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But in the aftermath, her family had lost its fortune. Her father had taken his life in the cell, and Anthony… God, Christian couldn’t think of what had happened to his best friend.
He’d been right, but sometimes doing the right thing hurt people.
Benedict let out a long breath. “Well.” His voice was high, on the verge of breaking. He didn’t look at his sister. He didn’t look at Christian, either. He simply shrugged his shoulders and looked away into the swirling fog. “I see there’s no need to explain why I’m never going back.”
Chapter Three
If the awkward nonconversation on the way to the midden had been uncomfortable, the discussion on the way back was downright disastrous. There had to be some way to negotiate the situation effectively, and Christian intended to find it.
Judith jerked her head in the direction of the heap just around the corner; Christian slipped past the two siblings to deposit the thing in the rubbish. But even following the two Worth siblings at a distance was awkward.
“Benedict,” she was saying. “Sweetheart, I’m so glad you’re back. There’s scones. Currant scones. And sandwiches. And ginger-ginger biscuits.”
Benedict stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Lay off, Judith. I’m not eleven.”
Judith’s smile faded. “No,” she said slowly. “You’re twelve. A big—a man, I mean, and—”
“Stop patronizing me,” Benedict snapped. “You think you can bribe me with sweets? I’m not going back.”
For once, Christian decided to keep his mouth shut.
“Benny.” She glanced behind them at Christian, and then back to her brother. “You know how important this is. How necessary.”
At that age, Anthony had never looked so…old. Benedict’s forehead wrinkled. His lip set. He shook his head and looked forward.
“See,” she said, “you’re obviously upset. Let’s get you home, and…and…”
Home was on the horizon. Benedict didn’t look at Judith as he trudged up the steps and opened the door.
“You’ll see,” Judith was saying behind him. “I’ll make it work. I always do, don’t I?”
Benedict stepped inside the house, and before Judith could follow behind him, he slammed the door in her face.
Judith swallowed. “Oh dear. That could have gone better.”
Slowly, she ascended the stairs. Christian followed silently behind her. She opened the door and let out a gasp.
No wonder; Christian inhaled a lungful of smoke.
“Oh, for the love of geese,” Judith swore. “Theresa! Theresa!”
“What?” A pale shadow in dark gray popped around the corner. Christian took a step back; Theresa Worth was almost as tall as Judith. She was blond and frowning and surprisingly pretty.
Judith faced her down. “Did you not take the scones from the oven? They’re burning.”
“I like the smell of burnt scones.” Theresa blinked rapidly at her sister. “I was playing Dante’s Inferno. I was imagining that I was a heretic trapped in a flaming tomb. As the fire ate my limbs, I—”
“Tee.” Judith set a hand on her hip. “You could have burned the house down, yes? Fire is not a playtoy. You are fourteen, for God’s sake.”
“I’m not stupid,” Theresa said scornfully. “I was watching them. I had a bucket of water right here, just in case. Nothing was going to happen.”
“At a minimum, you were wasting them.”
“I was going to add salt! Everything is better with—”
“Not this,” Judith said baldly. “Open the windows. Take the scones outside.”
Tee blew out a breath. “I have to do everything around here. Benedict didn’t do anything today. Why doesn’t he have to help? Just because he’s a boy and went to school—which I’m not allowed to do—he gets sandwiches and biscuits and fruit? All I wanted was scones my way. Why can’t I have anything?”
“Your scones are scones of evil,” Judith said. “And you’re not doing everything. You’re just cleaning up the mess you made. Now stop arguing and go do it.”
Theresa made an enraged noise before stomping—loudly—down the hall.
Judith exhaled and shut her eyes.
If she didn’t remember he was here in a moment, he was going to have to…
She didn’t need reminding. She turned to him. That pasted-on smile of hers slipped at the edges.
“Civility,” she said with a frazzled air. “Yes. I promised you civility when we returned.” She bit her lip, as if puzzling out how to manage that. “How good to finally see you again, Lord Ashford.” This was not accompanied by a smile. “And I did request your assistance, after all. Do make yourself at home in the parlor. Have a sc—no, not those. Have a biscuit. I need to, ah, go see how Benedict is…settling in.” She turned away and then swiftly turned back. “No. I spend too much time around Theresa. I have to make myself clear. Forget what I just said. Do not literally make yourself at home.”
“Figuratively will do,” he agreed.
She nodded and dashed up the stairs, leaving Christian in a cloud of smoke.
“Benedict?” he heard her say. “Benedict?”
Civility. If they could agree on civility, they might be able to get through this.
Over the years, he had sent her a passel of notes. One, apologizing for raising the question he had at her father’s funeral. Two, asking to see her. Three, several years ago, letting her know he was investigating her brother’s disappearance. Four, informing her of the results of that investigation, and five, a few months ago, asking her for a favor.
He had not had a word of response from her. He’d heard nothing at all, in fact, until he’d received her letter this morning.
There is a matter of some delicacy before me, one that may require your particular reputation. If you’re willing to help, send a man of business. In return, I’ll consider the favor you
asked of me.
He would solve whatever problem she presented, and she could easily solve his. He couldn’t let himself care if she hated him at the end.
Although perhaps he could see why she might do so. He’d spent summers at her family’s old house. It had been comfortable, clean, and spacious. This place? It was a hovel in comparison.
Mismatched cushions covered the chairs. There were no painted landscapes on the walls, just yellowing whitewash. A hutch sat against one wall. All the china, such as it was, was laid out on the table, and so there were empty shelves, with the occasional bit of thick crockery set in place with as much pride as if these dishes were the finest porcelain. It was all completely altered, all except…
Except, on the top shelf, there sat a familiar shepherdess. She was surrounded by three sheep. The shepherdess was china, as were the sheep. But the inner workings of the piece were clockwork. Christian should know; he’d given it to Judith almost ten years ago.
I don’t want you to forget me, he had said. God, he’d been stupid then, thinking that his biggest worries were that he might miss Anthony—and that Judith Worth might fall in love with someone else.
He wasn’t sure what it meant that she’d kept his clockwork shepherdess.
He could hear the indistinct murmur of Judith’s voice from upstairs. Chipped china, threadbare cushions, and this rickety house in a neighborhood that could at best be called unfashionable. The shepherdess, looking over her shoulder, had once seemed serene and accepting. Now, that little arch of her eyebrow seemed mocking.
No, Judith hadn’t forgotten him. That would have been too easy.
He sighed, picked up a plate, and served himself a biscuit.
Christian had ripped the pastry to pieces, and the smoke from the unfortunate scones had somewhat dissipated, by the time he heard Judith come down the stairs.
Technically, he reflected as he looked over his handiwork, “ripped to pieces” was a tolerably accurate description of the biscuit’s demise. The part that would give anyone else pause was what he had done with the deceased baked item.
