He closed his eyes, forcing himself to refocus on the matter at hand. He was the one who had told Amelia that she must marry the Duke of Wyndham, whoever that might turn out to be. He couldn’t bloody well complain because she followed his instructions.

Thomas put the parish register back on the shelf and pulled out another, checking the dates that led each entry. This one was a bit older than the first, concluding at the very end of the eighteenth century. He tried another, and then a fourth, and this time, when he looked down at the careful, elegant handwriting, he found the dates he was looking for.

He swallowed and looked at Jack. “This may be it.”

Jack turned. The corners of his mouth were pinched, and his eyes looked haunted.

Thomas looked down at the book and realized that his hands were trembling. He swallowed. He had made it through the day up to this point with surprising purpose. He’d been a perfect stoic, prepared to do what was right for Wyndham.

But now he was scared.

Still, he pulled from his reserves and managed an ironic smile. Because if he could not behave like a man, then what was left of him? At the end of the day, he had his dignity and his soul. That was all.

He looked up at Jack. Into his eyes. “Shall we?”

“You can do it,” Jack said.

“You don’t want to look with me?”

“I trust you.”

Thomas’s lips parted, not quite in surprise—because, really, why wouldn’t Jack trust him? It wasn’t as if he could alter the pages right there in front of him. But still, even if he was terrified by the outcome, wouldn’t he want to see? Wouldn’t he want to read the pages himself? Thomas could not imagine coming all this way and not looking down as each page was turned.

“No,” Thomas said. Why should he have to do this alone? “I won’t do it without you.”

For a moment Jack just stood there unmoving, and then, cursing under his breath, he went over to join him at the desk.

“You’re too bloody noble,” Jack bit off.

“Not for long,” Thomas muttered. He set the book on the desk, opening it to the first page of records. Jack stood beside him, and together they looked down at the tight, sensible penmanship of the Maguiresbridge vicar, circa 1786.

Thomas swallowed nervously. His throat felt tight. But he had to do this. It was his duty. To Wyndham.

Wasn’t that his entire life? Duty to Wyndham?

He almost laughed. If ever anyone had accused him of taking duty too far…

This had to be it.

Looking down, he turned the pages until he found the correct year. “Do you know what month your parents would have married in?” he asked Jack.

“No.”