“I presume your daughter Lady Della is why you have asked for my presence?” Might as well go right to the heart of the matter.

The duke shifted, and his lips thinned. “Yes. Della. We—that is, my wife and I—saw her a few evenings ago. You and she are betrothed?”

“Yes.”

“And I understand you are the heir to the Duke of Northam? I do not know the gentleman myself, but I believe him to be ill?”

Griffith’s chest tightened. “Yes.” He spoke in a curt tone.

“So you are the proper person to deal with this letter I have just received.” The duke opened his top right-hand drawer and withdrew a piece of paper, which he slid across the desk to Griffith.

Your Grace,

I am in London, and am hopeful of reuniting with your daughter Della. She and I have a child together, and I cannot shirk my responsibilities as a father any longer.

Unless you wish to protect Della and her daughter and provide me with funds.

I am staying at the Bear’s Arms waiting your reply. If I do not hear from you by the end of this week, I will assume you welcome my return to your daughter’s family.

Sincerely,

Mr. George Baxter

Griffith read the letter, then read it again, feeling the ire well up inside him. How dare he? How dare he casually mention returning to Nora’s life, to Della’s life, as though they would want him back? But that he was willing to forego being a responsible parent if the duke paid him enough?

Wait.

“You haven’t paid him,” Griffith said, placing the letter back on the desk.

The duke shook his head. “No. I wish we could, but when she left, my daughter made her own decision. I will not be responsible for any situation that might arise because of that decision.”

Griffith felt his eyes widen. The man was ruthless. Although not so ruthless he didn’t go to someone else—namely Griffith—for help dealing with this “situation.”

“Is that why you asked me to come? To resolve this ‘situation’?”

The duke inclined his head.

“Because you refuse to?”

Another nod. This one more pronounced.

How had Della—his bright, vibrant, passionate Della—grown up in this household with this father? How strong must she be not to have let his implacable dukeness infect her?

Or had it, and her fiery reaction to any attempt to control her had come from growing up with this man?

No wonder she was so determined to control her own life.

Griffith snatched the letter from the desk, crumpled it in his fist and shoved it in his pocket.

“I’ll deal with it,” he said grimly.

The duke gave a brief nod, then picked up a bell and rang it. The door opened immediately, and the butler stepped inside.

“Lord Stanbury is on his way out,” the duke said.