Page 34

Brookmire dragged a hand down his face. “Perhaps he did offer a loan,” he said, near desperate. “Perhaps Lord Tyne refused it out of pride.”

Lady Wexford’s gaze snapped to him. “No.” The single word fell like a blade, and Julian winced though it was not his question.

“You are quite sure?” he made himself ask. “How can you know it, if I may be so bold?”

“Because I was well acquainted with Lady Warrington.” She held his eyes. “We spoke often in those years. She confided in me at times, and I valued her trust in my discretion.”

Brookmire blew out a breath. “Our father was always somewhat selfish, I will own. But this is far worse than anything I suspected of him.”

“Your cousin told me she was greatly exasperated with him,” Lady Wexford said. “That he would not part with a sovereign beyond what he thought strictly necessary, and held that to intervene would only encourage weakness in Lord Tyne. He judged Tyne’s misfortune the fruit of folly, and so undeserving of rescue. Though to every other eye, the man had made no grave mistake, nor gambled himself to ruin.”

Julian looked at the floor and wished to shrink into himself, the shame of his father’s inaction beginning to cling to him. He had no doubt every word was true. It sounded just like his father. How many times had he heard him speak with contempt of those who came seeking charity — berating men as if the building of an orphanage were some disgrace?

“Pray do not think we mean to wound you by it,” Lord Wexford said, leaning forward. “You wished to know the truth, and now you have it. That said”, he pressed on before anyone could speak, “we do not hold you in the same light as your father. There is no cause to treat you with any dislike.” A pointed look went to his wife, and dots of red rose in Lady Wexford’s cheeks.

“I understand entirely why you might,” Julian said, his own face hot as he thought of all the pain his father had caused. “Had he been generous — had he thought more of Lord Tyne’s struggle than of his own coffers — Miss Trent might be in a far more secure position now. She need not have stayed so long from London. She might have had her Season, and married well.”

Lady Wexford regarded him a long moment. Julian neither shunned nor welcomed the scrutiny, still holding his father’s selfishness in his two hands.

“That much is certainly true, Lord Carrington,” she allowed, her voice still hard. “But you have both come here to learn what your father did — so you were plainly unaware of it, and have been for some time. I shall grant you that.”

“Though understanding does not undo what was left undone,” Brookmire said, and the words pressed Julian deeper into his chair.

“No. It does not.” Lady Wexford sighed. “I must hope, and I believe I may, that neither of you is your father in this.” She gave Julian a small smile as he lifted his gaze. “I had thought you came this afternoon to defend him.”

Julian shook his head. “I wished only to learn, and to understand.”

“And now you have,” Lord Wexford said steadily. “It will be a burden to you. I am sorry for that.”

Julian nodded and rose, bringing the visit to its end. Lord Wexford was right; the weight of it rounded his shoulders and bore them down. His heart cried out in pain and frustration both — angry with his father for his coldness to a friend, and that he had done nothing where he might have done so much. Miss Trent’s whole standing might be different now. “I am grateful to you both for your candor,” he said as Brookmire came to his side. “It has been painful to hear. But I am glad to know it.”

Lady Wexford came closer, her hand light on his arm, her eyes no longer sharp as she searched his face. “I can see the pain this has cost you, Lord Carrington. And you, Lord Brookmire. But the past cannot be undone. It is good that you know it — yet you cannot change it. You can only accept it.”

Julian bowed. “Your words are appreciated, Lady Wexford,” he said, and felt the burden ease the smallest fraction. “I am determined to be the opposite of my father in this. I shall apologize to Lord Tyne, if it is wanted of me. I would make amends, not keep my distance.”

Lady Wexford smiled. “I think you are doing a good deal of that already, Lord Carrington,” she said gently, the hard accuser of a quarter-hour before quite gone. “It gladdens my heart to see it.”

He bowed a second time and took his leave. Neither he nor Brookmire spoke a word until they were seated in the carriage and moving off. Julian fixed his gaze to the window, watching the light play across the glass.

Brookmire scowled, his usual ease gone. “Our father was a selfish man.”

Julian clasped his hands tight and nodded. “Yes,” he murmured. “He was.”

“Why?” Brookmire’s gaze flicked to him and away. “Why do such a thing? Were a dear friend to seek my help, I would give all I could.”

“The more so one I held near a brother.” Julian sighed and closed his eyes. “His coin meant more to him than his friendship, it seems.”

“An attitude I cannot comprehend.”

“Nor I. But it is certainly what our father would do.”

Brookmire fell silent a while, taking it in. “I think… ” A frown worked at his brow. “I think I understand now why Lady Warrington gave the townhouse to Miss Trent.”

Julian turned to look at him.

“A deliberate bequest,” he murmured, his eyes going to the seat beside him, letting the thought come slowly. “She knew our father was a selfish man. Perhaps she hoped that, as Tyne went on struggling, our father would see it and be moved to change. When he was not — she took the townhouse from us and gave it instead to Miss Trent.”

“So that generosity might stand where selfishness once ruled,” Brookmire murmured.