Chapter 29

A few minutes later, as his carriage rumbled along, Langdon was grateful she’d agreed to go to the Twin Dragons tonight. He

was on his way to an appointment with his father and when he was done with it, he wasn’t certain he’d be fit company, and

he was hoping the chaos of a gambling hell might distract her enough so she wouldn’t notice his mood. Which he suspected was

going to be quite dark indeed.

He’d awoken this morning feeling guilty that he’d shared his affliction with Marlowe and yet his family was still ignorant

regarding his struggles. It seemed wrong that she should know what they did not.

And yet... nothing in his life had ever felt as right as telling her.

He hadn’t given his father a time when he would arrive at the residence. He’d merely indicated this afternoon when he’d sent his missive. Clocks were controlled by numbers. So many ticks, so many minutes, so many hours.

When Langdon had reached his majority, his father had passed his timepiece on to him and he had cherished it. He’d felt the

sting of tears the first time he’d tucked it away into his waistcoat pocket. On occasion, he took it out, studied its face,

and tried to determine how he could still use it for its purpose.

He’d been six when his father had sat him on his lap and taught him how to read a watch, how to use it to measure time. He

tried to recall the lessons, thought if he could do that, he could teach himself what he’d once known. But thus far he’d had

no success.

Perhaps Marlowe could teach him how to unravel the mysteries of time.

When she had stopped silently weeping earlier, he’d been able to discern she was contemplating sharing something with him

and had decided against it. He suspected it had to do with the time left to them. He wished he could place it in an hourglass.

He could comprehend sand sifting through from the top to the bottom, marking the passage of time. He could see the amount

left.

Perhaps he should have a huge hourglass built in his back garden, have her help him determine how much sand would be needed

to accurately provide a way to measure the minutes remaining to them. Although he couldn’t imagine not having her with him.

Why was she so opposed to his caring for her? He wasn’t a pauper.

The carriage pulled into the circular drive of his parents’ London residence, and he turned his attention to focusing on his meeting. Picking up the satchel resting beside him, he tapped it. He wasn’t nervous or anxious. He was, however, dreading the disappointment that would cross his father’s face when he learned the truth of his heir.

The vehicle rolled to a stop. He shoved open the door, leapt out, and headed up the steps.

The door opened wide, and the butler nodded. “My lord.”

“Andrews. I assume my father is in the library.”

“Yes, sir.”

“See that we’re not disturbed.”

“Yes, sir.”

Langdon continued on, his heels beating out a strong cadence. That of a man who possessed confidence, who knew his own mind—

Christ. Or at least what was left of it.

At the library, a footman standing at attention reached down and opened the door for him. Langdon gave a respectful nod as

he swept through.

His father was sitting behind his desk, ledgers spread out before him, pen in hand as he made notions. While Langdon wasn’t

near enough to see them, he suspected most of them involved numbers.

The earl looked up, smiled, set aside his pen, and leaned back. “Oliver.”

“Father.”

He reached the desk. Ah, yes, the ledgers contained almost all numbers. Damn them to hell. Carefully he set his satchel on

the corner of the desk that was free of any ledgers or clutter. He opened it and pulled out the sheafs of paper that contained

words, words, words. So many words he’d written since he’d returned to London.

He held them out and hoped his father didn’t notice the slight tremble of his hand.

Lucian Langdon, the Earl of Claybourne, was the sort of man that some found intimidating, that no one wanted to cross. Langdon

suspected the love he held for his sire was equal to that which Marlowe held for hers. He couldn’t fathom what he might have

done had his father been taken from him when he was a young man. As a future lord of the realm, he wouldn’t have found himself

on the streets, but he would have inherited the responsibility of looking after his mother and siblings.

Would he have found the courage, determination, and fortitude to do whatever necessary to shelter and protect them—as Marlowe

had done for her mother?

He watched as the papers slid from his hand with his father’s tug.

“Have a seat,” his father said, nodding toward a chair in front of the desk.

“I’d rather stand, if you don’t mind.”

His father lifted his gaze to him, studied him for what seemed an eternity, nodded, and gave his attention to what Langdon

had written.

“It’s my proposal for the estate steward that I was on my way to deliver to him last year when everything went ass over tit.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

He waited as his father’s gaze slid over each page. When he reached the last, he said, “You haven’t included your figures,

indicating how these changes will benefit us financially.”

“No.” Because those figures had been lost in a torn apart railway car. Lost in a mind that couldn’t find them.

His sire was studying him, and all the while Langdon was striving to determine how to explain what needed to be told. He’d

practiced a few different ways to say it, but looking at his father now, none seemed quite right.

“Well, they were only speculation,” the earl said. “If you believe these plans are the direction we should go in, they should

be implemented.”

“They are more impressive with the numbers.”

The man he’d loved and admired from the moment he’d been old enough to understand love and admiration shrugged. “They’re impressive

enough without them.” He held out the papers, his hand so much steadier than Langdon’s had been. “Go forth, my son, make your

vision happen.”

Langdon stared into eyes the same pewter gray as his. The same shade as his grandfather’s, he’d been told, although he’d never

met him because he’d been murdered when Langdon’s father was a lad. The same shade as his great-grandfather’s, the man who

had rescued Langdon’s father from the gallows.

“Graves told you.”

His father set the papers down. “Told me what, precisely?”

Langdon felt a tilting of his world. Why was his father playing coy? There was no other explanation possible. “That I’ve lost

my ability to recognize or decipher numbers.”

A shake of his head. “He told me nothing. I have watched you since shortly after you took your first breath. I knew something was amiss. I didn’t know exactly what it entailed. Your mother has watched you since you took your first breath. She, too, is worried about you. I assume this situation is a result of the two trains colliding.”

He felt the tears burning his eyes. Christ, he was too old to cry. “Father, I feel as though I’ve lost half my mind.”

The Earl of Claybourne came out of the chair, around the desk, and was embracing his son so quickly that Langdon barely had

time to register his actions. But he slumped against his father and welcomed his tight hold.

“There now, you don’t have to face this alone any longer.”

Strange, but after telling Marlowe, he’d stopped feeling as though he was.

He wriggled out of his father’s arms. “You could go to Parliament, bring a motion, a bill, to have me declared unfit to serve

as heir and have Stuart named in my place.”

His father gave him a pointed glare. “Oliver, you are my heir. I suspect Stuart won’t mind helping. He’s a bit of an irresponsible

scamp but he loves you.”

“There are times when I feel as though I’m going mad.”

“I think when we survive something horrific that our mind tries to find a way to protect us. I was there when my parents were murdered. In an alley, here in London. And yet I had no memory of it, not for more than a quarter of a century. When the memories finally returned, it was like being bludgeoned. I don’t know why you’ve lost numbers, but I do know you have always been a sharp lad. You will find a way through all this.” A corner of his mouth hitched up. “For me,

that way was your mother.”

Langdon thought of Marlowe, but then she was mostly what he thought about these days.

The door opened and the Countess of Claybourne glided in. She abruptly came to a stop. “My God, you both look... unwell.

What’s happened?”

The earl held out his hand. “He’s finally told me what challenge he is facing. It’s not as bad as we surmised.”

One of her hands joined with her husband’s while the other was flattened against Langdon’s cheek.

“What could be worse?” he asked.

“We thought you were dying,” his father said.

Langdon grimaced. “God, I’m sorry. I should have told you sooner.”

His mother, being the woman she was, took control, poured them each a glass of scotch, sat them down in a sitting area near

the window, and announced, “You can tell us all the details now.”