“I don’t miss her,” Jeremiah said, undoing the braid. “Sometimes I go look at her picture so I’ll remember what she looked like. Mostly I try to remember for Joshua.”
“It’s all right not to miss her. And you were very, very little when she died, Jeremiah. I’m surprised you recall her at all. My mother died when I was little, and I can’t put my finger on any particular memories, though the scent of lilies makes me think of her. I used to look at her portrait too.”
“Was she pretty?”
“She was.” Ethan realized it was true. “She was tall and blond and had happy eyes.”
“Joshua has those. Miss Alice is tallish, but not blond, but her eyes are happy too, mostly.”
“And she’s pretty,” Ethan reminded his oldest son. “Maybe even prettier than either of our mothers.”
That seemed to address the topic to Jeremiah’s satisfaction, because he remained quiet—and up before his father—for the entire remainder of their ride. When Ethan and Jeremiah turned up the lane toward the Tydings stables, the Marquis of Heathgate emerged from the bridle path on his chestnut mare.
“Greetings, your lordship.” Ethan wasn’t exactly glad to see his neighbor, though he was glad to have Jeremiah up before him. “Finding some peace and quiet on a summer morning?”
“Nearly autumn.” Heathgate smiled at the boy, a surprisingly friendly expression Ethan could not recall seeing before. “Master Jeremiah, good morning. Did you finally wear that pony out?”
“He did.” Ethan answered for his son, unwilling to hear Jeremiah explain to his lordship that Papa had plucked him off his mount’s back for sentimental reasons no grown man would want to confess to another.
“Enjoy your place of honor while you can, young man,” Heathgate said. “Another year, and you won’t be fitting so handily in your papa’s saddle.”
“Another year, and Papa will buy us horses from Lord Greymoor.”
“Down you go for now.” Ethan settled his son on the pony’s back. “Look after your beast, and tell Miller to get his lazy arse out here to tend to his lordship’s mare.”
“Yes, Papa.” Jeremiah winked at his father, and Ethan had all he could do to keep a straight face as he dismounted.
“Sometimes”—Heathgate’s voice was thoughtful—“the hardest part about being a parent is not laughing. That young man is going to break hearts when he’s older. He has the family good looks, and he pays attention.”
“Sometimes he pays too close attention.”
“And then they ignore you completely,” Heathgate commiserated, climbing off his mare. “If children sat in the Lords, it would be a very different place. Probably better.”
Ethan regarded his companion as Miller led their horses away. “Do you spread sedition like this among your peers?”
“Of course. It isn’t treason to speculate on methods of improving governance, though that’s hardly why I trotted up your lane.”
Ethan walked in silence beside the marquis, realizing the call wasn’t entirely social. With a sense of foreboding, Ethan escorted his lordship to the house, signaled a footman, and led his guest into the library. “One hopes you came to enjoy a cold drink and a little neighborly company.”
“One can hope that,” Heathgate countered when the door was closed, “but one would be attributing to me a delicacy of manners I lack.”
And the true Marquis of Heathgate subtly stepped forward.
“You don’t come bearing another picnic summons, do you? Pardon me. They are invitations, not summonses.”
“More like writs of habeas corpus, issued by the womenfolk.”
“Right.” Ethan did not smile, since having Heathgate in his home was not quite comfortable. He liked the man, respected him, and enjoyed his family.
And yet, he made Ethan… uneasy.
“Tydings is pretty,” Heathgate said, glancing around the room. “Greymoor claimed this was so, and was intrigued that you’ve achieved a graceful home without a lady in residence. Did your late wife take the place in hand?”
He was clearly stalling until the refreshment had been delivered, and Ethan was willing to delay whatever Heathgate came to tell him.
“Barbara was not much inclined to domestication,” Ethan said. “I’ve done what I thought necessary to the place, and thank you for the compliment.”
“I knew the lady.” Heathgate turned his attention to the view beyond the French doors. “You are kind to her memory.”
Ethan was not going to ask his neighbor in what sense he’d known Barbara. She’d taken lovers before and after they’d married, and she’d been a devastatingly attractive woman—physically.
Heathgate surveyed his host. “You are silent. I wasn’t one of her amours, if that’s what you’re wondering, but you probably knew exactly with whom she disported, where and when.”
“I kept close enough track of her,” Ethan responded, and then—thank God—the footman’s tap on the door provided a distraction. When Heathgate was ensconced in a cushioned chair, a cold glass of lemonade in his hand, Ethan settled in the opposite chair and consciously relaxed his shoulders.
Heathgate withdrew a thin sheaf of papers from his waistcoat. “You won’t want to leave this where it can be easily stumbled across by prying eyes.”
“What is it?” Ethan set the papers aside, sensing instinctively he did not want to know their contents.
“My notes, taken when interviewing Benjamin Hazlit regarding certain individuals I’d asked him to investigate.”
The idea of Heathgate and Hazlit coupled like hounds on a scent made Ethan’s blood run cold.
“This would be of interest to me?” Ethan wanted to toss the papers out the French doors, but kept his expression bland.
“I’ve already warned you Collins is back in the country,” Heathgate said. “I thought it prudent to know what he and his former associates were up to, so I set Hazlit to the task.”
“In God’s name, why?” Ethan rose, unable to maintain a cool facade. “It’s damned near twenty years in the past. Why do you insist on bringing this up?”
“I don’t know.” Heathgate sipped his drink, a man in no hurry to cease prying into Ethan’s old wounds. “Greymoor’s countess claims I have a cruel streak.”
“You surely didn’t discuss this with your sister-by-marriage?” Ethan’s voice was tight, and he let his temper show in the glare he leveled at his guest.
“I haven’t discussed your personal business with anyone. Not even Lady Heathgate knows the details, and I do not keep secrets from my wife.”
“I wish to hell you wouldn’t discuss this with me.”
“I don’t believe that’s so.” Heathgate rose and went to stand beside Ethan where he stared out his mullioned windows. “You don’t like what I know of the crimes against you, Ethan Grey, but you’d like it even less were you completely alone with the knowledge yourself. You’d begin to doubt your memories, tell yourself you exaggerated and embellished when you did not and you do not. Read those notes, my friend. Those jackals ambushed you once. You must not let them ambush you again. Think of your sons and your family.”
“I am thinking of my sons. What would you have me do? Turn myself in to the constable as a sodomite to implicate Collins in something easily dismissed as distasteful schoolboy nonsense?”
“You don’t have to do anything.” Heathgate put a hand on Ethan’s shoulder and just let it rest there. To be touched by another man while discussing Hart Collins was at once unbearable and oddly comforting.
Heathgate removed his hand, but apparently wasn’t done passing out advice. “There’s a middle ground between calling Collins out in some misguided attempt at revenge and ignoring him completely. The middle ground is to be informed and prepared, and thus to give yourself the upper hand if and when he acts. He has lingered longer in England this time than at any point previous, and no longer has the funds to debauch his way across the Continent.”
Ethan let out a held breath, his mind comprehending Heathgate was offering him wisdom, even if his body
