“Excellent. Now.” Morgan straightened his cravat and adopted a solemn expression. “I solemnly swear to be on my best behavior, not to corrupt your wards, and to keep Kirkhammer Hall standing for the duration of your absence.”
“Morgan.”
“I’m serious! Mostly.” Morgan’s grin was unrepentant. “Go. You’ve been married one week. You deserve this.”
Ambrose sighed, but his eyes were warm. “Thank you. Truly. Just… do be careful with them.”
“They’re in excellent hands. Mine.”
Ambrose shot him a look that suggested exactly how reassuring he found that statement, then moved to crouch before his nephews. Arthur and Philip immediately detached themselves from Imogen and rushed to their uncle.
“Now then,” Ambrose said, his hands on their small shoulders. “I need you both to be good for Uncle Morgan. The same way you’d be good for Aunt Imogen and me. Can you do that, my little gentlemen?”
“Yes, Uncle Ambrose!” Philip chirped immediately as he nodded enthusiastically.
Arthur, however, crossed his arms and looked decidedly less cooperative. His lower lip jutted out in a pout.
Imogen knelt beside Ambrose, her expression softening. “Arthur? What’s the matter, dear?”
“I want to go back to France too,” Arthur mumbled, his voice small but stubborn.
Imogen’s smile faltered for just a moment, guilt flickering across her features.
Morgan saw it: the weight of what these boys had lost, the life they’d been torn from when their parents died. France wasn’t just a country to them. It was home. It was their mother and father.
“Oh, sweetheart.” Imogen reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind Arthur’s ear. “I know you miss France. But I promise, I absolutely promise, that we’ll take another trip there. All of us. As a family. Would you like that?”
Arthur’s pout softened slightly. “Really?”
“Really,” Ambrose confirmed, his voice gentle but firm. “You have my word. We’ll go back to France together.”
Arthur considered this, then finally nodded. “All right, then.”
“That’s my boy.” Ambrose ruffled his hair, then stood.
He and Imogen exchanged one last lingering look with the twins before climbing into the waiting carriage.
Morgan and the boys stood on the front steps, waving as the carriage rolled down the drive and disappeared around the corner.
The moment it was out of sight, a strange silence settled over the group. Morgan looked down at Arthur and Philip. They looked up at him. He cleared his throat.
“Well then.”
This is going to be interesting.
Thankfully, before the awkwardness could stretch any further, a calm voice came from behind them.
“Your Grace?” Morgan turned to see Miss Helen Winslow, the boys’ governess, approaching with her usual composed demeanor.
She was a woman in her early thirties, sensible and unflappable. She was exactly the sort of person one wanted managing two energetic seven-year-olds, and a good replacement for Imogen, who was now Ambrose’s wife.
“Miss Winslow, perfect timing,” Morgan said as he gestured to the twins. “I’ve arranged for you and the boys to travel to my country estate today. The carriage is ready whenever you are.”
Arthur frowned. “Why can’t we stay in London with you, Uncle Morgan?”
“Because,” Morgan said, crouching down to their level, “my house in Sussex is right next to the beach. You can explore the shore, build sandcastles, chase the waves. It is far more entertaining than stuffy ol’ London, don’t you think?”
Philip’s eyes went wide. “The beach?”
