Chapter Thirteen

The Ghost House Guest

Theodosia paced outside of the bedchamber she’d had Pickens and Lord Hartwell put Ewan. Navigating the few chairs she had brought to sit on the deep burgundy carpet, she kept remembering the screaming, the impact of the cart, falling to her knees upon Philip’s and Ewan’s still bodies.

Everything inside her was torn up and grieving. She had almost lost her son today. Philip couldn’t hear anyone’s warning. And Ewan had risked everything to save Philip, and now he could die. He could be dead and not even know he’d saved his own son.

She stopped a few times and touched the door. It felt like six years ago as she’d waited for a shop owner to read the letter the earl had tossed in her face. The man had only gotten out the words “killed in battle” before the weight of losing Ewan had collapsed upon Theodosia. All her dreams had died, a day or two after she had discovered she carried his babe.

But now, Ewan wasn’t far away.

Frederica came up the stairs. In her hand was a tea cup. She held it out. “Here, drink this and then go sit. You’re pacing so much you’ll wear your slippers clean through to the soles.”

Pulling up her hem to make sure she hadn’t already done so, Theodosia lowered her head. “I’ve been barefoot before. It doesn’t matter. Why must women be stuck outside, waiting? Shouldn’t I be with him? Or maybe I should go hug Philip again?”

Ester came from her son’s bedchamber. When she closed his door, the lights of the hall sconces danced. It was a hopeful sparkle, something Theodosia needed to keep her fears away. “Is my son awake? Does he need another hug?”

“Hugging Philip is always a good idea,” Ester said, “but you’ve done that twice already. He’s sleeping soundly. The jerking him out of the way and crashing to the ground, made him ache.”

“But he didn’t get an earache. And that jerking around had to be done. Mr. Fitzwilliam was the only one to risk his life for my son.”

Dearest Ester came closer, stepping around Frederica. Her sprig muslin skirt held grass stains, as she had been the first to reach the accident. She took Theodosia’s palms. “He’s not some strange cousin, is he? I saw the look in your eyes when he came to the theater. It’s worse now. How long has something been going on between you.”

“Six years. I knew him six years ago.”

Frederica put her palms over Ester’s ears. “Does she need to know it was in a biblical sense?”

Ester swatted them away. “I heard, and I’ve read all the passages of Solomon and even romance novels. You don’t have to—”

“Stop, you two.” Theodosia wrapped her arms about herself, trying hard not to shake to bits beneath her shawl. “Yes. I knew him in every sense of the word. We were going to elope when his father convinced him to go to war. A report came back saying he’d died in the field.”

A puzzled look crossed Ester’s brows. “Six years ago. But you were Cecil’s mistress then, right?”

Yes and no and yes. None of it mattered. She turned again and touched the door. “It’s too quiet. He can’t be dying in there, not knowing.”

Ester stepped to her. Candlelight shone in her eyes, as bright as her joy in finding solutions. “Not knowing what? That you’re still in love with him?”

Bowing her forehead against the wall, Theo resigned herself. The truth burned in her throat. It needed to be freed. She’d said it to Frederica. She could to Ester, too. With a forced swallow, she nodded. “Something worse than that, but how do I tell him with the doctor, Lester, and Lord Hartwell, who is the heir Crisdon, keeping me away?”

Frederica came to her side. She clasped Theodosia’s arm and forced her to turn the knob. “You go in and tell him. Make everyone leave, then tell him. You’re not a waif or a servant but the owner of Tradenwood. Lift your head and say your truth. A man needs to know. He needs an opportunity to claim what is his, to take responsibility, even for a few seconds, of what is his.”

Knowing Frederica’s pain with her father, she knew her friend was right. Nodding, she opened the door. “Please don’t leave, stay here to help me put the pieces back together.”

Ester put her palms on Theodosia’s shoulders. “Of course, we will. And Frederica is correct. You are Mrs. Theodosia Cecil, a free woman equal to any in your domain. This isn’t the public or a private box where we must hide. Go see about your guest. You are strong enough not to crumble, and smart enough to fix things, if you break.”

She gave Theodosia a push inside and closed the door.

The doctor, Pickens, and Ewan’s brother looked up at her then returned to gazing toward the bed. Lester paced in the corner. He didn’t glance her way at all.

The scent of sickness, tangy, and singeing mustard filled the room. The familiar perfume of laudanum hit next, as the doctor’s fanning wafted it to her. She hated these smells—they always foretold pain and death.

Feet feeling like cold bricks, she forced them forward. “Gentleman, I must know how my cousin is doing. I owe him a great deal. He saved…my son.”

The doctor harrumphed. “Couple of broken ribs. He’s not breathing well. Can’t tell if a lung is punctured. So much scar tissue.”

She came closer and saw the valley and plains of the jagged lines upon Ewan’s chest. They’d meshed about his heart and ran down half his stomach. Could they have been like iron to protect from the hit of the cart? Could they now keep him bound on this side, away from the hungry shadows of death?

She wanted her ghost to live. Ewan must. He had to recover. She stuffed her hands in her pockets to keep the trembling fear from showing. “Has he awakened at all?”

“He has, ma’am,” Pickens said, as he shuffled to her side. The wrinkles of his face folded into deeper lines, thick like the night Mathew had died.

Pickens brushed her arm. “The doctor has given him a great deal of laudanum for pain. He’ll have to be a guest for the next few days. Mr. Lester objects.”

She felt her head nodding yes before any words could come out. “Of course, he will stay. Lord Hartwell and your daughter, too. You’re welcome here.”

Lester surged from the corner, almost running into Pickens. “No. None of the Fitzwilliams can be here.”

He whipped past Theodosia and stood, feet apart from Ewan’s brother. “Take him up the hill.”

The fool looked ready to fight. In her house? In front of Ewan and his brother. The viscount said nothing, only stared ahead.

Her butler straightened his silver-colored livery and moved to the doctor on the other side of the room. “Sir, he’ll need to be a guest. He’s very ill. Repeat your prognosis, sir. Mr. Lester may not have heard.”

The doctor moaned again as he wrenched at his back. He sat back on the chair pulled close to the bed. “This man is not going anywhere, if you want him to live.”

Visibly wincing, Lord Hartwell came from the footboard of the bed. His face seemed blank and he seemed a little lost. “My brother is horribly injured, Lester. Surely, even you can see that moving him would have dire results. Business is business. This is different.”

Wanting to offer a hug to reassure Lord Hartwell, Theodosia raised her hand to him, but then lowered it as she approached. He was in a bad way and having her comfort, a Blackamoor’s palm on a peer, couldn’t be done, even if she offered humanity.

She looked down at her slippers, dusty cream kid leather with green stains, like the ones on her skirts from falling on her knees atop Ewan and Philip after the crash. Courage and fear, both demanded sacrifice. She chose courage and took a step toward him. “Mr. Lester has forgotten this is my house. My house. Mr. Fitzwilliam shall stay, if Lord Hartwell agrees.”

Ewan’s brother lifted his chin. His light blue eyes widened as he ran a hand through his rumpled blond locks. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“No,” Lester said. “Mrs. Cecil is not thinking clearly.” He approached and manhandled the bedpost in his sweaty palms. “Nearly seeing your son hurt has addled you. You’re vulnerable. Philip doesn’t need to see you like this, so out of control.”

The only one who sounded hysterical was Lester, but there was no telling that man anything. And his voice. So harsh, it sent her brainbox spinning with fire, but she held her anger. She needed him to comply. “Lester, I appreciate the concern,” she said, then swallowed gall. “You can stay, too. If you are so fretful.”

“You know I leave for Holland tomorrow. I thought you and the boy would come with me. It would be good for Philip. Maybe he should come with me, since you will be busy with guests.”

How dare he try to manipulate her when a man’s life was at stake? She stopped twiddling her finger and made sure that her bottom lip was bite-free. “No. My son will stay. If not for Mr. Ewan Fitzwilliam, my Philip would have been killed. And you know what dear Cecil said about hospitality. When I hungered, you fed me, when I thirsted, you gave me drink, and when I looked strange, you took me in. There is no more need to discuss this. Fitzwilliam shall stay until he is able to leave on his own two feet.”

She turned again to the silent viscount. “I have more than enough room. Your daughter is now in the nursery.”

Lester spun her by the shoulder as if she would change her mind, but she wasn’t a spinning top searching for direction. “They are our enemies, Theodosia. Lord Crisdon wouldn’t do the same for you.”

No, Lord Crisdon wouldn’t. He’d shun her, like he had in the past, but she wasn’t that evil man. “I have been blessed by unexpected favor. How could I ever be sucked into pettiness with my Philip still alive?” Knocking his hands away, she sidestepped out of Lester’s reach. “Mr. Fitzwilliam is not the enemy, Lester. He’s Cecil’s cousin. Surely, my boy’s guardian can see that? Today, we are indebted to the Fitzwilliams.”

Lord Hartwell moved near, towering over Lester. “Bear this intrusion for now. We can go back to being enemies, fighting over water rights, after my brother recovers.”

Lester’s eyes grew big, and he looked like a cornered rat. With a shaky palm smoothing his wilting cravat, he swung his head toward the bed, then turned his glare her direction. “You have too many guests. I’ll take Philip with me until this all settles down. He can go with me to Holland. Then you can join us.”

“No.” She stuck her hand against her bosom to keep her heart from bursting. “Don’t take him. He was almost killed. I need him here.”

Lord Hartwell put his hand on Theodosia’s shoulder. The touch was light, comforting, everything she had wanted to do earlier but had been afraid of insulting him. “Leave the boy, Lester. My brother’s been moaning for him. He’ll need to see him safe and well when he awakens. I’m sure that viewing his little Cecil cousin will make him heal faster.”

“This is none of your business, Lord Hartwell. You rule up the hill, not down here.”

The large man started to laugh and slipped into the space between them, forcing her nemesis to move backward, one step closer to the door. “Lester, you don’t look the wet-nurse type. The young boy should stay with his mother, if you want the Fitzwilliams gone sooner. Unless you enjoy seeing Mrs. Cecil in distress.”

Lester rubbed his chin, as if he hadn’t thought any Fitzwilliams would come to her or Philip’s defense. “Fine. I shall stay, too. I’ll delay the trip.”

“Stay tonight, if you must, Lester, but this trip has to go as planned. Holland is business. The first time I trust you to gain new advances for Cecil’s fields, you disappoint me.” She stared him dead in the eyes. “You know how much it cost to arrange: ten guineas for passage, eight pounds for a new suit for you to represent the business at your best, and now you will not go? I thought that you wanted the business to dominate. I thought I could trust you. You’re costing me money.”

His eyes darted as if she’d frightened him. “You are a mercenary when it comes to figures.”

The man’s greed and the need to one-up all the other growers was something Theodosia had counted on, plotted for. This trip would take exactly five weeks, long enough for banns to be read or an elopement to be done with a newspaper groom before his return. Well, that had been the plan, but now she just wanted him gone. She put a fist to her hip and glared at him like her knees weren’t knocking. “You know I am right.”

He nodded, but before she had a chance to enjoy the victory of him relenting, Lester tugged her hand, leading her to the door. His hot whispered breath scorched her ear. “Don’t sign anything and don’t forget where your loyalties lie, where Philip’s loyalties lie.”

She didn’t push free, but she stood still and glared at him with every ounce of courage she possessed. He wasn’t stealing her son today or hurting Ewan. “Go home, Lester. All is well here. Take care of our business.”

With a little push, he released her fingers then nodded. “You win. I sail tomorrow for our business.” The skunk stormed from the room.

The doctor closed up the sheer curtains. “Fitzwilliam needs to rest. All of you should leave this room until morning. I’ll sit with him through the night.”

“I will, too, once I check on my girl. Where is she, Mrs. Cecil?”

“The governess and my friends are keeping her entertained while my son sleeps.”

“Take me to her. I’ll tell her that her uncle is faring better.”

Theodosia didn’t want to leave the room, but she had to aid Lord Hartwell. With Ewan unconscious, it wasn’t the time to have that private conversation about his son. She pulled the door closed once Lord Hartwell stepped through. “Funny.”

The big man shortened his stride and walked in step with her. “What is funny, Mrs. Cecil?”

“Your daughter, she kept saying she didn’t do it, like a small child could get that cart moving.”

Hartwell stumbled, nearly bumping into Frederica. He recovered quickly and bowed. “Sorry. Of course, Lucy would not be responsible.”

His brows and forehead squished together, as if he were doing math or numbering something, then he shook his head. “Again, excuse my clumsiness, Miss.”

Frederica nodded then swept to the side. “We haven’t been formally introduced, sir, but it is Burghley and you are excused. Your exit was nothing like Mr. Lester’s exit. He almost ran into us like—that cart.” Her face seemed half ready for a laugh, half remorseful. She covered her mouth for a moment.

So many formal rules. Theodosia couldn’t think of them all at a time like now, but she needed to consider them, as Tradenwood would be crowded the next few hours, the next few days. “Lord Hartwell, this is Miss Burghley and Miss Croome.”

Dipping a chin to each, he relaxed his shoulders. “It is a pleasure, but I wish the circumstances were different.”

Different? So many things should be different. Theodosia rubbed her cold hands together. “We must manage as best we can, but time is no one’s friend.”

With wide eyes, Frederica grabbed her arm. “Is Mr. Fitzwilliam?”

Theodosia patted her fingers. “He’s unconscious. The doctor and Pickens are still with him. It will be a long night. My lord, this way to the nursery.”

“We’ll show him, so you can go back to the less crowded room. Right, Miss Croome?”

Ester nodded and stuck her novel behind her back. “Yes.”

“No, ladies,” Theodosia said. “Go settle into one of my guest rooms. You all must be tired. You’ve already done so much to close the festival for me because I was with Philip and my cousin.”

They smiled at her with waggling brows, probably hoping she’d spill what happened in the room and why Lester had bolted like a maniac. Not now, not with Lord Hartwell eyeing each of them like he compared them to invisible notes. Well, how many rumors had been started about them by Lord Crisdon or cruel people like him?

With a shake of her head, Theodosia started for the nursery. “This way.”

When they entered, the governess was tucking a blanket around the little blonde girl on the chaise. “She just fell asleep,” the woman said. “Philip is still sleeping soundly. I’ve checked on him every hour. No pain tonight. I will turn in myself. Good night, ma’am.”

The woman swept past and closed the door behind them.

Lord Hartwell came closer to his daughter. He let his finger smooth the child’s curls. “Is it not too much trouble? Having us here? I could take this bag of bones up the hill.”

It was a sweet sight, this large, burly man being so delicate with the tiny girl. She turned to Philip’s bed in the corner. “There has been enough trouble today, but you have to be here. Your brother may call for you.”

“You are kindness, ma’am.”

She’d like to think so, but fear gripped her windpipe and squeezed. Too afraid to touch Philip’s face and find him a ghost, she stared at her son. A minute or two went by. She’d counted two hundred breaths, Philip’s breaths, then heard his snore whistle. Nothing in the world was as sweet.

With her fingers, she swiped back perspiration that the laudanum sometimes brought, then put her pinky on Philip’s cheek, his solid, warm cheek. He was a miracle, this time delivered by Ewan.

“Your son. He’s not well?” Hartwell had moved near. He’d probably watched her show of weakness. “The governess talked of pain.”

She bit her lip, but decided answering wouldn’t harm anything or put her more in jeopardy. “He suffers from severe ear pains, but the governess said he was good tonight.”

He drew a handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to her. If there were tears in her eyes, she hadn’t noticed. She was too busy being thankful.

“May I ask why Mr. Lester would threaten to take a sick boy from his mother?”

“He’s my son’s guardian. His opinion apparently holds more weight than the boy’s mother. He also thinks you are the enemy.”

Ewan’s brother scratched his chin. “My girls are my world. I couldn’t be parted from them if they’d had such a harrowing experience. Your cousin, Ewan, didn’t hesitate to help your son. He knows the difference between business and personal.”

Theodosia did, too. It was the distance between safety and danger and what lengths she’d go to keep Philip well. After another swipe to her cheek, she bent and kissed her son’s brow. “Lester’s gone. And you, your daughter, and Mr. Fitzwilliam are staying. I can have tea and sweets brought up to the bedchamber.”

Lord Hartwell smiled and turned back to his daughter. “Good. That will help the night pass.”

Not feeling afraid to leave her miracle with Lord Hartwell, his uncle of sorts, Theodosia headed into the empty hall. ’Twas going to be a long night. Somewhere in the hours or days to come she must find a way to tell Ewan the truth.

What would he hate more, her becoming Mathew’s mistress or not telling him Philip was his? She counted on her fingers, divided in the air but the sum came back the same. He’d hate her for everything.

…

Light filtered into the room, sinking into the hairline cracks that were Ewan’s eyelids. Everything hurt. It hurt to move, to breathe.

A look to the right, he saw a balcony and doors. Was it the one he’d climbed in his youth? He was at his uncle’s Tradenwood.

He closed his eyes again, hoping that he’d dreamed everything, six years spent away from family, losing Theo, his rights to this house, had all been a nightmare. Perhaps he awakened with the world righted.

Yet, one push at his chest told the truth. Scars never lied. Nor did bandages and bruises.

A cough rattled in his lungs. The sputter made things feel like they worked.

Memories of Theo and the festival returned.

Then Philip.

The child, the one with crystal blues eyes—he’d saved him from the cart.

Could the boy be his? He wanted him to be his.

With nothing more than the raw desire to see those eyes again, those eyes like his mother’s, like his own, Ewan pushed and tugged but the bedsheets held fast. With a mighty thrust he craned up, but the pain made him flop back upon the mattress. His fingertips brushed leathery ivy.

English ivy?

Had he died or gone insane?

He poked at a dark emerald leaf. The rubbery shape was true, but Ewan might still be crazed. He might have even imagined seeing the boy with his eyes.

“You’re awake.” Jasper’s voice. Was he here in this dream, too?

Ewan turned his head to the left to see his brother, stretching then brushing sleep from his eyes. “Seems the same could be said of you.”

Dropping a thick book upon the bed, Jasper shuffled his feet then rose from a chair that had been pulled close. “Resting comfortably?”

Ewan tugged at the strips of ointment-soaked cloth tied across his ribs. “As much as possible.”

Jasper moved to the door. “I’ll tell the doctor and Mrs. Cecil. They have been attending you without ceasing these past three days.”

“Wait. Don’t move. Three days?”

Releasing the doorknob, Jasper pivoted. As he came closer, the dim light revealed shadow on his jaw and rumpled clothes. Had he been sitting here, waiting all three days? Guilt and warmth danced inside. Ewan had not lost everything. He still had a brother’s love.

“Why do you want me to wait? You are awake. Everyone’s been anxious. I can get you back to Grandbole.”

“No.”

“What? Explain?”

He looked up at his brother and weighed the impact of what it would mean to say his hopes aloud. Another glance at Jasper and his withered cravat convinced Ewan. “My son may be here. I don’t think I merely saved a distant cousin on my mother’s side of the family, but her grandson. I think Cecil’s boy is my son.”

Frowning as if he’d eaten a tree of lemons, Jasper wrenched at his back, stretching again. “You definitely hit your head. You are seeing things that are not there.”

“Go look at the boy and see his eyes. They’re my mother’s. I have them, too.”

“Cecil is a cousin, Ewan. Surely those traits could be passed along.”

Those eyes, could they have been imagined? New frustration stirred. He struggled to get up and fell to the mattress. “You think it is a coincidence?”

“I don’t know what to think, but I do know her devotion to Cecil can’t be questioned. And why does this matter now? The child is Cecil’s by marriage. You claimed to be done with her.”

“What if you were a woman—”

“I’m not.”

“Jasper, please. You were a woman whose fiancé died in war and you find yourself heavy with his babe. What would you do?”

His brother’s frown half disappeared. “I’d go to the country to family or turn to his. Or give up the moppet to Bethlehem Hospital.”

“A mulatto baby might not be one of the lucky ones welcomed at that orphanage. If Theo did go to Lord Crisdon, what do you think he did?”

Picking up his book, Jasper plopped into his chair and stretched his stocking feet onto the bed. “You’re a playwright. You are making up a story to suit what you want. I should not have read you Shakespeare these past three days. Maria, she liked a novel or a Psalm when she rested.”

It was awful to put his brother back into the position of nursemaid. The man was still grieving, but no one had to lose anything if Theo confessed why she had not waited. Ewan swallowed and everything tasted of hope, bright and tart. “Only one person can confirm this. Only one knows the truth. If we stay, she might confide in me.”

“She is very upset over your injuries.”

“I have to know, Jasper. You have to help me.”

“I don’t know…”

“Her time of mourning is up soon and I asked her to marry me, but like you, she is corresponding to find a new husband. She hasn’t fully accepted me. I think her hesitation is the boy. I need to show her I can be good to Philip.”

“Well, almost dying for him is a good start.”

“I’ve tried to let her go. I can’t. I want her. I want the boy, even more so if he’s my son. I need to know.”

“Ewan? You’re awake.”

Theo had slipped into the room. She came closer. Her almond eyes were wide, maybe with joy. In her hands were a tray of tea and biscuits. “You’ve awakened.”

Jasper said, “I am not sure what did it, ma’am. Between your ivy plants making him good air or this tome of Shakespeare’s—all your suggestions have returned the man to us.”

Her beautiful full lips seemed to tremble before she leveled her shoulders. “I’m so glad.” She put the tray upon the bed table and came within an inch of brushing his brow. Instead, her fingers tucked the blanket. “You need to know how grateful I am to you. You saved Philip.”

His gaze locked upon hers and he dared not blink. For a moment, he saw her eyes, dark mysterious pools opening for him, trusting him, believing in him again. If Ewan could grasp her hand, work his fingers between hers, he’d never let go. “I am glad to be of service.”

When Jasper coughed, she blinked and backed away.

Their connection—it pounded in Ewan’s chest—stronger than six years ago. He wished in his soul he could claim her hand right now.

“My brother wanted to know if Mathew Cecil looked more like his uncle or his own mother. I think, neither. Your son is too handsome to bear the stodgy bones.”

Jasper’s question couldn’t have come at a worse time.

Biting her tender bottom lip, Theo moved away from the bed. “I’m not sure if they favor. I only met Lady Crisdon once. Is there anything that I can do for either of you while you stay?”

Ewan didn’t quite know how to answer that. Everything ached, but a battle waged inside him. Was it wrong to want her, the boy, and to feel vindicated for believing everything he’d written in his play? But Theo, unlike others who’d confess or proclaim her innocence, had drawn deeper inside. He’d never win her if she shied away. “I thank you, Mrs. Cecil, for your hospitality. You remembered Shakespeare.”

“It was Cecil’s favorite. He liked the foul shrew, too.”

Her smile, small and sweet—would it last for Ewan, if he pushed for the truth?

Beating her to the door, Jasper stood in her way. “Mrs. Cecil, when your son’s lessons are finished, please bring him. My brother’s been asking for him and, as we told Lester, it would benefit Fitzwilliam’s health.”

She seemed to wince, her shawl fluttering, as if Jasper’s girls had performed a monstrous trick. “Later. Lord Hartwell, you have not slept in three days. Your room is ready. It’s a few doors down the hall. I don’t want another ill man in my house.”

Almost in a full giggle, Jasper nodded. “I’ll sit with the hero a little longer, but then I’ll follow your orders. We are at Tradenwood.”

She nodded and then slipped out the door.

Jasper put his ear to the wood panel. “Good, she’s not an eavesdropper. And she seemed nervous when I asked about the boy. You may be right.”

Ewan pushed at his brow. “I’m almost certain Philip Cecil is my son. She passed him off as Cecil’s. She’s wondering if she can trust me, but what about my trust in her?”

Jasper returned to his chair. “You must’ve hit your head harder than I thought.”

Ewan glanced at his brother and found not a drop of humor in his stern face. “What are you talking about?”

“Mrs. Cecil nearly lost her son. That worm Lester threatened to take the boy if she didn’t comply, but she stood up to him so you’d have the best care. I think you need to rest some more. Awaken and see the truth.”

“What are you saying?

Jasper slumped more in his chair. “The widow isn’t the enemy. I don’t even think she’s ever been one to our family. I think she is misunderstood.”

“You defend her now?”

“You can’t fake the fear of losing someone you love. I saw it in her, Ewan. Even when she knew her boy was safe, she still looked as if the world was about to end. It was the fear of losing you.” He tapped his rumpled waistcoat, which showed three days of wrinkles. “It matched what happened in here.”

Not knowing what to think or admit to his brother or even his own soul, he went with humor. “Didn’t know you were so sentimental.”

Jasper ran a hand through his unruly gold locks. “I watched the love of my life die. I remember the dread of missing that last moment, of failing Maria. I saw Mrs. Cecil pacing for you, while Lester threatened to take away her son.”

“My son.”

“That woman has been graceful and kind. You need to look at her through a lens that’s not clouded by loss.”

“What?”

Tugging at his neckcloth like it choked, Jasper gave up and stilled his hands. “You say you don’t begrudge me for being the heir. Maybe that is true. But for Cecil to inherit what would have been yours, marrying the woman you wanted, and giving a name to the boy that might be yours, I’d say you have a right to be disgruntled. But it’s not Cecil’s fault he inherited Tradenwood or that a woman left unprotected found someone who was willing to marry her. If this boy you saved is yours, would you rather he be a by-blow bastard and not have a name?”

Ewan closed his eyes. The anger at being denied his son dissipated a little. Maybe Theo had done what she had to do. Ewan had not been here to protect her. “A name is important, but I’m here now. She should admit it. I’ve been here for weeks. Why withhold such a truth?”

“From the man who left her because he couldn’t stand up to his father? From the man who wrote a whole play defaming her?”

Hating the list of his wrongs, Ewan wanted to strike out. Pain swelling, he tightened his fist on the blanket. “Well, I must have been unconscious for quite a while, if you are defending her. Last time I checked you held a very different position. Something about a lesser woman, one who’d been a mistress, of a lesser race, and illegitimate to boot.”

“Yes. And I’ve been a fool before.” Jasper swiped at his face before folding his arms. “I’ve spent three days at Tradenwood. Only leaving for a few hours to make sure that the girls haven’t burnt down Grandbole before sending them to your mother. Mrs. Cecil and her friends have been generous and caring. Very good company. I’ve never been around women like them, educated and funny. And Mrs. Cecil has been kind.”

“You take her side? Lord Crisdon would be pleased. You are looking to marry a rich widow with a love of children.”

“You are looking for a villain. You created one in your play, but be mad at yourself or the folly of youth. One is not here.”

The weight of truth in his brother’s arguments was too great. Ewan dipped lower into the sheets, swatting the ivy as he did. “So what should I do? Walk away and not know if that boy is mine?”

Jasper picked up the book from the bed as he stood. “I think I’ll finish this before I sleep; I want to read how things work out between Petruchio and Katherina. I can get the doctor to say you must stay for another couple of days. Make good use of them.”

Book tucked under one arm, Jasper took a flask from his pocket and poured a bit in the tea Theo brought. “You’re on the mend. The girls are with Lady Crisdon. I can relax a little.”

“You didn’t tell Mother or Crisdon I was hurt?”

Taking a sip, Jasper’s face reddened. “I did, but when I told her we were here, she didn’t want to know more. Get a bit more rest.”

When the door closed, Ewan released a long breath, deflating what felt like shallow lungs. Would Theo trust him enough to tell him the truth? Was his soul ready to accept if the boy was Cecil’s? In either case, could there be a future with Theo and the boy who should be his son?