Sighing, Clay made his way to the first floor of the stately house. He had enjoyed a productive start to his stay here. He had added six additional guards after an inspection of the periphery of the home. He had interviewed servants. Most importantly, he had kept his distance from the duchess.
He had not seen her since their clash in the drawing room the day before. Since then, he had taken each of his meals in his chamber, for he did not wish to break bread with her. The ears and eyes he had on the streets of London had reported to him that for the moment, all appeared quiet on the Fenian front. Authorities were doing their damnedest to run those responsible for Burghly’s death to ground—as well they should—so that was likely the reason for the silence.
He could only hope after the passing of a fortnight without incident, he would be permitted to leave this unwanted post far behind him. If there was no hint of further acts of vengeance upon the duchess, and if the Fenians retreated to lick their wounds, and if the most alarming thing to have occurred thus far during his stay here was the disappearance of his bloody cat, he could not imagine any means by which Leo or the Home Office would compel him to stay.
The longer he remained here, the more dangerous it was to his sanity. To his restraint. To his ability to keep from either kissing or throttling the Duchess of Burghly.Damn it, he hated thinking of her as her title, for it seemed so far removed from the girl with the bewitching smiles and the tender kisses. The girl who had defied her father to sneak away and meet him…
But then, that girl had been a fantasy.
And the fantasy had become the duchess.
And he remained the duke’s bastard.
Hopeless, all around.
He made his way to the door that led to the gardens and exited, expecting he would find the cat somewhere within the neatly kept labyrinth of shrubbery. It did not take him long to hear a familiar meow, but he was not quite prepared for the discovery he made when he rounded a well-manicured hedge.
There, on a stone bench, sat a young, dark-haired boy, holding the missing cat in his lap. Long-limbed and thin-framed, he was a collection of awkward angles that rather put him in mind of himself at a younger age. It had not been until he’d gained his twentieth year that he had finally begun to grow into his own massive frame, and even then, it had taken more years for him to build his muscles and strength.
Clay stopped. He recognized the boy from the pictures he had seen on his first day at Burghly House. The same pictures he was forced to walk past each day, only now he had become more adept at ignoring them.
It was the lad.
Herlad.
The sight of him was akin to a blade sinking into Clay’s gut. Ara had a son. Of course she did. She had also had a husband. Another life that spanned far more years than the stolen weeks they had once shared. His rational mind knew these undeniable truths. But the sight of him, in vivid color before Clay, holding his bloody cat, took that knowledge and made it real. So real it burned in his gut and the backs of his eyes.
The boy looked up at him, his expression wary. “Who are you, sir?”
Canny of the little fellow not to trust anyone. Clay supposed that was the way of things now the lad’s father had been murdered. He approached the bench, flashing what he hoped was a reassuring smile. He had no inkling of what to say to children. Possessing a scarred visage and a massive form did not precisely endear him to them.
He bowed. “I am Mr. Ludlow. Perhaps a more apt question would be who are you, and why have you stolen my feline?”
The boy’s eyes went wide, and here at last was the resemblance to Ara in the blue-violet gaze. “I am the Duke of Burghly, and I do not thieve cats, sir. I found him wandering in the halls, and as we were both lonely and in need of sunshine, we decided to tour the garden.”
How strange to think Ara’s son—this pale, sad-looking youth—was a duke. Clay bent and gave Sherman a head scratch. The cat rose on his hind legs with a sound of approval that was half purr, half meow. “Did you have a dialogue with him, Your Grace?”
The lad blinked, his brows snapping together. “Of course not, sir. He is a cat and cannot speak.”
He scratched his chin, feigning perplexity. “How very odd, then, that you would know he was lonely and in need of sunshine.”
“I surmised,” the lad said, looking proud of himself.
“Ah, clever fellow, Your Grace,” he said. “For a moment there, I was convinced you were capable of speaking cat.”
The lad laughed, giving Sherman a long stroke over his back. The traitorous cat showed no inclination to leave his new friend’s lap. “You are making a sally, Mr. Ludlow.”
“Yes,” he admitted, realizing he was actually enjoying this odd little exchange. The boy’s dark hair caught his attention once more. For some reason, he had imagined the lad’s hair would be copper like his mother’s. “Does anyone know you are here in the gardens on your own?”
“Are you one of the men who has come to protect us from the bad men who murdered Papa?” the lad asked instead of answering his query. “I overheard the servants talking.”
The question took him by surprise. “Yes,” he answered simply. “I am. And this furred menace is my most trusted partner. He was a gift to me from a friend with a talent for rescuing stray animals. His name is Sherman.”
The lad nodded. “Sherman. I do think the name suits him, though I had him in mind as Mr. Patches. He is a most agreeable feline, sir.”
“Most discerning of you, Your Grace,” he intoned seriously, “for his full Christian name is Mr. Sherman Patches.”
Ara’s son smiled at him again, this time revealing a missing front tooth. “You are strange, Mr. Ludlow, but I think I like you. I know I like Mr. Sherman Patches. Only do not tell Mama you have him here. I asked her for a puppy a few days ago, and she told me animals do not belong inside the home.”
