Pouting with all the exuberance of youth, Matthew heaved a great sigh and kicked his feet, slamming the toes of his shoes against the table’s legs until the steadythunk thunk thunkthreatened to drive Claire mad.
“Matthew,” she said severely. “We do not kick furniture.”
“But I’mbored,” he said, slumping in his chair. “There’s no one to play with.”
Mr. Bradshaw smothered a chuckle in his palm, and Claire cast a glare at him. “Nevertheless,” she said. “You must mind your manners. His lordship was very kind to let me bring you here. We cannot repay him with poor behavior—even if thereisno one to play with.” She swiped her hands on a cloth and crossed the floor to where Matthew sat to drop a kiss on the top of his head. “As soon as the nursery is finished, Mr. Bradshaw will let you know. But for now, you must stay here and begood. I have an awful lot to do yet—”
“I can help!” He leapt up from his seat so swiftly that he nearly knocked his head against her chin. “Please, Mama. I can help.”
“Matthew—”
“I can take the gingerbread to his lordship. I know where he is; I saw him when I came downstairs.” He snagged her hand in his, tugging on her wrist. “Please, Mama.”
Mr. Bradshaw cleared his throat. “I can’t see the harm in it,” he said diplomatically. Sternly he added, “But you ought to thank his lordship for the toys, eh?”
“Oh, yes.” Matthew grinned. “I will, sir!”
Claire hesitated. In the nursery, Matthew would be kept quiet and out of sight. There would be little opportunity for Gabriel to be exposed to Matthew’s presence, little reason for him to bother with her son.Hisson. It would be so much easier, so much kinder—forallof them—to keep them out of one another’s paths. But to refuse would be to cast suspicion on herself, perhaps even to appear ungrateful for the consideration Gabriel had shown the both of them.
“All right,” she said at last. “But do comestraightback.” She set the plate of gingerbread in Matthew’s waiting hands. “Carry it carefully,” she said. “Andnorunning.”
“I’ll be careful,” Matthew assured her, and the very moment he was through the kitchen door and out of sight, she heard the muffled—yet still telling—sound of his footfalls picking up speed.
Claire pinched the bridge of her nose as Mr. Bradshaw coughed into his fist to cover a laugh. “I hope his lordship understands what he’s gotten himself into,” she sighed. “Matthew is going to make a shambles of this household.”
∞∞∞
“I have to say, Leighton, I never took you for the honorable sort,” Westwood said. “You surprise me. I thought you’d go on being a miserable sod for years and years.”
“I’m still a miserable sod,” Gabriel protested, lest Westwood be tempted to accuse him of a surfeit of altruism. “I simply have no interest in taking my own ill-humor out on the rest of the world any longer.” How very close he had come to turning into a man made in his father’s image was a sobering thought. In brief fragments of memory and dreams he’d found shreds of the man he had once been, had felt something beyond the wretched emptiness that had enveloped him since his accident. Even if the pain of loss was shattering, at last he had feltsomething. The nothing-shrouded world he had lived within these last years had become unbearable.
“Still,” Westwood persisted, “I imagine the boy’s mother is grateful.”
Gabriel wasn’t entirely certain what, precisely, Claire was, butgratefulhad not been the word he would have used to describe her. There had been a strange reticence in her, a sort of uncharacteristic skittishness that he wasn’t sure what to make of.
He sighed, scrubbing at his face with his hands. “I don’t want another death on my conscience,” he said. “I only want—” He broke off abruptly as the patter of approaching feet drew near the library door, the quick, short footfalls an anomaly in a house that was otherwise quiet and still.
A moment later Matthew appeared in the doorway, his hair disheveled and his chest heaving. “Hullo,” he called. “Mama sent me with your gingerbread, sir.” He lifted the plate in his hands, which, to his credit,didcontain a few slices of gingerbread—but they had slid very nearly to the edge of the plate, one slice dangling dangerously over the edge.
“Speak of the devil,” Gabriel murmured.
Matthew took a few cautious steps into the library, his gaze traveling across the shelves that lined the walls. “Cor,” he said. “You got a lot of books.”
Westwood snickered, and Gabriel slanted him a glare.
“I do,” he said. “What are you doing out of bed, Matthew?”
Matthew held out the plate, which wobbled unsteadily in his hand as Gabriel lunged to retrieve it. “Couldn’t sleep what with the noise,” Matthew said distantly, his gaze traveling around the room. “What’s ‘nesia?”
Gabriel smothered a groan, pressing his hand to his eyes as he let the plate rest upon his knee. “Matthew, were you eavesdropping?” he inquired.
Matthew shrugged. “I listened at the door when I came down earlier,” he said, entirely without shame as only a very young boy could be. “I was trying to find Mama. What’s ‘nesia?”
“Amnesia,” Gabriel corrected, wondering why he was bothering to explain himself to a six-year-old. “It’s something you must never repeat to anyone.”
“Why?” Matthew inched closer, his head canted to the right, brows lowered over vivid green eyes.
“Because it’s not something I wish anyone to know of,” Gabriel said, striving for the sort of stern, severe expression that had always worn when he, himself, had been a child.
