“We found something in one of the books—” began Raven.
“The pages fell open as I was lifting it out of its crate—” explained Peregrine.
“We weren’t snooping,” interjected Hawk.
Wrexford tried to imagine what could possibly be making them so worried about his reaction.
Charlotte, however, was quicker to make a guess. “Books make excellent hiding places for things one wishes to keep private.”
He was about to dismiss the suggestion that his father—a gentleman of exemplary character and spotless reputation—had anything to hide with a rude snort, but then thought better of it.
We all have secrets that we wish to keep to ourselves, he told himself.
“Whatever it is,” she continued, “Wrex appreciates that you have found it for him.”
Looking reassured, Raven revealed the piece of folded paper he was holding and offered it to the earl.
Wrexford hesitated for an instant, torn between curiosity and dread. So much had been left unsaid between him and his father . . .
However, forcing a smile, he took it and flicked it open. The sight of the familiar looping script—written in the distinctive shade of blue ink that his father had always favored over black—made his throat constrict.
Memories, memories.
But aware that all eyes were on him, Wrexford made himself concentrate on the words. It was a letter—an unfinished one—put aside, said the last line, until later that day.
Only later had never come.The date scrawled at the top was the day the late earl had suffered a fatal heart spasm while out riding with his closest friend.
He looked up. “It appears to be the last letter my father ever wrote.” To his surprise, his voice sounded perfectly normal.
Charlotte, however, wasn’t fooled. A look of sympathy pooled in her eyes. “To you?” she asked.
Wrexford shook his head. “To someone whose name apparently begins withA.” He handed her the paper.
It was a short missive and took only a moment or two to read.
“Hmmm.”
“Is that all you have to say?” he asked, keeping his voice light despite the emotions churning in his gut.
“For the moment, yes.” Charlotte turned her attention to the Weasels. “You boys have done a splendid job in organizing the books for Wrex. But the hour is late, and it’s time for you to head up to your eyrie. You have lessons with Mr. Lynsley first thing in the morning.”
A shadow of disappointment flitted over Raven’s face. “But who is ‘A’?” he blurted out.
“Sweet dreams,” she said with smile that didn’t belie the note of steel in her voice.
“Oiy,” Hawk tugged at his brother’s sleeve. “G’night, m’lady. G’night, Wrex.”
As Peregrine was already heading for the corridor, Raven reluctantly allowed himself to be led away.
“I couldn’t tell the lads even if I wished to do so,” said Wrexford, once they were alone. “Damn me for being such a stubborn fool.” Guilt tangled with regret, making him feel achingly vulnerable.
“Ye heavens, you must stop taking on the sole blame for the misunderstandings between you and your father, Wrex,” counseled Charlotte. “He admits it right here”—she waved the letter—“that he should have made the effort to reach out to you—”
“Reach out about what?” he demanded.
“About ‘A’ and whatever relationship the two of them had.” She took a moment to reread the words. “You’ve told me that your mother died when you and Tommy were very young. Your father must have felt lonely over the years, especially when you both left home.” She allowed a brief pause before adding, “Did he never have . . . a romantic liaison?”
“A good question.” Wrexford watched the flame of the desk lamp flicker within its glass globe. “As a child, one certainly doesn’t think of those things. I do remember that he would take occasional trips to his estate in West Yorkshire where he kept a small stud for breeding hunting horses.”
