“Why?” Matthew repeated, undaunted.
“Because…because…” Gabriel floundered for a response, at a loss. Anyone else would have been cordially invited to go to the devil, but it was hardly the sort of thing one could say to a child.
Westwood coughed into his fist, amusement kindling in his eyes. “You’re waging a losing battle,” he advised. “Olivia—my niece—is just two, but I’m given to understand from my sister that ‘why’ is amongst her favorite words.”
Matthew glanced between the two men. “Who’re you?” he asked of Westwood, rocking on his feet in a way that suggested an overabundance of pent-up energy.
“The Earl of Westwood,” Westwood said, and his keen eyes swept over the boy. “I’ve been charged with finding you a governess.”
“And a nanny,” Gabriel put in.
Matthew made a scathing sound in the back of his throat, his eyes sweeping back to Gabriel. “He’s a toff, too,” he said of Westwood, dismissively.
Westwood had clapped a hand over his mouth, and his shoulders shook with barely-restrained mirth. Gabriel wondered absently if all children were so exasperating, or if this was merely a skill that Matthew had cultivated.
With a sigh, he gestured to Matthew to sit, and the boy collapsed onto the carpet, tucking his legs underneath him, his eyes fixed to the plate balanced upon Gabriel’s knee, and he squirmed, pressing his lips together as he stared covetously at the slices of gingerbread.
“Would you like some?” The offer escaped before Gabriel was aware of it, and Matthew’s eyes brightened as he lurched forward to snatch a piece from the plate, cramming half of it into his mouth.
“Thanks,” he said. “Mama makes thebestgingerbread.”
Though the offer had not been extended to him, Westwood filched a slice as well, leaving only one remaining for Gabriel, who gave a disconsolate sigh at finding his afternoon snack reduced by two-thirds within a handful of seconds.
“It really is good,” Westwood remarked. “I’ve never been much for gingerbread, but there’s something about this…” He shrugged, unable to articulate further.
“It’s lemon juice,” Gabriel said slowly, with a deep sense of disquiet. “It cuts the sweetness of the molasses.” He couldn’t say where the knowledge had come from; there certainly wasn’t enough lemon juice in the gingerbread for the taste of it to come through over the ginger and spices. But heknewit was there. “You said your mother made this?”
“It tastes just like hers,” Matthew said, around a mouthful of gingerbread. “Why can’t I tell anyone about amnesia?”
Gabriel felt he ought to have known that the boy wouldn’t have found himself distracted for long. “How much did you overhear when you were listening at the door?” he asked.
Matthew gave a quick shrug, his eyes darting away as if he knew he’d done something he ought not have. “You said you lost your memories. Where’d they go?”
“I don’t know,” Gabriel said. “I suppose they’re locked away somewhere in my head. Still, it is not an affliction with which many are familiar. There are those who would think poorly of me if they knew of it, which is why you must not speak of it.”
Matthew considered that for a moment, chewing his gingerbread in silence. “How’d they get locked away?” he asked finally. “D’you got a key?”
Aware of both Westwood’s keen interest and his own limited experience in dealing with children, Gabriel said, “I had an accident. I was thrown from a horse and struck my head, and when I woke, I had lost whole years of memory. There’s nokeyin the literal sense, but just occasionally a sound or a scent might jog loose a memory.”
With a little sound of consternation, Matthew shifted to pull one leg out from under him and rolled up the leg of his short pants to just above his knee. “I fell out of a tree last summer,” he said, in a childlike attempt to relate. “Got a scar right here.” He pointed to a thin, jagged line across his skin, the puckered flesh of the scar mottled pink and white.
Amused, Gabriel said, “I’ve got one, too. It’s covered by my hair, but you can feel it just here.” He sifted his fingers through the hair just above his right temple, and Matthew jumped up from his spot on the carpet, creeping closer and at last reaching out to run his fingers along the spot that Gabriel had pointed out.
“Cor,” he said at last. “That’s a bad one. I bet it hurt loads.”
It had, in more ways than one. But the sympathy on the child’s face was compelling, touching. “It did,” he said gravely. “But it’s not the scar that hurts any longer; it’s the things it cost me. Can you understand that?”
“Your wife,” Matthew said, with a child’s candor, his bright eyes unflinching.
“Yes. And my child.” Somehow the hurt was deeper just now, with Claire’s boy so close at hand, a living reminder of what he had lost, what he might once have had. He cleared his throat to alleviate the inconvenient lump that had risen there. “I suppose your mother is likely wondering where you are.”
Matthew’s eyes widened. “I forgot,” he said, and turned for the door, skittering away with all the irrepressible vigor of youth, and then his footsteps were pounding on the rugs lining the hallway outside, retreating toward the rear of the house.
Westwood gave a soft huff of a laugh, sipping his brandy. “I don’t guess he’s had occasion to learn the bowing and scraping yet,” he mused.
Gabriel muttered his agreement, privately hoping that Claire would not determine it necessary for her son to learn the proper respect and deference due him. The thought of the boy performing on command with the rote recitations of courtesy and titles and bowing—it was off-putting in the extreme.
“Are you certain,” Westwood began tentatively, “that the boy isn’t yours?”
