“Eight o’clock?” he asked, nearly lowering his head to kiss her again. He very much wanted to. At the same time, he didn’t want to give her the impression he was taking liberties at every turn.
She frowned but quickly laughed. “You said you were busy.”
“What?” Owen laughed as well. “Yes, I did, and I am.”
“Another time, perhaps,” she said, and theperhapsgave him pause. He hoped she meant it. Now, he would be tormented all night thinking of her eating alone in her large, silent townhouse.
However, Adelia didn’t look bothered by that. “I shall do as you say and write those letters.”
Owen kissed her hand and left her to it. First, he had a meeting with the family banker, since despite his father saying he would retire from politics and focus on business, the elder Burnley was actually doing neither.
His parents had been only slightly mollified by the incarceration of the Earl of Dunford. They remained lost, entirely without purpose or the ability to experience contentment, and definitely not happiness. Thus, Owen was currently keeping an eye on business and filling his family’s hereditary seat in Parliament. And he still hoped to get answers for his father. He just didn’t know how. Perhaps Smythe would make a courtroom confession—or a scaffolding one—explaining his motive.
After the bank, he went to sit with his parents. Exactly as they had been over the past weeks, the drapes were drawn, both lord and lady of the house were decidedly at home, clad in black, and the servants were tiptoeing around as if terrified to make a sound.
Owen wanted to yell. What Sophia’s death had done to his vibrant mother and boisterous, charming father was as though Smythe had brutalized them as well. At seeing their continued pain, fury bloomed within him. He stalked into the gloomy parlor, thumping on purpose to make noise in the mausoleum of a home. He hoped bringing his mother her favorite toffee would brighten her day even a little, and he also hoped to distract his father with news of the day.
Expectedly, his mother set the toffee tin down on the sideboard without opening it and returned to her seat. Enjoying a sweet was now beyond her grief. After a few minutes of trying to carry on a conversation with himself, Owen watched his father close his eyes and lean his head back, shutting out the world.
In keeping with his mother’s current lackluster approach to anything social, she neglected to offer tea. When he suggested it, Owen was reminded of his earlier conversation with Adelia, and he wanted to tell them all about her. However, unless he kept her last name a secret, any mention of her would only cause more hurt.
At least he could ask his father about what had been bothering him. “Do you know a mining engineer by the name of Beaumont?”
His mother gasped. His father’s eyes snapped open, and he reached over and patted his wife’s hand.
Owen frowned. “What’s wrong?”
“It pains your mother to hear the name,” his father said. “It was wasted time when we could have had Sophia home, not far away in France.”
Then he recalled. “Sophia stayed with the Beaumonts in Paris, didn’t she?”
“Yes, but I don’t recall any of them being engineers or in mining.”
Perhaps only an unsettling coincidence. Owen had gone over to bring his sister home, meeting Monsieur and Madame Beaumont and their daughter, Annalise. Sophia had been sorely sad to tell them goodbye after a diverting year polishing her French vocabulary and her accent, as well as seeing much of the Continent.
“How do we know them?” Owen asked.
Surprisingly, his now always-silent mother spoke. “Madame Beaumont—Emma to me—we came out together, sharing a first Season. Her parents were neighbors of my parents. Emma met the Beaumonts during her second Season. They were only here for a few months, and she fell madly in love with the eldest son. Your father and I have visited them more than once. Her husband is an extraordinarily successful wine exporter.”
Owen knew his mother’s assessment of success meant her friend was very wealthy indeed.
“I met their daughter,” Owen said. “Is there a son, perchance?”
“Two, in fact,” his mother said. “One is in the clergy, and the other is in the family wine business.”
“And they are all in France?”
“As far as we know,” his father said. “Why do you ask all this?”
He didn’t want to say too much. “I know of a Beaumont who works for an English mining company, and I was curious as to why the name sounded familiar. Now, I know.”
“Which company?” his father asked as Owen could have practically guaranteed he would.
Luckily, before he had to say the dreaded name of Smythe, his mother made a clucking sound of annoyance. “Enough. It is unseemly to talk of business, especially after…” She trailed off.
Owen sighed. Everything would always be categorized asbeforeorafterSophia’s untimely death. And he wondered if any conversation would ever be deemed seemly again.
When he left an hour later, he continued to be puzzled as to why he thought he’d seen Beaumont somewhere. He was positive he hadn’t met the man in France. Suddenly, it struck him. Beaumont had been with Smythe outside Teavey’s, but there was nothing sinister about the earl and his manager boxing together.
