Page 115 of Lord Hartwell’s Refuge

“Then you answered me. Partly.”

His brows drew together.

Tamsin picked up Edward’s letter again, though she did not open it, and Roman remained quiet, fixing her with a stare.

There were many who would have asked what the man in London had said, or who he was. She might have leapt at the opportunity to reassure him, telling him he had done everything possible. No one could expect more, and the failure was not his.

She suspected that was what he had thought the conversation would be, but it was not what he needed. Not what they needed.

The clock on the mantel ticked and Apollo stretched until his nose touched Athena’s before the fire.

At last Roman spoke. “I thought it would matter that I tried.” The anger had gone out of his face, replaced with an exhaustion she had never seen. It was worse than the anger.

She put her letters aside. “It did matter, Roman.”

His voice was defeated. “It was not enough.”

“No, it was not. Not this time.”

His eyes sharpened at that, but she would not insult him by pretending otherwise. The barbican had not been preserved. Whatever would be lost by their destruction would still be lost, utterly unrecoverable. But his effort could matter without changing the result.

Roman turned his attention to the fire. “I keep thinking there must have been something I missed. Someone I ought to have spoken to sooner. Some argument I failed to make.”

Ah. This was new. “Was there?”

He shrugged, exhaustion taking the place of frustration again. “I do not know.”

That, Tamsin pondered, might be the difficulty. Roman Eastwood, Baron Hartwell, knew how to contend with an enemy. He had often negotiated with an opponent, marshaled an argument, gathered support, called in favors. Even defeat could presumably be borne if he understood precisely how it had happened. But there was no action to take against not knowing.

He leaned forward, elbows upon his knees and chin resting upon his clasped hands as he stared into the fire. Watching the flames dance the way a soothsayer of old may have, hoping to find answers in the elements, if not in logic. “I dislike useless things.”

Tamsin did not bite back her smile at that. “Yes. I noticed.”

He glanced at her, enough dryness in his expression that she knew he’d heard what she had not said. “And useless people are a difficulty I would rather not manage.”

“I had noticed that too.”

His mouth shifted, but the almost-smile did not survive for more than a moment.

Gesturing to the letter on the table beside him, she asked, “Do you think trying was useless because it failed?”

Roman did not answer immediately. He tilted his head slowly from one side to the other, considering his response. “I think failure is a poor recommendation for the usefulness of an endeavor.”

“That sounds like something a politician would say when he does not want to give an answer. I am your wife, not an opponent.” A week ago, Tamsin might have regretted the words as soon as she spoke them. She might have softened them, explained what she meant, supplied him with an easier question. But not tonight.

He turned to her, this time with unguarded admiration that made her catch her breath. “No. But I enjoy when you challenge me, all the same.” Roman sat back again, shoulders relaxing. “To answer your question, I do not know. It did not feel useless at the time. The outcome has made me question all my concerns for this city. My friends stood by me because they are my friends, not because they believe in preserving the history the way that I do. There is much to consider, going forward.”

“I imagine so.” Tamsin relaxed somewhat and picked up her letters.

Roman stared. “That is all?”

She was not going to smile. “What else would you like me to say?”

“I…I do not know.”

This time she did smile, just a little.

His expression altered. His lips twitched as he heard it himself. He did not laugh, but he leaned back and watched her with that faint tilt of his head. He was pleased again.