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“The weather needs to warm a bit more,” he said. He cleared his throat. “It won’t be long.”
He made the promise to himself as much as to Claud.
He’d force Geoffrey’s hand on this, and every other vicious imbecility, posthaste.
“Perhaps in the meantime, we can go to an exhibition at the Royal Aquarium.” He’d apply to Fanny. She might facilitate it, secretly, if she knew Geoffrey disapproved. A simple outing. He could take the girls as well.
Claud’s lower lip was trembling.
“I’ve told you about the Royal Aquarium,” said Alan. “This month the Bramleys are back, and the living mermaid. Do you remember about the Bramley family?”
Claud bit his lip and slid his gaze away, nodding without conviction.
“They do everything regular people do, but underwater.” Alan paused to gauge the effect of his words. “They lace their shoes and walk around. And sing.”
“Underwater?” Claud looked at him. “In a tank?”
“A whale-sized tank.” Alan smiled. “Nancy Bramley is the star. She won’t perform until the end of the month, but if we go sooner, we’ll see her mother and father. He sits at a table at the bottom of the tank and drinks a bottle of milk, while she eats a cake.”
Claud tucked his chin and gave Alan a suspicious glance. His lip had stopped trembling. “What kind of cake?
“Any kind.” Alan laughed at the question. “Carrot.”
“I don’t like carrot.” Claud wrinkled his nose.
“No?” Alan raised his brows. “We’ll leave it to Mrs. Bramley, then.”
“I could eat a different cake.” Claud leaned forward, hugging himself, and took a great breath. “I could eat a chocolate cake underwater!”
“And it would be the death of you.”
At the sound of his brother’s voice, Alan turned his head.
Geoffrey stood framed by the doorway. He’d changed his cravat. Every strand of hair had been slicked into place.
“If you can even think such things, I don’t know that we should let you eat cake at all.” He strode into the room, Miss Milford on his heels. “In fact, I know we shouldn’t. No cake. And you can thank your uncle for it.”
Claud slumped back into the pillows and rolled onto his side, facing the windows.
Alan released air through his nose. He wouldn’t engage Geoffrey here. Best to ignore him.
“Soon, Claud,” he said, and touched the boy’s shoulder. Reflexively, he touched with his left hand and had to suppress a wince. Claud didn’t move.
After a moment, Alan stood. As he turned to take his cane, his eyes lit on the chess table by the fireplace. A Carton-Pierre casket sat atop it. The elaborately modeled black box had castellated corners and figures of the royal court in relief along the sides. He’d recognize it anywhere, recognize it blindfolded, by the feel. It contained their father’s chessmen and used to sit on the table beside his sickbed.
“Where did you find that? The Staunton chess set?” Without thinking, he started around the bed. “I thought Father left it at his club. When I was here—those months—I looked all through the house.”
“It wasn’t in the house when you did us that honor.” Geoffrey reached the table only a moment after he did. “I took the set with us, to Italy.”
Alan’s gaze shot up. Geoffrey’s smile might have been etched across his face with acid. The bastard begrudged him that too: the chess tournaments he’d played against their father, while flat on his back. Those tournaments—another instance of stolen attention.
And yet, Geoffrey had thought to continue the tradition, to sit with Claud and alleviate his boredom. Despite himself, Alan softened.
“Claud trounces you, I’m sure.” He said it for the boy’s benefit, glancing over his shoulder to see if he’d elicited a grin. Miss Milford blocked his view. She was hovering over the bed, gathering the soldiers.
His stomach tightened.
“I’ve yet to open the box.” Geoffrey picked it up. “The moment never seemed right. I only lately dug it out again.” He ran his fingertip over the lid, tracing the design. His voice had regained that sly quality. “You wouldn’t take the set? Before I can teach Claud how to play?”
