Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

T he following morning, Emily sketched the neighbor's horses and field before her. She put down her charcoal to blend the dark lines with her index finger, but her hands trembled, making the work difficult. She'd brought her sketchbook to calm her unsettled nerves, but a wry grin and a pair of twinkling eyes kept appearing on the page. She exhaled and smoothed a shadow along the mare's neck. Shading captured the sharp angles of the horse's perked ears and the shimmer of its coat reflecting off its muscular form, especially how it contrasted with the fuzzy newborn hair of its wobbly, knobby-kneed colt.

The foal's birth was a sign that spring was on its way despite the chill in the air. The sun shone off the grassy field with a whitish-yellow glow, melting the fine layer of frost and filling her nostrils with the scent of damp earth.

"May I feed them? Please, pretty please." Christian's bright eyes met hers.

Emily rose from the cut tree trunk which served as her chair and placed her sketchbook and charcoal pencil down. "Only the mother."

"Because the baby drinks milk?"

"That's correct." She tousled his hair. "You're a bright young man."

Emily passed him a carrot from the satchel she'd packed, and Christian eagerly fed it to the chestnut mare.

She flipped the page, her fingers sketching in light, quick strokes to capture the joy and eagerness on Christian's face. His small hands clutched the crossbeam of the fence, likely more to keep himself from jumping than for support. He beamed a big smile at her, displaying the gap where his two front teeth used to be. Emily grinned at his rosy cheeks and blue eyes shining with delight. Nothing pleased Christian more than to be around horses, so she often trekked over to their neighbor's land to see what new mounts had been acquired.

"Emily!"

She stiffened, recognizing the familiar voice of her friend—amend that—her so-called friend.

Phoebe Dorsham waved from her phaeton as it drew to a stop. She grabbed her white ermine muff before she hopped down and tied the horses' reins to the gatepost. Her chaperone, Miss Neves, who was notorious for nodding off, slumbered peacefully in the double seat.

Emily wiped a charcoal smudge off her worn pelisse and clasped her blackened fingers behind her back before turning to face the petulant storm dressed in ruffles and lace who had been her childhood companion.

With the beauty and grace of a butterfly, Phoebe daintily picked her way along the knoll's crest in her kid leather boots to where Emily stood. These days, Phoebe was less like a butterfly and more like a bee, soft and fuzzy but with the threat of a sting.

Christian waved at Miss Dorsham before stepping up onto the wooden crossbeam. He turned his attention back to the unsteady colt with its widespread legs grazing next to his mother.

"I've missed you." Phoebe kissed Emily on either side of her cheeks. "It has been an age." Her blond, hot-ironed curls brushed Emily's face before she pulled back. Being several inches taller, Phoebe peered down at her. "I have missed our tea parties and romps through the woods."

Would Phoebe pretend as though nothing happened? The guard on Emily's tongue almost let loose. She wanted to settle this here and now, but Papa's words echoed in her mind— Remember, you're a child of God and a representative of His kingdom. Instead of lashing out, she asked, "Why, Phoebe? Why would you gossip to your mother about something I told you should remain private?" Emily crossed her arms as if they could keep her hurt inside. "I confided in you. I trusted you."

Phoebe bit her bottom lip, looking contrite. "I was curious about the man who appeared on your doorstep. How could I not be? His questions about your brother and your births—why, that was the most interesting thing to happen in Slyvanwood in an age."

Emily waved her hand to signal Phoebe to lower her voice so Christian didn't overhear. For the thousandth time, she questioned God as to why Phoebe had been visiting when the stranger came asking about things that were not his concern.

"I truly am sorry." Phoebe's gaze lowered, along with her volume. "But aren't you the least bit curious about how the man discovered the name of your birth mother?"

"Not in the least. He was merely seeking trouble." God forgive the partial lie. The man was a problem, and his visit while Mama and Papa were at the church had raised a thousand questions in her mind. What if her birth mother or one of Christian's birth parents sent the man looking for them?

Emily wanted more answers than she'd gotten from the stranger who'd knocked on the door and offered a cordial bow to her and Phoebe. He said he was trying to locate a relative, and she'd been happy to comply, answering most of his questions about the town they'd lived in prior and confirming the names of Mama's cousins. It was only once he started asking Emily about Christian's birth that her protective side sent the man packing. He'd been taking his leave when he paused and asked if she'd heard of a famous opera singer and informed her of her birth mother's identity. Phoebe's startled gasp still echoed in Emily's mind. She denied the relation, but he passed her a hand-copied page of a church registry where her birth date and birth parents were noted. Phoebe instructed him to get out and slammed the door on his retreating form.

"Not being able to call upon you has been awful for me, too," Phoebe said, "but it shall blow over. I promise. You're my closest friend, and I won't let anything separate us. I'll convince Mama to come around. She's already shown signs of mellowing, especially since she's consumed with preparations for the upcoming Season." She twisted her muff and attempted a wobbly smile. "You know how I am. My tongue always gets ahead of me."

Emily used to adore Phoebe's vivacious boldness, but now Emily's reputation might lie shredded in the aftermath of her friend's loose tongue. Years ago, she would have told Phoebe what had transpired by the creek the day before, but Phoebe had proved she couldn't be trusted.

"It will not get out," Phoebe said, "and even if it does, the vicar raised you. Everyone will respect you out of regard for him and his wife."

"My parents." The words burst forth from her lips. "Merely because a woman gave me birth doesn't make her my mama."

"Quite right." Phoebe blanched and backstepped. "I do apologize."

"And what of your mama? You're not allowed to even visit with me. She would faint if she knew we were speaking right now."

Phoebe removed a hand from her muff and swatted the air. "Miss Neves put the absurd idea that I shouldn't associate with you in Mama's head." With pursed lips, Phoebe inclined her chin toward her napping chaperone wrapped in the warmth of her shawl. She assumed her chaperone's haughty demeanor. "Because it's not proper for a young lady to consort with someone of questionable birth." She planted her hand on her hip. "It's ludicrous. How can it be fine for us to play together our entire lives, but when new information comes to light, it's no longer proper?"

Emily put a finger to her lips before glancing in Christian's direction. She lowered her voice. "Your mama is looking out for your reputation. She has every intention of you making the match of the Season."

"If the season is anything like the Copelands' house party, I shall adore it." Her mouth curved into a dreamy smile. "I've returned as a woman ready for society." Phoebe grew solemn and peered down at Emily. "I promise I will fix it. Not another soul will find out, and I'll convince Mama." She flashed another wobbly smile. "You know I can persuade her of anything." She took one of Emily's hands. "Please forgive me. I need you to visit while I'm in London. You always have been my practical side. How will I survive without you?"

"Quite fine, I imagine."

"See, I need your level head so that things don't seem as dramatic. When you come to visit, you must bring some of your paintings. We will show them to the Royal Academy. I'm certain they will admit you on the spot when they see your talent, and then we can enjoy London together."

"You know I can't. Not now that I know the names of my birth parents. If anyone recognized me, I'd be turned away from every social call."

"Surely, they won't make the association."

"She's a famous opera singer. Her portrait hangs in the Royal Academy, and she's seen on the arm of the Duke of Bedford. We have the same coloring, same shaped face, eyes, nose, and cheekbones."

Phoebe's head lowered, and her shoulders drooped as if she grasped the extent of the problem she'd created in gossiping to her mama about Emily's true birth mother.

"Besides"—Emily waved a hand dismissively—"you will be busy attending balls, and I can't leave Christian." She peered at her younger brother, who'd barely seen five winters.

"By the end of the Season, I will certainly be married, but you can come and stay with me to paint my portrait." Phoebe beamed. "Or my portrait with the children I will have in a few years." She sighed. "Mama is beside herself planning for my coming out. I've been to one dress fitting after another. The seamstress forced me to stay still for so long, I almost turned into one of those Grecian statues."

And that was all Emily would get for an apology. Phoebe never stayed on a topic for long, but she was Emily's long-standing friend. Their nannies napped them in the same crib. They shared the same schoolroom. They practically shared every waking moment until the day when that horrible stranger came with all his questions. Emily's spirit wrestled with forgiving her. Extending grace to someone who had betrayed her trust posed a challenge.

Perhaps Phoebe was right and word wouldn't get out about her illegitimate birth. Besides, only the Dorsham women knew of her secret. Not even her own family had seen the page from the annals noting the mother she'd never met. Her parents had sat with her when she was of an age of understanding and explained how like a limb had been grafted into a tree, so, too, she'd been grafted into their family. She'd been stunned but reassured because of the immense love of her parents. It wasn't until she broached a marriageable age that the social ramifications of being adopted became apparent. Emily inhaled a deep breath. God help her. She would forgive Phoebe—as long as the gossip died.

"Do you like my new bonnet?" Phoebe asked, posing.

Emily admired the robin's-egg-blue hat with matching ribbons trimmed with silk flowers. "It's quite spring-like, and the color makes your eyes appear blue."

"That's the effect I was hoping for. It is my bane to have been born with boring gray eyes. Do you think I should add feathers? They would provide more height."

Emily's gaze traveled Phoebe's tall, curvaceous form. Next to her friend, Emily always felt like a miniature pony standing next to a Shire horse. Her petite frame, thin bones, and dark hair made her appear more like Phoebe's shadow. "I believe you're tall enough. An eligible suitor lacking in stature may feel uncomfortable with the illusion of your added height."

"Oh, Emily, you are quite right. How am I going to have a successful Season without you?"

"I'm certain you will make do."

Phoebe grabbed Emily's arm and glanced over her shoulder at Miss Neves, still asleep in the phaeton. "Speaking of eligible suitors, did you read the latest gossip from London?" Phoebe's eyes glittered.

"You know I don't read the gossip columns."

"Yes, yes." She rolled her gaze heavenward. "Complete nonsense, an abominable waste of time. The vicar wouldn't approve. But what would you do if you didn't have me to keep you abreast of all the ton's happenings?"

Remain in innocent bliss with a lot less nonsense crowding my head. Emily shrugged and afforded Phoebe a half smile.

"Lord Jacob Warren, the handsome rogue and youngest son to the Duke of Warren, dueled a couple of days ago at dawn over Lady Lucille Benton."

Warren. Emily's breath caught. Lord Jacob Warren. Was that why he'd come to Sylvanwood—to avoid scandal due to his duel?

"Can you imagine someone dueling over your honor? It's so romantic."

Shooting each other is not romantic. "It's illegal."

Phoebe's pink lips curled into a droll frown. "I do wish you were more prone to flights of fancy. The mere thought of someone dueling over me sends me into a swoon." She waved her muff like a fan in front of her face.

Emily's gaze drifted toward Christian as the colt drew close enough for him to pet.

Lord Warren had dueled over a married woman, which meant he was a known libertine. Heat rose into her neck. She'd associated with him and, merciful heavens , Samuel and Mr. Mathis had seen her walking with him in the field—alone.

"It was assumed Lord Benton would delope and leave them both with their lives and honor, but he didn't."

Emily's eyes snapped back to Phoebe. "They fired shots? Lord Warren killed a man?"

"He must have missed. The column referenced them both as alive." Phoebe stuffed her hand back into her muff and shrugged a dainty shoulder. "Lord Benton was said to have been in quite a rage afterward." She clasped her hands and muff to her heart. "I do hope I get an introduction to Lord Warren while I'm in London. I'm dying to see if he's as handsome as the gossip columnists say."

"Only trouble arises from associating with a known rake."

Phoebe shrugged.

A loud snore cut off, and Miss Neves stirred in her seat.

"Oh dear, the beast awakens. I better be off before she sees me with you." She leaned forward and kissed the air near Emily's cheek. "It was lovely to see you."

"Indeed." Emily didn't return the kiss because Phoebe turned and flittered back down the small hill.

"Don't worry. I shall fix this with Mama." Phoebe waved over her shoulder before hiking up her skirts and climbing into the luxurious phaeton. "With all haste."

As she snapped the reins, the horses pranced along the dusty road. The carriage hit a bump, and Miss Neves's head popped up. She glanced about.

Emily turned back to Christian. "Well, young man, I think it's time we head back home."

"Aww." Christian's shoulders slumped. "Five more minutes? Please?"

"I'm sorry, but there are chores to be done, and the day grows long."

Christian jumped down from the fence and drooped his shoulders. "But I don't want to do chores. I hate chores."

" Hate is a strong word."

"Fine. I dislike chores immensely."

Emily laughed as she strolled beside him. She held out her hand, and Christian slid his fingers into hers. "I'll tell you what." She peered into his mopey face. "If you return without a fuss, I will help you hoe the garden."

His head perked up. "Really?"

She nodded.

He leapt into the air, raising one fist high and shouting, "Huzzah!"

The quick change in his demeanor lightened her mood. Still holding her hand, he half walked and half skipped down the lane in Phoebe's wake. The woodlarks chirped around them, and robins plucked fat worms from the ground. As a cloud passed over the sun, the chill in the air returned, and Emily clasped her pelisse tighter around her shoulders.

Christian swung his head to shift his blond hair out of his eyes. "Why does Lady Dorsham no longer allow you and Phoebe to be friends?"

Emily stopped and peered into his innocent eyes. With a deep inhale and exhale, she asked God to give her the right words. "Some people believe that status and birth determine a person's worth. But they do not."

"What's worth?"

"A value, or a price someone would pay."

"Lady Dorsham thinks you're not worth nothing?"

"Anything." The correction sprang from her lips. She dropped to his eye level and took hold of his arms. "We all have worth. Do you know how I know?"

Christian shook his head.

"Because Jesus paid a high price for us."

"On the cross?"

"Indeed." Emily slid her fingers down his arms and squeezed Christian's hands. "You and I are precious to God." The sudden prick of tears burned the back of her lids. She stared down the empty lane for a moment before meeting his gaze. "And you are precious to me. Never forget that, no matter what."

Mama had given birth to Samuel, but she'd never treated Emily and Christian differently than her actual blood. Just because some stranger came around asking questions didn't mean anything would change. Emily had witnessed Mama's cousin, Sarah, give birth to Christian and reject the child she'd borne. Emily promised in that moment that she'd care for Christian, and no one would keep her from that vow.

She waited for Christian to nod and smiled when he did. They continued their stroll back to the parsonage while Christian rambled about the Edinburgs' new colt.

They reached the garden, and the yeasty smell of bread filled her nostrils. Mrs. Hayes must still be baking. Emily had helped her knead the dough earlier.

Christian released her hand and ran into the house, but Emily maintained a slow pace. Their discussion weighed on her heart.

She'd do anything to protect Christian from vicious town gossip—and growing up around dangerous rogues like Lord Warren.

J acob tipped his head back to survey the vast front fa?ade of Brownstone Hall. The dilapidated structure, dating back to the early 1700s and the reign of King George II, was still standing but in desperate need of repair. Its solid brownstone fa?ade remained in good condition, but the roof, trim, and windows had taken a beating by both Father Time and Mother Nature. Shutters hung crooked on one hinge—at least, the ones that hadn't fallen off into the overgrown foliage below. Vines crept over the entire first floor as though devouring the structure and dragging it to an earthly grave. Several attic windows gaped open, revealing a dark and empty interior. Some slate roof tiles were missing, and the chimneys appeared to have become nesting grounds for hawks or dens for other ghastly critters.

My aunt lives in this state? The hair on his arms bristled. The conditions looked almost as bad as when he'd been forced to live in a tumbledown shack of a barn for a month while he spied on the Luddites, who were rioting and destroying farm equipment.

The magistrate had insisted Jacob stay the night at their abode. Though he'd planned to go on to Brownstone Hall, the hour had grown late after retelling the tale of the attack and revisiting the site to reenact what happened. Now, after laying eyes on Brownstone Hall's condition, he was grateful for one last night of good sleep. He might not get any in this drafty old place.

All the strange looks when he mentioned Brownstone Hall made sense now. The manor was in worse condition than he'd thought. He sighed but set his jaw. Helping his aunt had to come second to his true mission.

With the butt end of his umbrella, he pushed a shutter off the steps and cleared a path to the front door.

"Milord, let me get that for you." His footman rushed over and lifted the object out of the way. A mangy cat hissed from underneath its shelter before darting into the bushes. The startled footman jumped aside and struggled to gain control of his awkward load.

Jacob ducked as the shutter's top corner careened in his direction.

His man redirected it, leaning the shutter against an overgrown bush.

Jacob stepped up to the arched stone entrance and attempted to lift the door knocker, but it didn't budge. The hinges had rusted. He rapped his knuckles on the oak door in desperate need of repainting.

At the sound, doves flew with flapping wings from off the second-floor window ledge. Minutes ticked by without an answer. He knocked a second time, waited, and then thumped a third, this time with the butt of his umbrella.

At the bottom of the stairs, the footman swatted at an insect hovering about his head.

"Go with the coachman." Jacob inclined his head to the servant. "See if there is anyone within the stables and find out what accommodations they have for the horses." He raised a warning brow. "Be sure to watch your step. I don't want anyone injured."

The men hurried to do his bidding.

Again, Jacob pounded on the door with his fist. This time a murmuring came from within.

"…impatient callers…gonna knock the blasted door down."

Jacob barely caught the muttered words before the door cracked open and an elderly manservant poked his head out. He squinted against the sunlight, his hair tousled as if he'd just been awakened from a nap.

"Good day, sir." Jacob flipped his calling card from his breast pocket. Between two gloved fingers, he extended the rectangular parchment inscribed with his full name to the man.

The servant grasped the card in one hand and patted his pocket with the other until he found his spectacles. He slid the wire rim up the bridge of his nose and around his ears, then held the paper out full arm's length.

"Ah, yes," the man yelled.

Jacob cringed at the volume. Was the man deaf?

The butler's face cracked into a smile. With a grand swing of his arm, he stepped back and opened the door wide. "Her ladyship is expecting you."

Jacob strolled into the foyer. The floors and wooden paneling appeared gray under a thick layer of dust. "Obviously." He couldn't withhold the sarcasm from his voice.

"Pardon, milord?" The manservant leaned forward.

Jacob shook his head as his gaze fell on the chair and blanket resting a few feet from the door. It appeared the man had been sleeping near the entrance. Brilliant. A nearly deaf butler.

He assisted Jacob in shrugging out of his coat, and Jacob handed the servant his hat and umbrella.

The musk of damp wood hung in the air. The little light spilling in through the film of dirt covering the windows illuminated the dust particles into a thousand shimmery stars. White sheets covered the furniture like little lingering ghouls and goblins.

The elderly servant's gait was slow and held the shuffled rhythm of a country-dance step as he led the way. The click of Jacob's boots echoed through the empty manor as he followed. Vague childhood memories of Brownstone Hall flashed—him running across well-polished, checkered floors and shouting to hear his echo in the grand foyer. Compared to their London townhome, Brownstone Hall had seemed like a sprawling mansion, but Jacob also had to have been only four or five years of age when he last visited. His brother's country homes were much larger, but this place had stood out to Jacob as fascinating with its high ceilings and gothic architecture. He'd overheard that his aunt had become a recluse and his mama had tried to convince his father to intervene, but it only threw him into a fit of rage and a rehashing of his last interaction with Jacob's uncle.

"I must say, milord, we are delighted at your visit." The servant opened the door to the front salon, which at least appeared to have been cleaned recently.

Jacob entered the room and strode to its center. Dated furniture formed a semicircle around a faded blue threadbare rug, but at least it was tidy.

"Do have a seat while I summon Lady Athol."

The man flashed Jacob with a delirious smile that reminded him of the Luddites' expressions when they conspired for a raid. Warning flags rose in Jacob's head, but he was being ridiculous. He was losing his touch if he felt threatened by a man who could barely walk. Besides, his family employed the servant.

The butler gestured for him to sit in a wingback chair with a well-worn seat that curved like a soup bowl.

"Er—I prefer to stand."

"Very well, then." He shuffled back down the hall.

Jacob paced the worn path on the blue rug. The floorboards squeaked with each step. Minutes ticked by on the round-faced mantel clock. A sturdy stone fireplace held the remnants of charred wood, and above the mantel rested a gilded picture of a Tuscan landscape. A draft blew through the chimney, and the smell of soot wafted under his nose.

Faded drapes framed the muntin window, and the ledge held a green tinge of mildew. His throat tickled from inhaling so much dust, and he wedged open the sash to allow in fresh air. A shutter crashed into the weeds below, joining its mate. Jacob poked his head outside and sucked in a deep breath.

How could his aunt live like this? His uncle had been a wicked and stubborn man, but who allows their home to fall into such squalor? He hadn't lacked for funds, for he was notorious for his traveling and dolling out money to clubs, card games, and women. Wouldn't he have maintained his own house if at the very least for his pride?

Brownstone Hall didn't need freshening up . It required an entire remodel. He had extensive work to oversee, and the weighty toil ahead pressed upon his shoulders.

He would be here longer than anticipated.

But would that be so terrible? He'd have more time for reconnaissance work to seek the proof he needed before moving forward into his new role. There was no rush to return to the city. The frivolity of London's capricious fashionable set grated his nerves. They'd often impress and win a man's favor with their lavish parties, but in the next moment, cut him down with their biting remarks to improve their situation. A simple country stay might be just the thing to help clear his head and regain some direction for his life—as long as he wasn't called away on a separate mission for the Home Office.

A pair of delicate lips slightly curved in a witty smile floated through his memory. Miss Emily Thompson's fresh and wholesome beauty drew him in a way the charming women of the ton hadn't done in a long time. At least, not since Sarah.

No. He couldn't allow anything to distract him from his real reason for being here. Definitely not a pretty face. He fingered a chunk of missing plaster under the windowsill. Not even this dilapidated building could distract him from his purpose—locating his son.

The butler's shuffle-step announced his return, along with two voices outside the drawing room door. Jacob glimpsed the hem of a white gown.

"He's your nephew." The butler's whisper was loud enough for the entire town to hear. "You must see him. He rode all this way."

The hem swished and then disappeared.

"You won't come to any harm," the man said. "I'll ensure it."

More murmuring.

The butler's voice rose. "These old bones can still take a man down!"

An elderly woman was pushed into the open doorway. Was this his Aunt Louisa? His memories of her were hazy, but he recalled her laugh filling the room and her moving in graceful sweeping gestures like a dancer across a floor. This woman with wisps of unkempt hair framing her face, draped in three layers of long shawls as if unable to chase away a chill, blinked at him with a panicked expression.

Jacob greeted his aunt with a smile, but she backed up like a skittish deer. She'd have fled entirely, but the butler's hands stilled her retreat.

"Aunt Louisa?"

She rounded to greet Jacob with a stiff smile. Her white hair, dappled with gray, peeked from under a lace cap. Worry wrinkles creased her forehead, but there were hints of her once being a young beauty with a slender nose and high cheekbones.

"W-welcome, my lord."

Jacob widened his grin, hoping to soften his aunt's unease. "Please, we are family. You may call me Jacob."

The butler nudged her with his elbow.

She swatted at his hand, and the end of her shawl jiggled, waving under her arm. A smile wobbled on her lips as she treaded lightly into the room. "Jacob, I'm pleased you've come."

His aunt's strange reception spoke otherwise, but he wouldn't call his aunt out on her hum. Not yet.

She stopped out of arm's reach and readjusted her wrap. "You resemble your mother. You're a handsome fellow, nothing like your father. How is she? Your mama, that is."

Jacob chuckled at her odd speech cadence and slight against his father. "Mother is well and sends her regards."

"How nice. Would you care for some tea?" Without waiting for an answer, she leaned back and hollered, "Maslow, fetch us tea."

"Right away, my lady." Shuffle steps retreated down the hall.

"Please have a seat." She tugged at her shawls and sat in a wooden chair positioned between the door and the hearth. She gestured for him to sit across from her.

Jacob sat on the sofa, or more accurately, sank into the sofa. It swallowed him until his knees were level with his chin. His backside was wedged into a hole. He struggled to pull himself out, to no avail.

His aunt said nothing, merely regarded his reaction, her body positioned on the chair as if prepared to spring away at any moment.

The awkward situation drew his sarcasm. "Do all your sofas consume people, or am I merely extra delicious?"

She pursed her lips, creating small vertical lines like the markings on a ruler.

He wiggled a bit and managed to cross one leg over the other. "Actually, it's quite comfortable once you get the hang of it. It could become the next fashion trend for furniture."

Her cheekbones rose, and the corners of her eyes crinkled, but she continued to pinch her lips together.

What does it take to get a reaction from her?

He laced his fingers behind his head. "So, tell me, dear Aunt Louisa. How fare things at Brownstone Hall?"

A noise sprang from her throat, and her lips parted into a burst of strangulated laughter. She appeared startled and glanced about as though the sound were foreign.

He smiled at her over his kneecaps.

She turned away, and another bout of choked mirth propelled forth despite her attempt to cover it with her hand. As soon as she appeared to gain some semblance of control, she turned in his direction again, and the hilarity began anew.

This was the woman he remembered from his youth. Not the timid, skittish woman who'd introduced herself today. Unable to resist, Jacob joined in the contagious laughter until the two of them had tears rolling down their cheeks. Today held his vote for the oddest day ever.

"I beg you to have mercy." Jacob raised his hands in surrender. "My stomach is already cramping."

She used the edge of one of her shawls to dab tears from the corners of her eyes and raised her voice so the butler could hear. "Maslow! Do hurry and come help us."

An awkward silence fell. Aunt Louisa dispelled the tension with a few sighs and a discussion on the weather while Jacob shifted to find some sort of a comfortable position until the servant could offer his aid. Please let the elderly man be strong enough to hoist me out.

The butler shuffled in carrying the tea tray and rested it on a low table next to Aunt Louisa. She managed whatever it was ladies did with the tea leaves, seeping them in the hot water.

Jacob rocked back and forth to see if some momentum could save him from his confines, but to no avail. "If I could have a little help."

Both his aunt and the butler ignored his plea.

His jaw clenched. Were they both hard of hearing? And why did his aunt call for the butler's help if she was going to pretend everything was dandy?

Aunt Louisa disposed of the tea leaves and poured a cup, handing it to Maslow, who carried it toward Jacob.

He lifted a hand with a slight shake of his head to decline. How could one partake of tea in this odd manner?

The carpet lip tripped the older man's unsteady steps.

The next moment, tepid tea bathed Jacob's face and the front of his cravat.

His situation wasn't improving.

"My apologies, milord. Let me find you a cloth." Maslow searched a side table drawer.

Jacob held back a growl and wiped the tea from his eyes with his fingertips and the drips from his chin with the back of his hand.

All the while, his aunt surveyed him judiciously instead of apologizing or lending aid.

Rage, the side of him he usually kept contained, welled, ready to explode in a Vesuvian eruption. He clenched his jaw to avoid scolding the inept butler and lashing out at his aunt for her horrible attempt at hospitality. Perhaps the woman was trying to run him out? Did she believe he was here to banish her to a dowager house? After this stunt, he might do just that.

He opened his mouth to launch into a tirade that would rival his father's outbursts.

No. I'm not my father .

The blaze of anger fizzled to a dull simmer. Once, when he was ten and two, he'd vented the rage that boiled inside him and directed a fierce tongue-lashing at his mother. The memory of her frightened expression still pricked him with guilt.

Jacob exhaled a deep breath. The herbal aroma of tea lingered over his skin. He cocked a brow at his aunt and resorted to the usual tactic that defused the igniting powder keg inside of him. "I had planned to bathe later, but this is much more efficient. Tell me"—he licked his lips and kept his tone flippant—"was that Hyssop or imperial tea?"

Her face fell slack, and she blinked wide-eyed at him. "Hyssop."

"Splendid choice. Good for the complexion."

Aunt Louisa shot Maslow a look.

He eyed his mistress with a stern glance. "Come now, my lady. No more of this."

Aunt Louisa tucked her chin to her chest, and a pink glow stained her cheeks.

"Terribly sorry, milord." Giving up looking for a cloth, the butler finally extended a hand to Jacob and pulled him out of the sofa's jaws. He gestured to a different chair. "This one is a bit more…firm."

Jacob snorted. "I don't see how it could be less."

A smile twitched the corners of Aunt Louisa's lips, and her fingers twisted the hem of one shawl. She peered at him through faded blue eyes. "You must think terribly of me, but I needed to know for certain."

"Beg your pardon?" Jacob tested this chair before sitting fully. "I'm not following."

"You passed my test."

"Test?" Jacob glanced at his aunt and then at Maslow, but the butler busied himself re-pouring the tea.

Aunt Louisa folded her hands and leaned forward. "I needed to ascertain whether you inherited the Warren temper. I won't abide a man who cannot control his anger."

Like my father.

"Ah. I see." Jacob relaxed back in the chair and forced a jesting tone. "And what would have happened if I'd exploded into a rage?"

His aunt's face grew serious. "I would run you off."

"Brilliant. Well, I'm glad I passed the test."

Maslow handed her a cup, then turned to him. "Do you care for sugar? One or two?"

"One."

Jacob accepted the tea and sipped. "You do this to all your visitors?"

"We don't have visitors." Aunt Louisa's gaze dropped to her hands.

Jacob snorted before he could think better of it. "I think I understand why."

"Please, do not believe the worst of me, but I will not be sorry for what I put you through. It is a small thing compared to…" She swallowed.

Jacob sipped the minty liquid and rested the cup and saucer on his lap. He studied his aunt. "Was your late husband prone to such bouts of temper?"

Her gaze slid to the floor, and she nodded. Even though she held the appearance of a mature woman, her demeanor was that of a scared child.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

She slowly raised her head to meet his gaze. Years of hurt and sorrow tightened her features.

"I, too, have been subject to such tirades." The mere memory of his red-faced father's snarling expression sent a jolt through Jacob's body. "I want no part of them either."

"Your father wasn't always so." Aunt Louisa's eyes grew distant. "Your father used to be funny and carefree, much like yourself."

"Truly?" Jacob couldn't imagine this picture of his father.

"He and I are only a year apart and shared the schoolroom. He had your quick wit and was forever sending myself and our governess into fits of laughter."

Really? Jacob leaned in. "What happened to him?"

She waved her hand. "I don't want to hang a cloud over such a lovely day. Another time, perhaps."

Jacob nodded and gulped his tea. His unsatisfied curiosity longed to press her for an answer, but there would be time, and he didn't want to disrupt their tentative relationship.

"How was your journey?"

He choked out a cough but recovered. "Eventful, but that, too, is a story for another time. Let's merely say I arrived safely."

"Ah, good."

Silence filled the room.

"I must apologize," his aunt said. "I haven't entertained visitors in an age. I fear I'm going about it all wrong."

"Not at all. Other than the sofa incident, and my tea bath, you're doing quite well."

A shy smile flashed across her features. "You must be tired from your travel. Would you like to be shown to your room?"

He shook his head. "I would enjoy a tour of the house. My brother has been good enough to offer my services and his coin to restore the hall to its former splendor."

"He mentioned such in his letter. It is very generous of both him and you. I'm afraid Brownstone Hall has fallen into a state of disrepair. I did my best to maintain appearances for a time, but my husband…" Her eyes hardened. "The truth is, he was a gambler and a spendthrift. There were minimal funds left when he passed. I sold everything I could to pay down his debts. Nothing much remains."

Jacob scooted to the edge of his seat and leaned over to squeeze her hand. "That is why I'm here to help. I only wish you had reached out earlier. Family must stick together."

She lowered her gaze and set her teacup aside. "Let me show you around."

As Aunt Louisa led him through the main floor, her spine remained straight and her hands folded. She kept glancing back as if feeling uneasy about being in front. He recognized the same meek mannerisms he'd often seen in his mother, always treading lightly to avoid his father's wrath.

The manor appeared to have good bones. No expense had been spared when his uncle's great-grandfather originally built the hall. Elaborate Corinthian cornice pillars lined the walls, leading to gold-inlaid ceilings. Large three-tiered chandeliers hung in the center of the dining room. Very little furniture remained, giving the hall a vast and desolate air. She passed through a library and into a well-lit conservatory, where mildew choked his lungs.

"Do you mind if I open a window?"

"If you wish." Her gaze swept over him, but she appeared withdrawn as though his true aunt had retired somewhere deep within. "This was a grand hall in its day. The former lord used to host impressive house parties. People would come and stay for months at a time."

"You never hosted any balls or house parties?"

"No." Her expression remained stoic.

Jacob threaded his hand through his hair and blew out a long breath. He opened another window, and something moved on the ceiling.

Egad . Bats. A shiver of disgust ran through him. Please don't let there be any in the bedchambers.

"Your uncle didn't care for visitors. He preferred to visit elsewhere."

"But you didn't?"

"I rattled around in this old house." She murmured, "My gilded cage." Pointing to a side table covered with a sheet, she said, "Please retrieve two candles from under there. Matches are in the drawer."

He folded the sheet back, sending a spray of dust into the air. A brass candelabra with half-melted candles stood underneath on a small table. He tugged open a drawer and found matches.

"Better to explore the rest of this decaying old hall and show you to your chamber so you can get settled. Bring those, in case the clouds shadow the sun." She glided up the side stairs like a ghost from the past.

The upstairs wasn't in too bad of condition. At least the roof seemed to have held. Very few water stains were noticeable on the ceiling. Although the room she said would be his bedchamber had little furniture, it had been cleaned and the bedding changed. A large window, with a balcony he wouldn't dare set foot upon, overlooked an overgrown garden and a pea-soup-green pond.

Aunt Louisa completed the tour of upstairs before leading him down a back staircase through the kitchens and back to the dining room. Her face had paled, and her shoulders stooped until the ends of her shawls dragged in the dust as though moving about the house sapped the life from her. Maybe the memories were too much for her troubled mind. She excused herself to nap and freshen up before supper.

He turned to the picture window and looked out over the overgrown garden of weeds. He'd met Uncle Cyrus once when the man visited their London townhome. Uncle had drunk deep into his cups that night. Jacob hadn't understood the details of their exchange, but his father ended up with a black eye and his uncle a broken nose. Jacob would never forget the sight of his uncle's eyes hardened with malice. Blood gushed from his nose as he spewed curses like vomit on his way out the door. Father forbid anyone to speak of Cyrus Athol again. Jacob learned of his uncle's death when the solicitor appeared at their door with papers for his brother Robert to sign.

Jacob sighed and glanced at the tiered chandelier coated with cobwebs and dust. His mind whirled, forming a list of projects and required materials. He needed to devise a plan. His assignment to fix Brownstone Hall seemed less daunting than meeting his son for the first time, his real reason for traveling to Sylvanwood. And convincing the family that raised his child that he would handle it from here. If all went well, his first priority would be much more rewarding. He strode outside and sought his footman.

The barn was sturdy. Besides an old mule, a couple of barn owls, and the stray he'd glimpsed earlier, his steeds were the only inhabitants. His men fed his horses in the far stall.

Jacob addressed his footman. "Ride into town and hire everyone willing to work. Make sure one of them is a cook—and purchases rations."

"Yes, milord." He bowed and saddled a horse.

Jacob surveyed the grounds. Vines climbed over a walled garden. A wild pasture required a horde of sheep or goats to bring it back into submission. The chicken coop still functioned, and from the clucking sounds, held occupants, but it too needed repairs before the roof caved in. He had an enormous task ahead of him, but he must remember his true intention.

He was here to locate Christian and return to London with his son.