Rose’s eyes widened. “You did not threaten—”
“Of course not! I’m your father, not a monster.” He held out a hand to calm her. “She thinks he’s in love with you. And you him.”
Rose closed her eyes slowly, fighting the hollowness in her gut.
“Ah, so I see you are.”
“It’s impossible,” she whispered.
“Sarah told me that he now knows the... details of your situation.”
She shrugged. “I told him I cannot have a child.”
“And what did he say?”
“Nothing. He was too stunned. I left. He wrote the note.”
“And then he went after Roger Bentley.”
“It’s impossible. I still cannot—”
“But now it should be his decision.”
Rose opened her eyes. “I beg your pardon?”
“Do you love him?”
Rose hesitated, then nodded.
“And he knows the facts?”
Another nod.
“Then if he returns to you, you should accept him.”
“He would come to resent me.”
“You don’t know that. And he has two brothers. It’s not as if you would be ending the Kennet line.” When Rose remained silent, Edmund stood and came around to her, taking her hands and pulling her up. “What I’m saying, dear daughter, is that Thomas is not a boy. He’s a man. Do not make his decision for him.”
She thought about her note to Thomas. “It may be too late for that.”
“It might be. But he just engaged his entire family and all of their business holdings in a fight on your behalf. A single ‘no’ will not dissuade him.”
And in that moment, Rose dearly hoped her father held the wisdom of the ages.
Chapter Eleven
Thomas had readthe pain behind the civil if abrupt words in Rose’s missive, his gut tightening that he had caused this, the turmoil of dredging up her past only to cut her off. But Robert’s next words strengthened his determination that the farther she was from their plans right now, the better.
“They fished Broxley out of the Thames this morning.” Robert dropped heavily into the wingback in front of the fireplace, glancing from Thomas to their father, then focusing on the dancing flames on the grate. “When did you send out the messages to Bentley’s clients?”
Philip put down his quill and leaned back in his chair with a long exhale. “Two days ago.” Thomas sat on the edge of the wingback opposite Robert. He had not seen his brother in three days, and the lack of sleep had pulled Robert’s face into dark, hollowed angles. The bruise around his eyes had mostly faded, the cut healed to a bare red mark. But the deep shadows around Robert’s eyes made it look as if he had been in more than one losing fight.
Thomas kept his words low. “I don’t suppose he was in a drunken stupor and tumbled in.”
Robert huffed. “Not unless he shot himself on the way down. From behind.” He put his finger at the base of his skull. “Here. They barely identified him.”
“Campion warned us about this.”
