Slumped behind his desk, his uncle barely resembled himself. Tonight, he was not the Duke of Prescott, but a grieving father.
This surprised Dev.
At times, Harold had obsessed over the disappointment he’d been to his father. He had spoken of how their relationship had deteriorated to perfunctory greetings and encounters. Nonetheless, Dev should not have assumed his grace would be unaffected by hisson’s death.
It had been stupid of him.
Of course, his uncle believed he’d lost a son today.
A son with whom he’d failed to connect, a son whom he’d all but shunned, but a son, nonetheless.
And he not onlybelievedhe’d lost his son, hehadlost him.
Harold and Stewart could never return.
As Dev walked across the room, his aunt rose from her chair and stepped into his arms.
He knew that she’d wept, but also that she would attempt to keep her dignity about her. She was a warm and loving woman, but she was also a duchess. She would not wish for her close family, even, to see her lose control.
“Oh, Devlin,” she said as he embraced her, “thank you for trying to find him. But Lucas was right to call a halt to the search. It is too unsafe. These damn cliffs are too dangerous.” She pulled away and dabbed at her eyes. “Poor, dear Sophia. She was inconsolable, I think. She loved him so dearly, and Harold loved her. At least he found love in his lifetime. My sweet Harold.”
Dev swallowed hard.
“I’m so sorry, Aunt. What of you? You must be exhausted.” He led her back to the chair and assisted her as she dropped into it. She seemed frailer this evening than she had been the night before; smaller even.
His uncle rose. “I will assist you to your chamber, my dear. Arrangements can be made tomorrow. Perhaps his body will wash ashore tonight…”
There would not be a proper funeral.
Mr. White and Dev’s father remained, sitting across from one another at a table near the end of the room. Dev wondered if the other guests would stay for long. A memorial service would be in order. The entire household would fall into mourning.
His father approached him then and, without warning, wrapped him in a tight embrace.
It was nearly too much to bear. This deceit they’d all perpetrated. This involved more pain than they ever could have imagined.
They should have imagined it though.
Perhaps Sophia had. She’d shown more reluctance than any of them.
Thank God, she was upstairs, sleeping. He would do his best to shield her from some of it, if possible. But as the grieving widow…
Oh, hell, what had they done?
Now What?
Amodiste arrived the following morning, not Madam Chantel, but a lesser-known seamstress from Dover, to make up several mourning dresses for Sophia, her grace, and a few of the family relatives who were staying on.
After that, the days passed in a blur.
Mr. Scofield and Sophia’s mother departed for London shortly after Harold’s services. Dudley must have left as well. Perhaps he’d decided the goings on at Priory Point were not festive enough for him. She wondered even, if seeing him had been a drug-induced nightmare. She’d meant to ask Rhoda but never got the chance. She, Mrs. Mossant, and her sisters had left Priory Point the day after Harold’s accident. Sophia couldn’t blame them.
Sophia was to remain with her in-laws.
It had been decided that she would travel with the duchess to the ducal country estate, Eden’s Court, in Kent and remain there indefinitely. The duchess had need of her often and demanded much of Sophia’s time.
The duchess, it seemed, found a special solace in spending time with her new daughter in-law. It was as though by talking with Sophia, speaking of her younger son’s final days, she could keep him with her somehow. She often asked questions about Harold’s last days, memories he’d shared with her. And then sometimes, she’d ask Sophia to repeat them again.
And so, Sophia spent hours with her mother-in-law, speaking of a man as though he was dead, knowing he was not, to a woman who mourned him greatly. It was the least she could do.
