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She made no such impassioned defense of her father. Telling, that.
He simply shrugged. “I don’t owe you your fantasies. I didn’t ask for the rumors to be true. I didn’t want proof your father had sent military secrets to Britain’s enemies. It wasn’t my fault the proof was there. It was your father’s.”
She flinched.
“We’re not friends.” They never would be. Not when she could scarcely look him in the eyes. Not when every time he looked at her, he remembered falling in love with her. Not when he still woke up in a cold sweat thinking of what had happened to Anthony. He was sure that he’d done the right thing, exposing the truth about her father and her brother. But he had never being able to quell that tiny whisper of doubt.
Judith was right. He wasn’t here to make jokes. He was here to lay his final worries to rest.
“We’re not friends,” he repeated. “I’m not here to help you. You told me in your note you’d think about the favor I asked of you. I’m here because I want something in exchange. I want your brother’s journals.”
Her chin went up.
“Anthony was my friend,” Christian said. “I miss him. It would be a comfort to have something of his.” Not just a comfort; his way forward hinged upon those journals.
Judith’s face was pinched. “My brother’s journals are not for sale.”
“Ah, well.” He stood. “Then looking into your little problem is something that you can’t purchase.”
Her eyes flared in an almost-panic. “Please. There has to be something else you want.”
Yes, he wanted to say. But he didn’t speak, and he wouldn’t let himself want. Judith felt like home to him in the way that only nostalgia and old memories could. He wasn’t about to be tricked by that. He’d yearned for her too long, but no matter how much this woman looked like her, the Judith he wanted didn’t exist. He wished for a world without complications, a world in which it didn’t hurt to look at her. He wanted a world where he could laugh at how much her younger brother looked like his old friend.
He wasn’t going to get any of that.
“I’ll accompany you,” he said. “While you ask your questions. Not my man of business. We’ll agree that you don’t have to like me, and I don’t have to change. I’ll borrow Anthony’s journals for two weeks. I won’t need them longer than that. That’s my final offer.”
He’d known that Judith had been shunned when her father was convicted. He could tell that she had nobody, truly nobody, to turn to now, because she actually considered his offer with a frown.
Her jaw worked. “You’ll get the journals when I have confirmation the money has been credited to my sisters’ accounts. And you won’t ask questions.”
“I won’t ask many questions.”
Her eyes narrowed and her nose wrinkled.
Christian simply shrugged. “We both know I’d be lying if I agreed not to ask any. If you ask for my help, you’ll get help. My way.” He held out his hand.
After a long moment, she took it, giving him a brief, firm handshake. She dropped his fingers almost immediately, pressing her hand to her skirt as if he’d burned her.
“When will you need me to do my glowering?”
She was still rubbing her hand against her skirt. “I’ll make an appointment and send you word.”
“Good.” He stood, found his jacket. “Then I’ll be going.”
He gave her one last nod and took his leave. The stairs to the house creaked as he left. They were uneven; he hoped they were safe.
But the Worth family could not be his concern. He had to think of himself.
Once he had Anthony’s journals, once he could make that list. Once he had given himself a target and a course of action, well… Surely then he would finally be able to sleep at night.
Chapter Four
Judith made herself put away the feast she’d prepared. The chair where Christian had seated himself had been intended for her brother. She should have been in the midst of a happy celebration. Instead, the gloomy clouds outside seemed to have gathered inside the room. The oil lamp flickered; there was a new crack in the shade, and the light cast shadows on the remains of the feast laid out. Dark plates laden with what should have been a bounty stared back at her like ominous ruins.
It was a waste, a horrible waste. The biscuits would keep; the preserves, of course, wouldn’t spoil. The expensive Darjeeling she folded up in a twist of paper. It might be useful on some other occasion.
The sandwiches, on the other hand…
That was what was left of her hopes. Stale bread, when she’d hoped for so much more. She piled sandwiches on a plate. By the time she’d cleaned up the remains of their noncelebration, night had fallen in earnest.
She headed upstairs with her plate.
The door to Benedict’s room was still shut.
God, the memory of his face this afternoon still haunted her. He’d seemed closed and flattened. That delighted spark her little brother always had in his eyes had been absent.
Benedict had been five years old when their father’s scandal had changed their lives forever. He scarcely remembered their old family home. He was the one who had first forgotten what should have been his due because of his birth. He’d been the first to adapt to their new surroundings, the first to stop complaining, the first to start laughing again.
She hated that someone had made him stop.
She raised her hand and knocked on the door.
Silence. More silence. Then, the shifting noise of furniture grating against the floor, and…
“What?” Benedict’s voice.
“It’s Judith. Can I come in?”
Yet more silence.
“I promise I won’t lecture,” she said. “But I have sandwiches. They’re turnip. Your favorite.”
Food had been a problem when she had first found herself here. They had sold everything they could—gowns, porcelai
n, jewels, toys. This property had come recommended by her solicitor. Not too unsafe, still in town, and there had even been a real oven in the kitchen for a cook. Too bad they’d been unable to afford a cook, but how difficult could it be to heat food?
Judith had quickly discovered the answer to that. It had been difficult. Damned difficult.
Benedict and Theresa had eaten almost nothing for what had felt like weeks. They hadn’t started eating until Benedict had invented the turnip sandwich.
They were cheap, filling, and completely horrifying.
“Very well.” A further scrape—as of her brother removing the chair from beneath the door handle—and the door swung open.
Her little brother, not so little anymore, looked up at her. “Good evening, Judith,” he said politely.
Oh, his face. She could have cried. That bruise. The split lip. Up close, she could see the fading evidence of other injuries—tiny discolorations of his skin that said more about his Half at Eton than any of the complaints he had never made.
“Well,” she said finally. “You look terrible.”
That won her a cautious, tremulous turn of the lips.
“Here.” She held out the plate. “You need a turnip sandwich.”
He let out a long exhale and took one. He turned it in his hands, sniffing it, and then took a bite. “Mmm.” His eyes shut. “Now that’s a proper turnip sandwich. They don’t make those at Eton, now. Never enough salt on anything. Salt makes everything better.”
A turnip sandwich—a proper turnip sandwich—was made with two toasted slices of bread. One should be smeared liberally with brown gravy. The other bore a scrape of gooseberry preserves. Between these two disgustingly bedecked pieces of bread, there was a generous slice of roasted, peppered turnip. Liberal salting was the key.
A turnip sandwich, especially one made with such odd ingredients, should not have been good. It shouldn’t even have been edible. But six-year-old Theresa had cried that she wasn’t eating turnips, she wasn’t, and that she wanted a proper sandwich. Benedict had invented this. And when Theresa had still refused, Judith had salted the turnip.
