Chapter Two

Family, Friends & Enemies

Theodosia’s carriage rumbled forward. With each passing second, her lungs constricted a little less. Her driver and horse team didn’t know she’d fled a ghost. Surely, they assumed she needed to hurry back for her dinner guests. She wouldn’t correct them.

By the time she’d passed Tottenham Road, the jarring and swaying of her ivory seat had jostled every bone in her body. The ache, however, didn’t compare to the pain of seeing Ewan again. All these years, and the man was alive. How could he not be dead?

Six years of mourning him, of feeling ashamed for living and finding some happiness with Mathew, all while thinking a bullet had felled her poor dreamer.

How many times had she looked in those fancy glass mirrors at Mathew’s Tradenwood, the home they’d shared, and had seen a traitor to the future she’d envisioned with Ewan? The man with the crooked smile that had set her heart pounding. Today, that crooked smile had crushed the useless muscle in her chest to dust.

Wait.

If Ewan didn’t die in the war, where has he been?

Why did he stay away when I needed him?

Her stomach soured, thinking and rethinking their foolish dreams. His plays would be performed on London’s grandest stages, and her flower shop would provide roses, the best ones—without a single thorn—to his actresses. And Theodosia’s Ewan wouldn’t be tricked by those ladies’ beauty. He’d said he only had eyes for Theo, his Theo.

Lies.

Dreams were lies.

Ewan had gone to war and hadn’t come back to her. The life they had whispered in secret was nothing but deceit, lines from a play he hadn’t yet written. Her heart burst all over again.

Had he laughed with his brother at getting her to love him? Did he smile to his circle of friends about taking her virtue? Had he said pretty words about loving her to lower her guard, making Theodosia forsake her vow not to be like her mother? Theodosia had given Ewan all of her, and then he’d left.

She’d become Theo the Harlot because of him.

Her pulse raced and whirled so loudly, her ears hurt. Almost panting, she forced air into her hurting chest and gripped her reticule to her bosom. Her eyes were already weak from sitting at her son’s bedside till well past midnight. Crying now about lies would only make them sting. Ewan Fitzwilliam wasn’t worth another droplet.

Her hand clenched. Her nails dug into the fringe of her reticule. That ache should have died six years ago. Ewan and his lies were no more. He couldn’t affect her future or destroy the life she’d built for her son.

Another two hours of ridiculous fretting occurred before her carriage passed the Fitzwilliam flower farm. Squinting from her window, she could see their house, Grandbole Manor. The cold gray stone looked small at this distance, but it overshadowed the lilac-colored flowers in the orderly fields. Hard to believe it neighbored Mathew’s warm Tradenwood, with its pinkish stacked stones. Tradenwood wasn’t as grand, but she believed it held more peace and much more understanding. Things Ewan had always complained were missing at Grandbole.

She slumped onto the seat. Ewan couldn’t be staying at his father’s estate. She would’ve seen him at least once these six years if he’d resided there.

The urge to know why he’d played her false might cause her to be rash, to do something crazed. No, Theodosia Cecil didn’t look for trouble anymore. She glanced at her rows of flowers. She thought of walking in those fields, of finding answers and strength there. She’d found Mathew there, or he’d found her. If she were to go out there now, she might find peace, the peace he had so often talked about growing, like buds in those fields.

Her carriage began to slow. Peeking out the window, she saw the grooms and proud horse teams of vehicles lining the drive of Tradenwood. Her dinner guests awaited her inside the parlor. They couldn’t see her so broken. The ladies were there for an early meal to discuss the Flora Festival, the grand picnic Mathew had started as a reward for his workers, one that had evolved to also include every one of his vendors and their workers. She chuckled, wondering if the perfumer she’d met today would come. She prayed the girl Sally would, and she wondered if she would seek employment with Cecil’s Farms.

The carriage stopped and one of her attendants came to free her from her stewing. Marching through the doors of Tradenwood, she slowed her steps and stopped at the console. Her butler stood near.

Pickens, with his starched livery of dark crimson and gold braid, held out his hands. “Welcome back, Mrs. Cecil. I’ll take your bonnet and bag. Your guests are waiting for you in the parlor.”

She unpinned her hat and gave it to him, but held on to her reticule. She wasn’t prepared to relinquish her letters.

Pickens’s brow raised, but he didn’t try again for her bag. Six years had given them a routine and, hopefully, a measure of mutual respect. If memories hid in the wizened creases of his forehead, he knew Theodosia held on tight to things that were hers, only relenting when she was good and ready. “Thank you, Pickens.”

He pulled a folded paper from behind his back. “This came for you while you were out. The footman said it was important. It’s from the Fitzwilliams family. The earl himself.”

Swallowing her newfound reservation upon hearing the name Fitzwilliam, she slid off her gloves, stashing them on the console, then clutched the thick parchment. “Thank you.”

Emotionless, always about his duty, Pickens bowed his graying head and pivoted toward the long hall leading to the parlor. “And Mr. Lester is visiting. He’s in the nursery with Master Philip.”

Lester. The name sent shivers of fear and hate up her spine. Who knew Mathew’s faithful steward would turn into a vengeful frog the moment he understood the powers Mathew’s will had given him.

The tapping of the butler’s footsteps moving toward her dinner guests sounded like a muffled drumbeat, but the decision to go to the birds in the parlor or to the vulture near her boy, wasn’t a question.

In as dignified of a manner as she could muster, Theodosia’s short heels clicked hard against the polished marble with its shiny cranberry veining. The moment her foot dropped upon the first mahogany tread, her false calm shredded. Visions of Lester taking her sweet boy and shaking him for a response froze the blood in her veins. She lunged up the steps and sailed on fretful wings to the door of the second-floor nursery.

She didn’t see the leech in the hall. He had to be inside with little Philip. How long would it be before he discovered the boy’s illness?

Theodosia couldn’t blow into pieces like a dandelion in strong wind. She steadied herself, clasping the molding. The stupid parchment crunched against the raised wood before relenting and curling about it. With a strangled breath, she pushed open the door.

Scanning to the left and then to the right revealed nothing out of the ordinary. Polished pine planks on the floor and a thick jute rug of blue yarn warmed up the pale beige walls. A huge closet hid enough space to house a small family.

In the middle of the wide room, swimming in a pinafore of cream and blue threads, sat little Philip alone with his governess, Miss Thomas. No Lester.

Fanning the paper, hoping to chase away the fear fevering her brow, Theodosia took a few steps inside. A hungry panic of losing Philip was stirring, growing, pressing at her temples.

Lovely, honest Mathew had protected Theodosia and Philip, writing his will to withstand the challenges his young family would face in his absence. But a dead man could only do so much from the grave. Her own wit and a new, trustworthy husband, someone as honorable as Mathew —that would have to be enough to keep vultures like Lester away. Where was the pushy brute?

Coughing from the growing knot in her throat, she moved closer to her son. She wanted to look in the closet or under the bed for Lester as she would hunt for a ghost. Lord knew she’d happened upon enough apparitions for one day.

Little Philip scooted forward, pressing his lean fingers against a carved block. His eyes were on the wooden toy, not looking at her.

That was good. He shouldn’t see sadness on his mother’s face.

She put a finger to her lips to keep the governess from announcing her. One heavy step after the other, clomping, stomping, she made her heels pound as loudly as she could as she approached his weak side.

The five-year-old didn’t flinch. Never turned.

Her heart clenched.

The boy didn’t hear her approach. The physicians, the old ones with gray on top, the young ones, trying to run experiments on the mulatto boy, even the ones who wouldn’t see him until they heard his surname Cecil, all their words had been true. Philip was deaf on on his left side and losing his hearing on the right. This was the most painful consequence of her many sins.

Looking up to the ceiling, she counted her wrongs. Trusting Ewan—wrong. Holding on to pride too long—wrong. Not becoming a mistress to Mathew sooner, not trusting him sooner—wrong. Of keeping Ewan on a pedestal for so long, it had made it difficult for a good man to reach her heart—very wrong.

She lowered her gaze and looked at Philip. The boy jostled the toy between his small fingers. He still hadn’t caught up to the size of other five year olds.

This punishment of barely hearing, of perhaps losing all of it, tore her up inside. Would he forget the sound of words? Would he remember an impatient giggle? It was too much for an innocent boy. Living as she had, speaking lies, listening to her dreaming heart, were the reasons her child suffered. She cleared her throat. “How’s my Philip?”

The governess tapped the little boy on the shoulder and pointed. “We had a good day today. No more fever from last night.”

Philip spun toward Theodosia and showed a toothy grin. Her worn-out heart stirred. His bright blue eyes opened wider. He rushed to her, stepping onto her feet, embracing her legs. A smile she no longer thought she possessed lifted her lips. “Love you, son.”

She scooped him up. His pinafore bunched in the crook of her arm as he wiggled his way to her cheek, placing his face there. His pulse pushed against hers. She wove her fingers into his dark, straight hair. She’d do anything for Philip, the only person in this world who was truly hers. For the first time today, she breathed easier. Maybe her withered heart had a little more living to do.

“M-mmm-m,” he said, before giving her a big, wet kiss.

The boy offered another hug about her neck. Theodosia needed to keep him safe, to keep his world secure and beautiful, even if that meant selling herself in a new marriage.

Footfalls sounded behind her.

She spun with her precious cargo, tucking him deeper within her stiffening arms. Anger rose inside seeing Wilhelm Lester, her late husband’s steward, smirking at the threshold.

“Well, isn’t this lovely? Mother and son. The usurper and her spawn.”

Theodosia leaned down and gave Philip back to his governess. “Come with me, Mr. Lester.”

She squared her shoulders, tightened her grip about the paper, and waltzed past the scourge who had dared to be Mathew’s confidant. She kept moving until she stood yards from the nursery.

The beast followed too closely. Was it onions and mutton on his breath?

“Theodosia, what was it? How did you bewitch old Cecil and convince him to make his mistress his wife? Usually only fools do that and Cecil was no fool.”

“Maybe the same reason you’ve been asking to marry me? You didn’t even wait for my dear Mathew to be cold in the grave.”

The tall man laughed and flipped back a reddish-brown curl from his flat forehead. He would be handsome, if not for all the ugly evil spouting from his thin lips.

“No, can’t be the same, my dear.” His voice sounded like a fat cat’s purr, one that had eaten its mouse. “You were penniless then. Now, you are a wealthy woman sharing the Cecil fortune. Yes, fifty-thousand pounds annually is more than enough reason to marry you, Theodosia.”

“It’s Mrs. Cecil to you. And I told you, you are not welcome in the nursery. Stay in the parlor.”

“Can’t. Your gaggle of hens is down there. Where did you find more educated dark ones?”

Ester and Frederica? Knowing her friends were near gave Theodosia more strength. “You heard what I said. Go downstairs.”

“Then come with me.” He held out his arm for her.

The thought of touching or being touched by Lester made her skin itch. It’d be like fiery ants who had stung her hands in the fields when she hadn’t been careful cutting flower stems. Around him, she needed to be extra careful. She scooted past him and started down the treads, but he fell in step with her.

“The boy? Is he breeched yet?”

“No, he’s five.”

“Well, Cecil wasn’t that tall of a man, but this one seems a might scrawny. As his guardian, I will need to make sure you’re not coddling him too much. He might need to be sent away, if you’re not taking good care of him. That’s a guardian’s job to make sure his ward is well protected.”

She lifted her chin as she cut her gaze to the fool. “Philip is fine. Growing well. Don’t threaten me.”

Lester grabbed her and yanked her close.

Her reticule swung around her elbow swatting him in his midnight blue waistcoat. “Let me go, you bounder.”

His grip didn’t slacken. He leaned near her ear. “Things would be better for the boy if we worked together. You’re not so bad with that mouth of yours closed or given to a common purpose.”

She shook free and stared into his beady blue-gray eyes. “Don’t touch me. Some of the coloring of my hand may slap onto your sallow flesh. It will leave you black and blue. You wouldn’t like that.”

He clamped her shoulder, shaking her. “The hellcat protests too much. And I’m an improvement over an old man. It’s been too long for you, hasn’t it, dear? It’s almost been a year since his death.”

She made herself stone, forcing away the disgust threatening to spew vomit from her mouth. “How dare you? I’m not even out of my mourning for Cecil, the man you claimed to love. What would he say to you if he saw this?”

Lester’s sneer shifted into a frown as if for a moment a bit of humanity filled him. Mathew’s endless kindness had made him a weak spot for many. Theodosia had noted Lester’s affection for Mathew during her husband’s illness. At the man’s first threat, she’d invoked Mathew’s memory, Lester’s Achilles heel, but how much longer would it work?

The blackguard lowered his hand and yanked the parchment away from her fingers. “This looks important.” He ripped it open and held it to the light. “Another offer to buy our flower fields. You’re not considering this?”

Theodosia put a hand to her hip. “All the fields are mine and Philip’s. Cecil left you an income to be an advocate.” She softened her tone to keep the man’s fragile ego intact. “It’s hard to consider something I haven’t had a chance to read, but you know I will consult you.”

He ripped up the offer into bits, balled them up, then stuffed the pieces into her palm. Lester stepped very close, his shadow falling upon her. “The Fitzwilliams ruined my father’s business and took his lands. Land is everything. I won’t let that happen here, and I’ve taken steps to ensure it.” His brow rose. “The earl must think you stupid for such a low offer, though I think you know low.”

He moved out of slapping range. “When you’re done playing a lady and see that our interests align, mine for the Cecil business, yours for nurturing the heir, send for me. I’ll come to you, Theodosia.”

Lester grinned again, more evil than the first, and headed out to the hall. With a final smirk, he grabbed up his coat and cane. “See you soon, Mrs. Cecil, dearest woman. It will be good to see you out of your mourning garb. Maybe you and the lad shall come with me to Holland. Your head for numbers might come in handy.”

No. Never would she go anywhere with him. Holding her breath, she made her response soft. “This is our first overture to those growers. You must go alone and represent us. I need you to do that.”

“Yes, you are right. You do need me.”

Even as he exited, his smirk stayed etched in her brainbox. Full of arrogance and condescension, it was a familiar response a Blackamoor woman faced in business. Exactly what she counted upon to be rid of him.

The footman closed the front door. The sound of the heavy thud made her hands tremble. If only Mathew had known Lester was vermin, worse than vine-rotting aphids. If he didn’t go to the Dutch farms alone, her plan to outwit him would never work. How would she protect Philip then?

Pickens came near, squinting, creasing his brow even more. “Ma’am, do you need something?”

Yes, Mathew alive and here to keep me and Philip from harm. She shook her head and moved at the world’s slowest pace down the treads. “How are my guests?”

“They are well. Enjoying your treats. I will go see if they are ready for more refreshments.” The butler turned and left for the parlor.

Once she reached the console, Theodosia dumped the paper pieces onto the mahogany surface. Her reticule slid from her elbow down the length of her forearm, but that didn’t stop her from arranging the torn pieces. She swirled the paper with her pinkie and made out the sum, ten thousand pounds. The devil was right. The offer was far too low for anything she and Mathew had worked so hard to build. The earl, Ewan’s father, must think her daft. She put the paper into her reticule. Later, she would toss it in the hearth and watch the bits burn.

She started to reach inside the satin and peek at her newspaper responses but decided against it. With a room of guests to attend, she needed to complete the planning for Mathew’s Flora Festival down to the tolling of the small parish bells. He had so loved this event.

She folded her arms, her fingers clanging the brass buttons of her dark sleeves. These mourning shrouds had become her friend, a comforting hug, like now, when she was weak. It was a show of respect for a good husband gone too soon. Was marrying again the only answer? “Madam?” The butler stood beside her. Woolgathering, she’d missed his solemn footfalls.

“Your guests are waiting. Mrs. Cecil never keeps her guests waiting.”

It wasn’t censure in his voice, but something thick and noble, almost like understanding.

She nodded. “Cecils do what they must.”

Pickens nodded. “Yes, even when things are difficult.” He bowed, back as straight as a new fence post. “I’ll go see if Cook’s pastries have run out.”

The loyal man proceeded down the hall. She watched his steady, easy gait until he disappeared around the corner.

Easy. Why did she think getting a husband by advertisement would be easy?

Go to the stationer’s, pick up the latest response to her Morning Post advertisement, then return home safe and smiling with a suitable offer of marriage—all before dinner. Easy.

Easy, my eye. She took a breath, but it rattled within her chest until it found the right pipe to escape. She coughed, wiped her mouth, and tried to think of anything but fleeing. If Tradenwood wasn’t safe, where would she and Philip find safety, find acceptance?

Still a little shaky, Theodosia commanded her wobbly legs to move toward the parlor. The meeting for the festival needed her attention. Tucking her reticule under her arms, she ordered her lips to form a smile. Once everyone left except Ester and Frederica—the Brain and the Flirt—she’d rely on her friends to keep her steady and follow through with their newspaper advertisement plan. Or… Theodosia would gather up all the coins she could muster and escape with Philip to the Continent.

…

Dining at Grandbole Manor after six long years wasn’t as horrible as Ewan expected. His nieces grabbed ahold of him from the moment Jasper pushed him across the threshold.

Oh, how much time had slipped past? Three girls, three beautiful little girls. Only two had been here that last summer at Grandbole, before he’d joined his regiment. His heart burned, roasting with the memory of proud Jasper bundling two small girls in his arms as he escorted his pregnant wife to their carriage. Maria hadn’t wanted her laying-in here, but at her mother’s home in Devonshire. Dutiful, appeasing Jasper had defied everyone, even shouting down the earl to please Maria.

Ewan had never been more proud or more jealous of his brother. He hadn’t yet experienced the burden of that type of love. Ewan hadn’t yet met Theo.

Anne, a ten-year-old with blonde-like-her-father locks, put a palm under her chin. She appeared to be the head inquisitor of the three girls and chose to ask questions rather than peruse the long cedar table that held more food than a regiment of a thousand men could devour. “Uncle, so what temperature is the West Indies?” she asked.

“Very hot, my dear.”

Lydia, nine years old and very much math inspired, drummed the table with her little fingers. “Is it hotter than Grandbole on a summer’s day or an autumn day?”

“Very, very hot—hotter than both.”

The little one whose name also started with an L, Laura, no Lucy, cast a big frown. “That’s not very descriptive, Uncle.”

Ewan looked at the cute upturned nose and the strawberry-blonde hair and released a smile. “You are right. I can do better. The heat of the day starts warm and inviting. By noon, it’s enough to positively boil the tea. There. Will that do?”

Lucy closed her eyes and nodded. Ewan smiled again. He’d discovered the dreamer in the mix.

Jasper chuckled and finished dumping a piece of bread into his mouth. “Girls, save your questions for later or Uncle Ewan won’t come back. We mustn’t frighten him away, and no tricks, not yet.”

It wouldn’t be the three angelic moppets who’d make Ewan flee. No, it would be a curmudgeon whose chair at the far end sat empty. With a sip from his glass of cool water, he couldn’t exactly measure the disappointment roiling in his gut alongside the succulent duck they’d had for dinner. Scanning the dark polished floors, the high walls strewn with family portraits of Fitzwilliams through the ages, a dormant sense of pride wet his tongue. Though he’d never mention it aloud, Ewan had missed Grandbole and his family, even the earl.

A servant came and whispered in Jasper’s ear.

His brother nodded. “Father’s finishing up business. He wants to meet with you in the library.”

Ewan chugged more water and wished the wetness possessed the tang of liquor. He’d been formally summoned. With a slow motion, he stood, bowed to each of his fine nieces, then turned to make the long walk through the quiet corridors. He filled his lungs, savoring the scent of polish, noting the absence of flowers. It seemed that the family livelihood stayed outside.

After several turns guided by the swords strewn across every inch of the dark paint, he made it to the library. He pushed on the heavy door, folded his arms behind his back, and marched inside, entering a room of fine emerald-colored silk walls.

He was alone. Again, a sense of disappointment stirred. Turning to the exit, he decided against retreat and sank upon the inflexible straight-backed sofa centered upon the wide gold rug.

The grand walnut bookcases still towered as they had six years ago. Both were filled with books, among them Aristotle, Bacon, and Descartes, titles meant to sculpt the Fitzwilliam men’s minds. But did not the shelves also hold the gilded pages of playwrights Hensley and Broome? How was Ewan to know those ideas were out of bounds?

Not able to help himself, he popped up and moved to a perennial favorite, Shakespeare, and poked at the torn spine. One he’d probably injured. No smile pressed his lips. Memories of dressing-downs filled his head.

The door opened like a lid to an ancient coffin, slow and moaning. His brother entered and behind him, their father.

Archibald Fitzwilliam, the Earl of Crisdon, had aged. A thousand more white hairs rimmed the balding spot he’d long tried to cover with powders. Now, that battle had been lost. However, the sneer over his glasses, the condescension that only his narrow dark blue eyes could bring, none of that had changed.

“Good of you to come for dinner, Fitzwilliam, finally,” his father said. His head dipped up and down as if scanning a rose for an aphid bug. “About time for you to slink back here. At least you’ve seen your mother in Town. Haven’t totally abandoned family.”

Ewan released a low, tight breath, then straightened to his full height. He refused to look at his brother who, obviously, still served as a trickster. “I was told you wanted to see me. Surely, I’ve been mistaken.” He turned to the heavy door. “I’ll see you in another six years, sir. You, too, Jasper. Oh, don’t mind me taking your carriage back to town.”

Before he could touch the knob, his Judas brother leaped in front of him with hands outstretched. “Father, you know you wanted Ewan here. And Brother, if you were truly against visiting you’d have jumped from my carriage earlier. You’re both too stubborn. I tire at being caught between you.”

Ewan had no desire to feel his peacemaking pain. In fact, he wanted to be numb. He wandered over to the sideboard, moved the false panel book that hid their father’s prized brandy, and poured a glass of the amber liquid. Perhaps, if he drank enough, quickly enough, the anger trapped in his skin would evaporate. “I’m here. Tell me what you want me to know, Father.”

The earl came up beside him and filled another glass. “Your service to the Fourth West Indian Regiment ended three months ago when it disbanded. Why didn’t you return to Grandbole?”

“Did you pay for it to disband? Of course, you did. Something I was begrudgingly good at must have been horrid for you.”

The tall man patted his thickening middle. “Son, you are being ridiculous.”

Ewan took another slow swig, holding the honey on his tongue, missing the sweet rum of the Caribbean. “Well, you’ve done your best to stunt anything I’ve wanted to pursue.”

“Your judgment has made me suspect.”

Blinking, Ewan remembered how his actions had been judged in this room by the earl. Your life will be a waste. She’s a dalliance, nothing more. With another slurp, his humor returned, for who couldn’t laugh at the man being right? Theo’s love hadn’t lasted, but the memories of her, of shy, business-minded, insatiable Theo, had formed the play that would make Ewan a fortune, one independent of his father’s. “You are right as usual, sir. I don’t know why I came, either. That questionable logic thing is hard to outrun. The beefsteaks were good. Give my compliments to the cook.”

Looking at the blank stare on his father’s countenance reminded Ewan that his father had a poor sense of humor, another thing they didn’t have in common. “Time to leave. Father. Brother.”

The earl coughed, then said, “Sorry.”

Ewan froze for a moment. Then put a finger in his ear to unplug it. “Did you say something, sir? My eardrums could be lying.”

His father gritted his teeth. He partially opened his mouth, exposing the canine fangs that had sunk into Ewan’s hide and that of any man standing in the way of accomplishing something the earl wanted. “I said sorry. I shouldn’t have demanded you to go to war to prove your merit.”

The old man apologizing. Something wasn’t right. The repeated word, “sorry.” What did that mean? Shouldn’t there be thunder crashing, maybe a flurry of villainous violin notes, as would happen in the theater? “What is this?”

“Your mother hasn’t told you?”

Only a Fitzwilliam fool offered information freely, and Ewan was done being a fool. He didn’t blink or move.

“Your mother blames me for you not inheriting Tradenwood.”

Oh. The nonsense about inheriting his uncle’s lands. “My uncle read the same letter you did about my demise. Pity he passed on before he learned the truth.”

The earl frowned and stood uncharacteristically quiet. There must be something more.

But Ewan didn’t want to submit to any of the man’s games. “I am quite resolved, Father. For what would a soldier or a playwright do with all that land, anyway?”

Pushing at his forehead and the deeply etched frown lines, the earl gulped down his brandy and poured himself another. “Not the theater nonsense again.”

Jasper jumped between them. “This is not a time for family to be fighting. We need to come together. Crisdon lands are under threat. The competition for flowers is more than ever. And Tradenwood is withholding water. They’re building dams on the springs. If that continues, we’ll lose it all.”

“We?” Ewan folded his arms and kept his gaze level, resisting the call back to the sideboard. “You need to pay the new owner more money. Who is the lucky fool to have the land you wanted?”

The earl wrinkled his nose beneath his brass wire frames. “That blasted uncle of yours left everything to a distant cousin. The new owner passed away, leaving his widow with control of everything. If she doesn’t take my latest offer I may have to…”

Ewan spread his feet apart, slightly enjoying the concern rattling the earl’s grumbly voice. “You may have to what? Offer full value to my cousin-by-marriage, or is that once-removed?”

Jasper moved from blocking the doorway to perch on the large desk near the window. His face was strained, more serious than Ewan had ever seen.

“Father’s done twice that on the last offer. I think she wants to ruin us. For a woman, she’s a savvy one.”

Back at the sideboard, the earl tapped the brandy stopper, but this time his hands shook. “Might have to resort to direct negotiations. It’s been difficult, with her observing full and now half-mourning rituals.”

There was something not being said by the old man. Something was in the air, heavier than the smell of dusty books or the warm cigar ash—the scents that stayed in his head embodying this library. “You’ve never had a problem being direct.” Ewan lifted his gaze to the candles burning in the corner, counting flickers, counting direct slights.

No more playwriting nonsense. I didn’t raise you to be a fool.

The regiment will make a man of you. Maybe even a good one.

If you serve with honor, then I’ll turn my eye from your dalliances.

One dalliance was his first play. The second, Theo.

“Sir, I remember very well how you’ve made your opinion known. What’s stopping you?”

His father nodded and downed his glass. “This situation is difficult, but Mrs. Cecil has a price. I have to figure out what it is.”

Cecil? Ewan’s pulse started to tick up.

His father stared at him as if hunting for something, but Ewan didn’t know why, unless this Mrs. Cecil was the same Mrs. Cecil he’d met at the Burlington Arcade. Ewan’s legs started him moving, even before he was ready to. He circled around the grand desk to the window. From the wide glass, in the tiptop corner, he could see the edge of Tradenwood. Could that be where Theo lay her head? Had Theo gotten herself a rich husband, a cousin to his mother? And now she owned Tradenwood?

Ewan pulled the curtain closed, keeping him from looking for her again. When he turned and saw the guilt painting the earl’s face with those cocky brows flying high above his quizzing eyes, Ewan knew Mrs. Cecil was Theo. Making sure the shock paining his chest had drained away, he cleared his throat and forced his tone to be even and steady. “I’m sure that a fair offer will get the response you deserve.”

With a tug to his waistcoat, the earl sank onto the stiff sofa. “What do you intend to do now, Fitzwilliam?”

Was it too beneath the earl to ask his son to reason with an old lover? Perhaps. He scratched his nose and sniffed strong lavender. Theo’s smelly paper package that he’d left in the carriage still stained his fingertips. Just like her to stay with him. “I…I’m working on a new play.”

“Not much money in theater, Son.”

Ewan jerked, tensing at the hint of a slight, then remembered his facade of not caring. “It’s more than enough because it’s earned by my hands, not yours. Except for the purchase of my commission, I haven’t needed you—or your assistance.”

Jasper chimed in. “This one is very good. He’s created this villain. She’s outrageous. London will adore this play.”

“Ewan, you must stay at Grandbole and work on it. Become reacquainted with the land you once loved. The flower fields and its fragrances are in your blood, from your mother’s family as well as my side. And you could be a help to Hartwell.”

“My brother knows I welcome his help, but I can do more to manage Grandbole, if you let me, Father.” His brother’s voice sound unusually strained. “Your nieces would like to know more of Uncle Ewan, too. And they are getting started with their questions.”

“Stay a while. Then, tell me of your desires. Maybe this time you can convince me of your passion for the theater.”

Could the years have moved the earl from his harsh stance on the arts? Or maybe this war with Theo had changed him. Well, Theo had changed Ewan. “I turned down Mother’s request to stay with her in London, I don’t think—”

Jasper came alongside him and filled a glass with brandy. He drank one and then another in quick succession. “You’re the perfect story crafter for the girls and for those whom you write.”

Ewan sighed at the not-so-subtle hint at helping his brother with the newspaper bride stunt. With a shake of the head, he ignored the two faces waiting for his yes. It wasn’t that easy. He set his glass down and again drew his hand along the bookshelf. These leathered spines written by playwrights had caught ahold of his imagination, never letting go, until he had spied a young woman gathering roses in the fields. Now, the thought of his Circe injuring his family wouldn’t let go. Their common problem was less than a mile away. “I’ve missed a great deal. My nieces are fine girls. They make for a tempting offer.”

Jasper clasped Ewan’s elbow. “We need reinforcements. The girls outnumber us and with their pranks, we need you. Perhaps, we could have a chance at being a united family. Isn’t that so, Father?”

The earl moved to the door. “Please stay, Son. You are welcome. Your room has been refreshed. Might even find a change of clothes to your liking.”

He glanced at Ewan, dead in the eyes. It felt like an apology, but that was how it was between them, only going so far, never crossing the line. Respectable, distant, passionless. Yet, he’d never know if things could be different, if he turned away now. Ewan planted his boots apart and braced. “I’ll stay for a few days. My flat and Mother’s errands will keep.”

The earl nodded. “Well, she’s seen you enough these three months in London. If you stay, perhaps she will abandon her parties and return to Grandbole, too.”

Being a pawn between his parents was an old game. One he’d hoped they’d stopped playing when he’d gone to war. Ewan shoved his hands into his pockets and shrugged. He’d let the earl fight that battle. Ewan would focus on his Circe and the package of smelly lavender that needed to be delivered.