She nodded as she took the letter and briefly looked at it. She frowned. She had asked the gentleman to have the silver notebook for Ewan delivered, but he was requesting that she come pick the item up. Certainly she wasn’t about to do that now, not when Ewan’s family had descended to do God knew what to him.
“Thank you, Smith,” she said, and shoved the note into her pelisse pocket.
She glanced at Ewan. Throughout the entire conversation, he had continued to stare, unmoving, down the hall. She wasn’t certain he had even attended to any of it.
She took his hand gently. “Are you ready?”
He sighed and signed, “No. But there is little choice in the matter.”
She drew a deep breath herself and they moved to the parlor together. He opened the door slowly, allowing her to enter the room first. Her gaze darted around the room and she took in the scene.
Matthew and Aunt Mary stood by the fireplace. Matthew’s arms were folded and his usually kind face had taken on a hard expression of anger she’d never seen from him. The duchess looked equally upset, though she was clearly fighting to maintain some decorum.
Baldwin and Charlotte’s mother sat on the settee together, their discomfort clear even as they acted the hosts for the three people across from them.
Ewan’s mother was one of them. She was thin and angular, with a pinched face and cool eyes that lifted as they entered the room, flowed over Ewan behind Charlotte and then darted away. Like he was nothing. Like he wasn’t the son she hadn’t seen for...well, it had to have been years. Probably since all the fighting for Ewan to take his proper place as Duke of Donburrow.
But if her expression was cold, that of the men on either side of her was worse. Charlotte recognized them, too, from ballrooms and parlors across Society. On the Duchess of Donburrow’s left was her youngest son, Roger. He was portly and red, like he drank too much. It had aged him considerably, despite the fact that he was only three and twenty. When he looked at Ewan, he bit his lip, his face scrunching like he was trying to decipher some difficult puzzle.
On her right was her middle son, Josiah. He looked more like Ewan, really, but with none of the bright intelligence or gentle kindness on his face. His blond hair was cut short, as was current style, and his angular face was free of facial hair. If the duchess looked indifferent and Roger curious, Josiah was something else entirely.
Charlotte looked at him, and her heart stuttered. He was staring at Ewan with pure hatred. It was so intense that she wished to throw herself in front of the man she loved. To protect him.
It seemed the young man had not forgiven his elder brother for prevailing in the fight over who would be duke. Three years later and he still looked bitter.
Ewan glanced at her and she nodded, desperate to do anything to help.
“Good afternoon,” he signed as all in the room rose at their arrival. “I’m sorry I was not at home, I didn’t realize you were coming to call.”
The Duchess of Donburrow shot Charlotte a look as she translated Ewan’s words, but then stepped forward. “We were at the estate in Lindborough that you were sokindas to grant to us.” She glanced at her two sons, who remained hanging back. “I thought we would come to call for the holiday.”
Charlotte held her breath as the duchess reached Ewan. Still there was no connection in her eyes as she looked at her oldest son. Nothing but blankness and cool detachment. A muscle in Ewan’s jaw twitched, and it took everything in Charlotte not to take his hand in comfort.
“Welcome,” he signed, and then nodded at his brothers in greeting.
“Did he hireyouas a translator?” Josiah sneered as he turned and stalked to the sideboard, where he dug around in the cabinet and withdrew a bottle of sherry. His younger brother tracked the motion with hungry eyes, but didn’t move to request a portion. Without asking leave, Josiah poured himself a hefty portion and downed it in one long swig. “It’s Lady Portsmith now, isn’t it? Sister of Sheffield, here?”
Out of the corner of her eye, Charlotte caught the way her brother stiffened. She fought not to do the same. These men were bullies, raised to be so by their wretched father. She refused to rise to their bait, no matter how cruel and horrible their tones were.
“Indeed,” she said. “His Grace and my brother have long been friends.”
“I’d heard about the little secret language,” Josiah continued with a snort. “And here it is. Seems likeallrumors are true.”
He shot his brother a meaningful look, which Roger turned away from. The youngest of Ewan’s brothers looked very uncomfortable at present, and something anxious stirred in Charlotte’s stomach. She didn’t like the undertones that seemed to course between the men.
She didn’t like the hatred that still shot toward Ewan from Josiah.
“Please, won’t you sit again?” Charlotte asked, stepping into the role of hostess as a means to calm the tension that filled the room. “Does anyone need freshening of their tea or…” She looked at Josiah with a gulp. “Drink?”
Roger and the Duchess of Donburrow took their seats again. Charlotte could not help but notice that Ewan’s mother never touched him. She once again hardly looked at him as she settled into her place. Ewan sighed almost imperceptibly and fetched some chairs from the perimeter of the room as Charlotte moved to his aunt and cousin at the fireplace.
“When did they arrive?” she asked, meeting each of their gazes firmly.
“Half an hour ago,” Matthew managed through clenched teeth. “Demanding to be seen, refusing to be put off. I swear, I should put my fist—”
Aunt Mary reached out a hand to rest on her son’s forearm. “That will do us no good, my love. Though I cannot fault the sentiment.”
“No,” Charlotte whispered. “I don’t like it.”
