Jory stared. “He’s Bea’s son? Our nephew?”
“Only in the strictest sense. He has no claim on us. I thought all of that would have blown over by now. And you have met him,” Bran added. “You were the one who let him into our house in the first place.”
Jory recoiled at the accusation in Bran’s tone. “I— What? When?”
“Last summer. When he came looking for Bea.”
“Last summer? And neither of you told me?” Jory desperately tried to recall the occasion. He’d met his nephew and he hadn’t even known?
“It was nothing to do with you.”
“Nothing . . . He’s family, for God’s sake.”
“No, he’s a mistake.”
“How come nobody forced her to get married?” Jory couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his tone.
“She was far too young for that, and there was no question of her keeping the baby.” Bran’s tone was brusque.
“How old was she?”
“Does it matter?” Bran made an impatient noise. “He was born when we were sixteen.”
Sixteen . . . Jory would have been seven. In his first year of boarding school . . . “Is that why I had to spend Easter in London with Aunt Sarah?”
Bran nodded. “Mother took Bea away for the final months, and Father didn’t want to be left with you running around underfoot.”
Jory couldn’t believe it. He could still remember the rush of hurt and bewilderment when Aunt Sarah came to pick him up from school instead of his mother, and told him only that his parents had thought it best that he didn’t go home. He’d been devastated at not seeing his best friend from Porthkennack, Patrick.
By the time summer holidays came around, Patrick had found a new best friend. One who wouldn’t be away for the greater part of the year.
And Bea had been . . . Well. Bea. Perhaps a bit quieter than before? Jory honestly couldn’t have said. Maybe Bran had been a little angrier—but then he’d never had a great deal of patience with his much younger brother in any case. “What about the baby?”
Bran shrugged. “Given up for adoption, obviously. She really should have got rid of it, but you know how girls that age are about babies.”
It. As if it hadn’t grown into a young man since then.
Christ. Jory had a nephew only seven years younger than he was. That was less than the age difference between Jory and the twins. And the barmaid at the Sea Bell was that nephew’s sister, and Mal—the young man Jory had been interested in—was his best friend.
Jory didn’t often drink, but right now he felt the situation justified it. He marched out of the study without another word and headed straight for the dining room, which was where Bran kept his very expensive single malt whisky.
Bran wouldn’t be happy about Jory drinking it, which would make it taste all the sweeter. Christ, he’d known Bran was . . . how he was, and of course Bran didn’t have any children of his own, but how could even he be so callous about this poor unwanted child? Jory grabbed the decanter, poured himself a generous few fingers of whisky and tossed back a gulp. Smooth as it was, the burn of the alcohol didn’t hit him until after it had gone down. Jory shuddered and put the glass down, blinking a little. Maybe he’d drink the rest later.
Maybe he’d chuck it down the sink. He needed to think what he was going to do.
He was still sitting there when Bea returned home.
Jory heard her get in before he saw her. Not because he’d been listening for the door, but because Bran didn’t catch up with her until she was directly outside the dining room, and angry whispers tended not to stay whispers for long.
They came in to talk to him together, as they always did. Jory had often wondered how much of the united front was just that—a front—but they were no closer to giving anything away tonight than they ever were. The whisky churned uneasily in Jory’s stomach. He wished he’d finished his pasta instead.
Bea spoke first. She had what Jory thought of as her networking clothes on: a sleek, expensive navy dress that still looked crisp and uncrumpled despite the heat of the day. “We’re not going to fight about this.”
“Nice of you to let me know,” Jory snapped back.
“You’re making a fuss about nothing,” she carried on coolly. “The matter was dealt with last year.”
“The matter. That’s an interesting way to refer to your own flesh and blood.” Chair legs scraped against the stone floor as Jory stood without conscious decision.
Bran stepped forward, putting himself between Jory and Bea. As if Jory were a threat, for Christ’s sake. “Don’t you think Bea’s suffered enough in all this, without you adding to it?”
Guilt stricken, Jory slumped back down into his chair, his head in his hands. “I just can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”
He heard a chair being pulled out beside him, then Bea’s cool, even voice. “We thought you had enough on your plate, what with Gawen’s troubles.”
Jory’s head snapped up. “And what about Gawen? Don’t you think he deserves to know his cousin?”
“No.” Her tone was firm and final. She softened it when she spoke again. “There would be no advantage for Gawen in getting to know Devan Thompson. How is Gawen, by the way? I haven’t seen him for a while. Is the schoolwork still going well?”
It was a blatant attempt to change the subject. Jory hated himself, a little, for succumbing to it. “Very much so. He’s pretty much certain to get the maths prize this year.”
“And Kirsty?”
“She’s fine.”
“And are the two of you any closer to . . .?”
She left it hanging. Jory looked away. “I wish you’d leave that alone. It’s not going to happen.”
“But if you—”
“Just leave it, all right? How do you think you’d feel if it was you and this Devan’s father?”
Bea recoiled as
