“The child is clearly Miss Maryann’s, born out of wedlock, though she has the gall to pass her off as a sister. But one only needs a glance to see the truth. They are mirrors of each other.”
Bloody hell.
He said nothing. There was little point in arguing with his mother when she believed she was protecting the family’s name. She would see this decision as practical, even merciful. Still, he recalled the quiet devastation in Miss Winton’s expression when she heard they would be denied a home amongst her family.
“I shall speak to Miss Winton myself,” his mother said crisply. “She must understand the child cannot accompany her if she secures employment. A genteel orphanage will be arranged. And Miss Maryann must remain in the background until Elizabeth and Vivian are well-married. I will not risk the success of their seasons.”
Her logic was brutal. But so, too, was society.
Sebastian crossed one ankle over his knee, exhaling a long breath. “How may I assist, Mother?”
Her sharp gaze snapped to his face. “You will partner Miss Elizabeth at Almack’s. Escort her through Hyde Park. You shall pretend, for once, to be a dutiful son in public and lend your consequence to our endeavor.”
“I shall do whatever you require,” he said, offering her a deceptively pleasant smile.
Her eyes narrowed. “And what do you want in return?”
He laughed, standing and walking to where she sat. He bent and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “I am ever the model of devotion. How can you suspect my motives?”
“If you were truly devoted,” she muttered, though not unkindly, “I would have a daughter-in-law and grandchildren by now.”
“I am only eight-and-twenty. Did I not promise to marry before thirty? And with one of your hand-picked ladies, no less. How much more obedient, dutiful, and devoted could a man be?”
The earl smiled faintly, and his mother sighed, shaking her head.
“Did you at least look at the list of names I gave you?” his mother asked, her tone softening now that her displeasure had been aired.
“I have,” Sebastian replied, swirling the remaining brandy in his glass. “I confess I cannot quite envisage a future with any of the six you’ve so carefully selected. But I trust your judgment in such matters. I shall attend to them here at your invitation and meet each lady as you present her.”
His mother’s lips curved faintly, and he felt a flicker of satisfaction at having pleased her, however briefly. He loathed to see worry in her eyes. She rose with purpose.
“Leave it to me, then,” she said. “I shall speak with Miss Winton directly. Your father has business matters to discuss with you, so I will leave you both alone.”
With the sweep of silk skirts and a practiced tilt of her chin, she crossed the room and exited. The earl watched her go, his expression unreadable save for a brief flash of something that might have been affection or resignation.
Once the door closed, he exhaled deeply and gestured toward the chairs before his desk. “How goes the restoration of your manor?”
Sebastian moved toward the high-backed armchair and lowered himself into it with deliberate calm. “It occupies my time.”
His father chuckled and opened a drawer, pulling free several ledgers, the thick bindings worn from years of use. “That’s not a true answer.”
Sebastian gave a wry smile. “It goes well. The roof is sound at last, the cellar’s been cleared of rats and rot, and the third-floor corridor no longer smells like death. We’ve begun work on the main drawing room. I’ve found some excellent craftsmen in the nearby village—honest, capable men. With care, I think the place might be habitable before Michaelmas.”
His father nodded, clearly pleased. “I always thought there was promise in that estate. The bones are good. It was severely neglected by the previous owner, of course, but you’ve an eye for structure. And value.”
Sebastian leaned forward and took one of the ledgers. “I do enjoy the work.”
They settled into the rhythm of familiar conversation—drainage repairs at Crowthorne Farm, replacing tenant cottages near the North Field, and a possible partnership with a shipping venture in Bristol that showed early promise. His father had marked the margins with neat, inked notes, and Sebastian offered his own observations, pointing out risks and potential yields with quiet focus.
Still, part of his mind was not in the room.
Try as he might, he could not stop wondering how Miss Winton would respond to the quiet devastation his mother was about to deliver. He scowled and scrubbed a hand down his face. It was foolish to be so distracted. Irritating, even. Their exchangehad been little more than a few sharp glances and sharpened words—hardly enough to trouble a man who had spent years cultivating disinterest and had his share of beautiful women.
And yet Miss Winton lingered.
Like the scent of rain on dry stone. Elusive, but impossible to forget.
CHAPTER 4
