Felton turned to the bedchamber. He gazed upon the bed, the one he and Cecilia shared, and wanted to set it on fire. Expensive gowns hung in the closet. Many seemed untouched.
Maybe she and his father weren’t playing house.
Maybe she hadn’t fallen in love with the mad duke.
Jane was in the studio when he powered back inside.
“Sorry, brother. I suppose it couldn’t be helped. You always abandoning her, and me being so mean, she was pushed to Tramel.”
He was about to agree when she laughed. “Wake up, brother. The manipulative thing from Demerara has been scheming and ingratiating herself with the duke since the moment she arrived. She’s probably had you all—you, father, Gladstone.”
“No, Jane.”
“How does she do it? How can that foreigner snap her fingers and have you all so twisted? What is her secret?”
“A kind spirit. A genuine spirit to create. That draws us all like flies to pure honey.”
Her mouth fell open. Then she covered her face in her hands. “I don’t know how not to be jealous. How can I not hate her when she has everything and everyone spinning?”
“You’re not an awful person, Jane. Don’t be one.” He lifted her chin. “There’s a caring person in there somewhere. Find her. Let the girls help you find her. That’s who I want in my life.”
“What about Cecilia? Do you still want her if she’s fallen in love with your own father?”
“Cecilia might be confused and hurting but she is loyal.”
“She walked out on you. How loyal is that?”
He returned to the balcony. The breeze met his heated face. His mind went to Jamaica. The storms that delayed their voyage to England. He spent weeks merely talking with his new bride. Hours he’d never give away as they communed in a small house near the sea, one of his safe locations whenever he was in the country.
It was an adventure for two.
She doodled and he studied, intercepted correspondences. Each kept their secrets even as they began their married life. The rustling of her curly hair in his fingers, watching how the sunset hit her locks, bringing out the reds in the waves—he’d never forget.
She was happy, so pure.
Yet Cecilia never mentioned this great talent.
Or had she, and he wasn’t listening to anything but her smallish waist, her well-endowed thighs.
Felton wrote to her, before he left London. He hoped she had his letter and would grant him that final audience.
But how could he ever forgive her for leaving and running away to his father?
That relearning to breathe thing—it was hard.
Jane leaned against the balcony door.
“How long did you know my wife was at Warwick?”
“About a month ago. When I couldn’t take being with Aunt Nelly anymore, I came here.”
“Was Cecilia here? You could’ve—”
“No. She’d already gone, but you can tell she’d been here for weeks.”
“Well, I should ask the man who knows everything how long he secreted my wife here whilst I went mad.”
“Felton, no. Calm down. Father is fragile.”
