Mr Jones rolled his lips to suppress a smirk.‘Not sure shaving is the right word.But he’s optimistic.’
‘Did he say where he was going?’
‘To me?’He spluttered a laugh.‘No.But he did ask a lot of questions about the city.If I knew which was his father’s club, where he used to go, that type of thing.He asked if I knew his brother.’Mr Jones’s eyes widened, his mouth opening and closing fast.‘His friends.The duke’s friends, I mean.He asked if I was familiar with any of them—’
‘Save your embarrassment, Mr Jones.I know Arley has a younger half-brother.’Lorelei pushed down the gnawing humiliation.She knew nothing of the woman her husband had turned to after she had become stretched and worn by pregnancy, after the long labour had nearly taken her life and the slow recovery that had followed.Lorelei fingered the buttons of her black bodice.Of all the duties she’d taken on until Arley came of age, settling the allowance for her husband’s mistress and young son had been a task she’d left to Tillman.She could never quite bring herself to manage it.
‘Mr Masters?’she called, and he appeared in the doorway.His face went strangely fuzzy, all bristles and beard, dark eyes and knit brows.The room wobbled as she blinked the blur away.‘When can we go looking for him?’
Chapter four
Tillmancrossedtheroomand grasped Lorelei’s hand to hold her upright.‘Your Grace.You need to eat.’
‘I need to find him—’
‘A hungry cow’s no good to the calf,’ he said, squeezing her fingers.‘Not that I’m comparing you to a cow.Simply noting that a hungry mother can’t help her child.I’ve already sent out a few good members of staff to see if they can find him.The horses need to rest, so I’ll have to chase a cab.Cecil has warm water waiting in the washroom.Tea and toast will be ready once you’ve washed and refreshed yourself.’
She started another protest, then swayed again, blinking fast.
‘I know he’s your worry,’ he muttered, a little lower to keep his words away from the caretaker.‘But you are mine.You’re no good to him if we have to call the doctor because you’ve swooned in the rush.We’ll be in a cab before the hour’s out, if you like.But I am not opening a door or pulling out a step until you’ve at least eaten some toast.’
‘I do not swoon,’ she chastised, then softened.‘But I would love a cup of tea.’She leant closer.‘Do you know the way to the washroom?I’ve forgotten.’
‘Down the hall and around the corner.You want the stairs that go up.Staff rooms and the kitchen are further along, downstairs.’
As the duchess set off, Tillman followed a few feet behind her.He stopped at the bottom of the stairs while she climbed them, watching for a stumble or a falter.She walked slowly, taking in each painting that lined the walls before she continued.At the top, she paused and stared at one frame for three full, tight thumps of his heart.Tillman jogged up the stairs to the landing, prepared for a sway or a slip.But she shook her head, ascended the final step, and then continued down the hall.
‘Second door,’ he called, watching until she disappeared and the door closed.
Tillman took a few quiet steps up, scanning the painted line of crotchety old men with medals and lush red coats draped over their shoulders, swords at their sides.He paused by the topmost portrait.
Of course William would be here, standing sentinel at the top of the stairs, casting his eye over everything.
Tillman let his gaze drag over the globs of brush strokes that made up his former friend.He did not know if there were portraits of the deceased duke at the country estate.He only ever met the duchess in her office, and he made his way there through the lower staircase, up into the belly of the house and then down a hall to tap at the door at the same time every day.
He liked it better that way.If he were forced to walk past his old schoolfriend, he’d not be able to stop the twist in his stomach from tying all of him into a knot.
Lord, he’d thumped him the day they’d met.Just one straight punch.Then William had stumbled to his feet, brushed himself off, and thrown a punch back.Like a proper green boy, he’d tucked in his thumb and nearly broken it.
But then, he had only been ten.Before they came to the academy, most boys that age didn’t need to know how to throw a punch.They knew how to throw one by the time they left, and Tillman had also taught the duke how to dodge, how to sneak a hit, how to pinch, and how to stand his ground.He’d taught his friend how to read a bigger man and know he was bluffing, and that all you had to do to get away without a flogging was to hold your ground.And bloody William…
He’d used all of it to become king of the school and then set his sights on the Lords.
‘I want to devote my life to politics.Will you run the estate for me?I couldn’t trust anyone else,’ he’d said.
Tillman knew what that meant.William wanted to be prime minister, or the like.A school like the academy offered Tillman a small expansion of opportunities, but for the boys like William—the ones born with the world at their feet—it just seemed to teach them how to keep hold of the everything they already possessed.After all, it wasn’t as if William could climb any further up the ladder from where he was.What else was there for him to strive for?
And so, as William established himself in London, Tillman had checked the fences.
And on the day William had given his first speech in the House, Tillman had spent the day up to his knees in mud, digging out a blocked drain that had waterlogged a field.
As William had formed alliances, Tillman had overseen the harvest.
As William had spent pounds like they were pennies on entertaining and tailoring, on memberships and making donations to causes that furthered his career, Tillman had tended to the lambing.
And when William married a quiet, compliant woman because of her name and nothing more, Tillman had taken extra care with the stables, hired the best hands and sourced the calmest horses because riding made her happy.
Maybe not happy.
