Oliver had shifted in his sleep, the blanket slipping down to expose one thin shoulder. Edward reached over and pulled the covers higher, tucking them around the boy’s slight frame.
His hand hovered over Oliver’s hair. The urge to touch him, to smooth back those dark curls, rose from somewhere deep. Tooffer comfort. To be the uncle Leonard would have wanted for his son.
He pulled his hand back.
He did not deserve to offer comfort. Had not earned the right to affection. He had failed Leonard. Had let his brother walk out into the night and never brought him home. Had stood in their father’s study, silent and compliant, while the old duke disowned his own son.
What right did he have to this child’s trust? What right did he have to pretend he could be the father Oliver had lost?
Lady Sophia’s words echoed in his memory.
You are the closest thing he has to a parent now.
She was right. She was always right, damn her. And he was failing this boy just as surely as he had failed Leonard.
Edward rose from the chair. He took one last look at Oliver, so small in that large bed, so alone in this house full of servants and silence.
Tomorrow he would do better. He would try, at least.
He walked to his own chambers and did not sleep until dawn.
CHAPTER 17
“What about the Dowager Countess of Foxwell?”
Alice peered at the application in her hands, her brow furrowed with concentration. They sat in the morning room of the Guildthorpe townhouse, sunlight streaming through the windows, the twins mercifully occupied with their governess upstairs.
Sophia shook her head. “The dowager countess specified that she requires a man with all his original teeth. Baron Whitfield has, by his own admission, only fourteen remaining.”
“Fourteen.” Alice set down the paper. “Out of how many?”
“The standard tooth count is thirty-two.”
“Good heavens.” Alice picked up her tea. “What happened to the other eighteen?”
“He does not say, but I suspect we are better off not knowing.” Sophia consulted her notes. “He also mentions that his eyesight has deteriorated to the point where he cannot distinguish faces at a distance of more than three feet.”
“Three feet.” Alice set down her cup with a clink. “Sophia, this man cannot see or chew. What exactly is he offering a potential bride?”
“A barony, twelve thousand a year, and an estate in Devonshire with excellent views of the sea.” Sophia allowed herself a small smile. “Views he can no longer appreciate, admittedly, but they exist nonetheless.”
Alice burst out laughing. “You are terrible.”
“I’m practical.” Sophia flipped through her stack of applications. “Somewhere in London, there is a woman who values financial security over dental aesthetics. We simply need to find her.”
“What else does the baron say about himself?” Alice reached for the application. “Surely there must be some redeeming qualities beyond his income.”
Sophia handed it over. “He enjoys gardening, although he admits he can no longer tell the difference between roses and weeds. He keeps three cats, all of whom he describes as excellent conversationalists. And he plays the pianoforte, but he notes that his performances have declined since he lost the ability to read sheet music.”
“How does he play without reading the music?”
“From memory, apparently. He knows seven songs. His favorite is a ballad about a shipwreck.”
Alice pressed her hand to her mouth, her shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. “Stop. I cannot breathe.”
“He sounds rather charming, in his way.” Sophia retrieved the application. “A man who can laugh at his own misfortunes is not without appeal.”
“What about Lady Catherine Morley? The earl’s widow from Kent?” Alice leaned forward, composing herself. “She wrote that she seeks a quiet life in the country with a gentleman of steady habits. Baron Whitfield certainly sounds steady. One cannot get into much trouble when one cannot see what one is doing.”
