Thomas coughed into his tea, while his mother set down her cup with great delicacy.
“I do not speak from prejudice, Owen.”
“No, never that.”
His mother’s eyes narrowed. “A marquess cannot attach himself to a woman who brings with her nothing but uncertainty, whispers, and an old scandal which the best people have had the good sense to leave undisturbed.”
“The best people are not always the best judges of character,” he countered.
Thomas, perhaps sensing the danger, leaned forward with an air of helpful foolishness. “I must say, Lady Westbridge, Miss Finch has always appeared to me remarkably civil.”
“That is hardly the point, Captain Harrow.”
“No, I daresay not. Civility seldom is, when birth and scandal are in competition.”
Owen looked at him again, this time with reluctant gratitude. His mother did not.
“Captain Harrow,” she said, “you are a good friend to my son, but you are not a mother.”
“I have often thanked Providence for it.”
Owen almost smiled, while his mother ignored him. “Were you in my position, you might better understand my concern. Owen has been home too short a time to comprehend the full delicacy of his situation. He returns from war, inherits unexpectedly, and before the season has properly begun, he attaches himself to a young woman whose family name is still spoken about with hesitation in certain rooms.”
“Then perhaps,” Owen pointed out, “those rooms require better conversation.”
His mother’s color rose faintly. “You cannot repair a woman’s reputation merely because you admire her.”
The words struck more sharply than Owen wished to admit.
Admire.
It was a harmless enough word. One could admire a woman’s courage, sense and self-possession, without being accused of anything more dangerous. Yet in his mother’s mouth, it took on implication. It suggested that what he felt was visible, if not to all, then at least to one person determined to discover it.
“What matters here is that Miss Finch has been treated unjustly.”
“By whom?” The question came quickly.
“By many,” he retorted.
“A vague accusation is a convenient one.”
“So is a vague scandal.”
His mother looked away, displeased. “You speak as though Miss Finch were the only person to be considered. What of your family? What of your father’s name?”
“My father’s name will not be injured by my behaving honorably.”
“Honorably,” she repeated, with a sadness that was only half-feigned. “How often young men use that word when they mean stubbornly.”
He crossed the room and took the chair opposite her.
“Mother,” he said, more gently, “I am not a boy to be ruined by a whisper.”
“No,” she replied. “You are a man to be ruined by thinking himself above them.”
The observation was so near truth that he did not answer at once. Before he could decide whether to be offended or instructed, the door opened. Harcourt entered with his usual noiseless precision, bearing a small silver tray. Upon it lay a letter.
“Forgive the interruption, my lord, but a letter has arrived. The messenger said it was to be delivered into your hands without delay. It is marked urgent.”
