“A friend, a distant cousin, the Queen’s man come to check on the estate. I’m sure you can think of something.”

The carriage rolled to a stop. He opened the door and leaped out before a footman could see to the task. One had been riding atop with the driver. Another, liveried in purple, exited the residence at a fast but stately clip, followed by a fit, older bloke in black. The butler no doubt.

Reaching back, Aiden extended his hand to Selena, grateful when her fingers landed on his. She stepped down and straightened her shoulders.

“Your Grace, we weren’t expecting your return so soon,” the older chap said.

“It came about unexpectedly and is to be a short visit. Mr. Trewlove, here, is to assess the estate for the Crown. Have Cook prepare us a light luncheon, something simple. We’ll enjoy it on the terrace in an hour. Mr. Trewlove, if you’ll be so good as to follow me?”

She wasn’t happy with him, he heard it in the tone of her voice, but he didn’t care. His son would make memories here, and Aiden was likely to have no part in them. He needed to have an idea of everything those moments might encompass. Would his son swim in the pond, be chased by swans, look out over the parapets?

She marched toward the manor, and he followed, greedily taking in everything he could: the arched windows and doorway, the red roof, the tower in the corner that buttressed up against two wings of the building, seemingly joining them. The place was nearly medieval in design, but also showed signs of modernization. It had been well cared for, no doubt because, as he’d already learned, the duke had been a man of immense wealth, but he suspected a good bit of his assets had been tied up in the estate. It had to cost a fortune to keep it maintained. He was beginning to understand why she would risk so much to hold on to this. He imagined the hunting parties and the gatherings of nobility. Hell, royalty probably visited on occasion.

She crossed over the threshold, and immediately her footsteps echoed through the great chamber as her booted feet landed on marble. Tapestries hung from on high. At more reasonable heights were portraits of men, women, and children—sometimes alone, sometimes with others, sometimes with a horse or dog. All arrogant, all self-possessed, all understanding it was their right by birth to look down on others. A portrait of his son might possibly join these. Would people gaze at it and see an imposter? Would the lad instinctually feel out of place, sense he didn’t belong? Or would he embrace a heritage that was not rightfully his, carry on the sort of legacy that had been denied his true sire?