Carefully, she lifted the covers and slipped out of bed, glancing over her shoulder most of the time to see that he was not wakened. She drew on her robe and slippers, took the stub of the candle from the nightstand, and quietly exited.
Her curiosity extended well beyond Griffin’s sleeping countenance. She turned in the direction of her former room, stood outside the door for several long minutes simply listening, then let herself in.
The child lay in the very center of the bed. He slept on his side, one thin arm lying outside the blankets, the other thrust under his pillow so his head was raised at an angle.
Olivia drew closer, raised the candle so its light fell over the dark, tousled hair and narrow face. She had questioned Griffin’s decision to bring the boy to the hell; now she understood it. Features that were so careworn, so drawn even in sleep, had no place on the face of a child, and the child had no place anywhere but with the man who would be his father.
Did he look like his mother? Olivia wondered. Or could Griffin only see those features that set the child apart from the man?
Nathaniel Christopher Wright-Jones. The name was bigger than he was. He was slight of build, with bony joints, sharp cheekbones, and a small, pointed chin. In contrast, the hand she could see seemed too large an appendage for the frail delicacy of his wrist and arm. She imagined him moving about with the charming awkwardness of a pup, trying to negotiate walking and running with hands and feet that he hadn’t grown into.
His lashes were long and dark, but just beneath them Olivia saw the same violet shadows that she’d seen beneath Griffin’s. She lowered the candle, but these shadows were too deep and remained like bruises on his pale skin.
Motherless boy.
Olivia did not assume that what she saw on the child’s face was evidence that he grieved. It was as likely evidence that he’d borne a weight much too heavy for his thin shoulders and for far too long. Perhaps it was evidence of both.
His legs twitched beneath the blankets, and he flopped abruptly onto his back. Olivia sucked in a breath as the left side of his face was made visible to her. The thin white scar bisecting his cheek was the twin to Griffin’s own and no accident or coincidence could account for it. Olivia did not attempt to restrain herself. She leaned over the bed and extended her hand, traced the scar with the very tip of her finger, a touch so light that not even the baby-fine hairs on his face were disturbed.
She let herself out of the room as quietly as she’d entered. This time when she paused on the other side of the door it was to press the sleeve of her nightgown against her eyes and wait for the hot, salty tears to subside.
Olivia pushed herself upright in bed when theGazettethumped against the window for the second time. Griffin continued to sleep like the dead beside her. Sighing, she rose, found a few coins at the bottom of her reticule, and jingled them in her palm as she went to the window. She unhooked the latch and pushed the window open, then leaned out and waved to the tribe of young ruffians below.
It took three tries, but the smallest among them gave her the pitch that she was finally able to catch. She slipped the paper under her arm, tossed the coins, and waited long enough to make certain the little fellow snagged something for his effort.
“Impressive.”
Olivia pulled the window closed and turned. Griffin was sitting up, leaning against the headboard, and rubbing his bristled jawline with his knuckles. He cocked an eyebrow at her and offered her a sleepy half smile that made her heart trip over itself. She threw the newspaper hard at his head.
Griffin ducked, but late, so the corner caught him on the shoulder. “Bloody hell, Olivia.” He unfolded the paper over the nightstand so that the pebbles the boys sometimes put in the creases to give it a bit of weight didn’t drop, roll, and scatter to the floor. “What was that in aid of?”
“How did you come by your scar?”
He blinked, frowning. It was dawning comprehension that flattened out his mouth and narrowed his eyes. He stopped knuckling his jaw. “Elaine laid open my cheek with her riding crop. We had been married three months, no more, and I’d just confronted her with my suspicion that she’d taken one of the footmen to our bed.” He fingered the scar. “This was her response.” His hand fell away and curled into a light fist at his side. “You’ve seen him, I take it.”
Nodding, her complexion going a little pale at what he’d described, Olivia dropped to the window bench and clutched the edge of it on either side of her. “Last night. After you’d fallen asleep. I went to his room because I was curious. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I wanted benefit of your fresh opinion on it, uninfluenced by my own.”
“How does he explain the scar?”
“He doesn’t. He says very little. Gardner told me he spoke to no one save his mother on the journey from Bath and every inquiry was to her welfare and comfort. While she was being cared for here, in the same room he now occupies, I might add, he rarely left her side. A room was prepared for him above, but he would have none of it. He went there obediently when I insisted, but by morning he’d found his way back to her bed.”
“She died here?”
“No. She wanted to return to Wright Hall, and as she and I both knew her stay there would be brief, I allowed it. There can be no doubt the last journey hastened her passing. I believe she was depending upon it. I cannot say whether the child blames me for allowing her to have her way. Sometimes I imagine it is accusation that I see in his eyes; sometimes what I see is nothing at all. The latter is far more concerning.”
Olivia became aware of how tightly she was holding on to the bench. She eased open her fingers and let the blood flow again. “How did Lady Breckenridge explain the scar?”
“As the child’s failure to defend himself properly during a fencing lesson.”
“Bloody hell.”
“Precisely.”
Olivia shook her head, pinched the bridge of her nose as she thought. “He could not lift a sword, let alone wield it.”
“That was my thought also.”
