Their father entered just as the clock struck eight, rubbing his hands in his eagerness to see his sons. “Well, boys,”Timothy said with a smile, “how did Mr. Lambert torture you today?”
“Papa,” he said suddenly, eyes fixed on the rug, “is it true I will not inherit anything?”
Their father blinked, mid-step. “What?”
“Mr. Lambert said that Theo will inherit Longbourn because he’s the eldest. He said I will have to get a profession. That there’s nothing for me. Is it true?”
Timothy frowned, “It seems Mr. Lambert has been speaking out of turn.” He sank onto the floor in between the two beds. “I had hoped to speak of this another time… but yes, son. That is how the law stands. Longbourn is entailed. It goes to the eldest male heir, in full. It is something my grandfather set up, and it cannot be altered, I am afraid.”
“But we are twins,” Natty said, voice rising. “We are the same!”
“Theodore was born first,” their father said gently. “By minutes, yes—but even minutes matter. The estate cannot be divided.”
Theo opened his mouth, but no words came. It had never occurred to him—not truly—that his brother would be left without anything. They had always done everything together. They shared a room, books, tutors, friends. He had assumed they would share the future too.
Natty laid down abruptly. “Right. I see. Theo is the heir, and I am simply the spare, with an ugly face to boot.”
“Natty—” Theo began.
But his brother rolled over on his bed, facing the wall, and pulled the counterpane up to his shoulders.
“Let him be, Theo,” his father said, patting him on the shoulder. “It is an unfortunate way of the world, but there is little that can be done about it. Your brother will come ‘round. Just give him time.”
As Theo stared up at the ceiling in the dark that night, a strange coldness settled crept up his spine. He would never forget that expression on Natty’s face: betrayal buried beneath fury.
Please, let things be normal tomorrow, he pleaded into the night.
∞∞∞
October 1746–Matlock House, London
The room smelled of violets and death.
Countess Faith Fitzwilliam lay propped against pillows too soft to hold her upright without pain, herbreathing light as mist on a chapel window. The fire had been lit low, not for warmth—it was stifling—but to banish the shadows, which crept in despite the hour. October had pressed its gray hand over London, and her final days had come with it.
A maid slipped into the chamber, curtsied, and approached the bedside.
“My lady, Lord Bartemius has been fetched.”
Faith nodded slowly. Her body ached in too many places to name, and she had long since stopped trying to shift herself. Instead, she clutched the rosary beneath the coverlet, the crucifix hidden against her palm.
One more look. Just one.
The door opened again.
“Come here, my love,” she whispered.
The boy who stepped into the room was ten years old, dark-haired, sharp-eyed, and already too tall for his jacket. His boots clicked briskly across the floor. He looked clean and healthy and nothing like the infant she had once cradled against her chest in that same bed, sobbing in relief as the midwife cried out, “A boy!”
“Mother,” he said with a faint bow, more courteous than affectionate.
“Barty,” she replied with a gentle smile, beckoning him closer.
He glanced at the door, ignoring her outstretched arms. “Father says I must learn to answer to the name that suits my station.”
She sighed inwardly but nodded. “Of course. But not here. Not with me.”
He took a step closer and stood beside the bed, but he did not take her hand, which lay near him. Faith tried not to let her heart break again; she had seen this coming. She had watched her beautiful baby boy change week by week, year by year, asthe earl claimed more and more of him—lectures in the study, long rides to estate meetings, hours in town watching men drink and boast.
