“I’m forty-three years old. I may yet live another year.”
A tense silence ensued.
And then James understood his son, was, in fact, genuinely worried.
He’d lived with a father whose job could have killed him anytime. He thought of Mariana watching her father blown off a jetty, lost forever, and the pure joy she took in the memory of the meresight of green fields, and all the boys lost in the war, and— His astonishing good fortune swept over him, and suddenly all frustration with his son gave way to patience. And gratitude.
He took pains to gentle his tone.
“You’ve naught to worry about. Miss Wylde is a guest in a boardinghouse. I am a guest in this boardinghouse in an entirely different wing. I have no intention of dying anywhere apart from my bed, at an advanced age. I am focusing on completing my memoirs in a place where I thought no one would be able to find me to interrupt me. Clearly this is one of those rare occasions where I am wrong.”
His son took this in. “Truthfully, it does sound like something you would do.”
“The tea is good, Arthur. Sit. Drink it.”
His son sank down onto a settee and obeyed. He poured, sugared, and sipped, then lifted his eyebrows appreciatively.
He had another look around the room again, and the faintly pleased, faintly puzzled look settled in.
The duke sat on the settee opposite him.
“Howareyour memoirs going, Father?”
“Oh, apace.”
“What part have you reached?”
“I’m just about to write the chapter about the time my son arrived to warn me about the wiles of women.”
His son grinned. “I told a few friends you were writing your memoirs. They’re eager to read them. Did you know, every boy I knew at Eton was given a copy ofHonoras soon as they could read? ‘Cor,he’syourda?’ I was so proud. You made the world seem like a safer, nobler place for everyone. I traded stories about you for favors.”
The duke took this in. Why, suddenly, this swoop of crushing sadness, and where did it come from?
It was as if something, in this moment, was being irrevocably decided for him.
How could he ever tear down or tarnish the image of himself so cherished by his son?
“I’ve friends who confided in me that they grew up asking, ‘What would Valkirk do?’ every time they encountered a particularly sticky wicket.”
“For God’s sake, Arthur. I’m hardly Moses on the mountain. I wroteHonorduring the boring parts of war. They could also read Marcus Aurelius, just for starters, if they’d need of some wisdom.”
“True. You’ve not got a patch on Marcus Aurelius.”
The duke laughed. Thank God Arthur had a sense of humor.
“Still, it’s a comfort to me knowing that when I have children they will grow up with you as such an influence. And that boys who grow up without fathers have someone like you to look to for guidance. So thank you, Father.”
James merely gave him a slight wry smile. He had a feeling that all of this flattery was leading to something.
“You look different,” Arthur said suddenly.
“Perhaps I’m fatter. The food here is good, and the hospitality is unparalleled.”
“Noooo . . . don’t think that’s it.” He fixed his father with a startlingly good approximation ofhis own patented penetrating look. He had his mother’s blue eyes. “On dit says you’ve been accepting dinner invitations.” Now he was fishing.
“Yes,” the duke said curtly.
“Galworthy?”
