Chapter 44
The confrontation concluded with Zachary vowing to stay out of Whitmore Holdings’ affairs.
After Evelyn and Alistair departed, Archibald surveyed the wreckage of his study with simmering fury. “Disgraceful! Every man in this family falls prey to those cunning Whitmore women!”
Kneeling to gather scattered items, Zachary’s mind raced. Could someone have impersonated Nathan at the meeting in Valmont?
Yet he knew his father wasn’t mistaken. They’d clashed twice in public—Archibald’s sharp mind wouldn’t falter unless age had dulled his senses.
A folded hand fan caught his eye. “Grandfather, is this yours?”
Archibald exhaled sharply. “Look at me—losing my composure over trifles. Hand it here.” His stern features softened as he traced the delicate bamboo slats. “Evelyn crafted this herself. The peony motif, the ink strokes… all her handiwork.”
Evelyn practiced calligraphy? And painting?
Zachary froze. The docile wife he’d known was disciplined to the point of tedium—nothing like Vanessa, whose piano sonatas and ballet recitals had dazzled society. Evelyn’s virtues had been quiet obedience and a pretty face; she’d blended into the household like another piece of furniture.
So why did she now shine with the brilliance of a liberated star? Confidence radiated from her, and hidden talents surfaced one after another, each revelation a fresh blow.
Had she reserved her true self for Nathan? Was their marriage merely duty, while her heart belonged to another?
“Evelyn visited weekly,” Archibald continued, fanning himself absently. “Sometimes we’d stroll through the gardens. Other afternoons, she’d sit in my study—reading, writing. Never complained.” He tapped the fan’s edge. “Ten years’ practice shows in her brushwork. That elegance? Breeding. Unlike that Delacroix girl with her gaudy theatrics.”
The fan unfolded to reveal an inscription in fluid script: “Were youth eternal, I’d build mountains from moments.”
Zachary’s breath hitched. The style matched exactly the framed calligraphy in Evelyn Sinclair’s office—the piece she’d intended to gift him.
Fragments connected: Evelyn’s presence at the Whitmore Grand Hotel, faint footsteps outside Evelyn Sinclair’s door that day…
No. Impossible. Evelyn was guileless, while Evelyn Sinclair was a strategist who played corporate chess. They couldn’t—
At Crestwood Manor, Nathan Whitmore adjusted his cufflinks as he joined his family’s late supper.
“Uncharacteristically ruthless of you, sabotaging Blackwood’s Verona deal,” remarked Reginald, swirling his Bordeaux. “I thought you preferred turning the other cheek?”
Nathan’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Peace is a mirage, Father. One strong wind, and it vanishes.” He sipped mineral water with priestly restraint.
Reginald chuckled. This wasn’t business—it was retribution for Cassandra’s humiliation.
“Good,” he declared, clapping Nathan’s shoulder. “The Blackwoods owe us blood debt. Alistair’s grandfather ruined our family’s reputation. Justice delayed isn’t justice denied.”
+15 BONOS
Nathan’s gaze drifted to the moonlit gardens where Evelyn once sketched peonies. Some storms, he reflected, required more than prayer to weather.
