He took the money. He left with nothing but the debts."
"Your uncle lied," Carcel stated bluntly.
The three words hit Delaney like a physical blow to the chest.
Carcel reached into the inside pocket of his coat. He pulled out a folded piece of thick, yellowed parchnt. It was covered in official red seals and elegant, faded handwriting. He held it out toward her.
"In polite society, an estate usually goes to the closest male heir," Carcel explained, his voice calm and steady. "But an estate can be willed to a daughter if the father explicitly writes it into law and pays the Crown’s fee. Your father paid that fee. He made sure that if anything happened to him, you would inherit the Kingsley wealth, the country ho, and the remaining business investnts."
Delaney slowly reached out. Her fingers brushed against the rough, old paper. She recognized the elegant, sweeping signature at the very bottom of the page. It was her father’s handwriting.
Tears instantly blurred her vision. Her father had loved her. He had tried to protect her future.
"My uncle..." Delaney whispered, staring blindly at the paper.
"Your uncle found the copy of the will in your father’s desk after the accident," Carcel said, his tone filled with disgust. "He destroyed it. He paid the local magistrate to look the other way, and he claid the entire fortune for himself. He stole your birthright, Miss Kingsley. And then, when he squandered most of it away, he sold you to Lord Hawksley to cover his own mistakes."
Delaney’s knees suddenly felt very weak. She slowly sank back down into her wooden chair. She placed the folded will on her lap and stared at it.
For three years, she had lived with the crushing sha of being a burden. Her uncle and aunt had treated her like dirt beneath their shoes. They had fed her scraps, dressed her in old clothes, and told her every single day that she was a useless orphan draining their charity. She had run away to escape being sold to a monster, believing she had absolutely nothing to her na.
And all this ti, the food they ate, the house they lived in, and the clothes they wore had actually belonged to her.
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