With nimble fingers, Jack loosened the tangles and set about putting things to rights. “It’s not kind of you to tease your brother.”
“He’s not vexed because I teased him,” Annie grumbled. “He’s vexed because I beat him at his own game.”
“Everybody knows that. You don’t have to prove it all the time.” Jack reached the end of the plait and looped it back to her nape to secure it with a ribbon. “Besides, is it even fun anymore if you wineverytime?”
“Yes,” Annie and Redmire answered in unison.
Jack patted her shoulder to let her know the plait was done. “I’m not asking you to lose on purpose. I’m asking you to give him some time to be with his friends once in a while. You have many interests. I’m sure you can find something else to entertain you for an hour or two.”
She glanced at the tea tray. “Can I have a pistol?”
“No,” Jack said firmly.
Annie sighed. “Not until I’m fifteen?”
“Knives at fifteen,” he reminded her. “Pistols when I say so, which might be never.”
She scowled. “I can do what I want when I’m one-and-twenty.”
“God help us all.” He motioned toward the door. “Find something to do besides tormenting your brother. We’ve almost finished our meeting. Afterward, Redmire will teach us all how to play backgammon.”
Annie brightened. “Maybe I’ll best Fred at that, too.”
She skipped from the room, closing the hidden panel on her way out.
Redmire swung a disbelieving glance toward Jack. “What is the point of a secret room if everyone knows about it?”
“The government doesn’t know about it,” he pointed out. “It’s still a valid hiding spot.”
“For what?” Redmire asked. “You don’t keep contraband in here. You keep it in your cellar with the rest of your enormous wine collection.”
“It’d be like finding a specific strand of hay in a haystack.” Jack finished his glass of champagne. “Besides, the good stuff doesn’t stay long enough to become evidence.”
“Liar. With twins like yours, I’d wager it takes all day to finish a glass of wine. You need a wife.”
Jack crossed his arms. “I do not.”
“You are the very definition of a man in want of a wife. Wealthy, unmarried, in possession of two incorrigible brats—”
“Adorablebrats.”
“—a large home in need of a mistress—”
“I have a housekeeper.”
“—and perhaps a few more maids capable of plaiting hair—”
“My entire staff can plait hair, from the cook to the butler,” Jack informed him imperiously. “I taught them myself.”
“Wife,” Redmire repeated. “Get one.”
“I had one.” Jack’s throat was suddenly too tight. “That’s how I ended up with twins. She’s gone. We’re not going through that again.”
He hadn’t married her so she could manage his household. He’d married her for love. The only reason he’d marry anyone. Their union had been perfect. First the two of them, then the four of them, living in bliss.
And then came typhus.
The same year that Napoleon lost more soldiers to typhus than were killed by the Russians, much smaller epidemics had blossomed closer to home. Jack’s children had been spared. His wife Sally had not. No matter how much blood the doctor had let or how much antimony he’d administered, Sally only grew weaker and weaker and eventually never opened her eyes again.
