He drank, and the fire made the room shimmer.
After a time, Adrian stood. “I must be off. Debts to lose, hearts to break.”
Oscar rose too. “Thank you, Adrian. For the recommendation.”
“Anytime.” At the door, Adrian paused, glancing back. “You know, if you ever tire of marriage and parenthood, you can always join me in a life of dissipation. I will keep a seat warm for you.”
Oscar snorted. “If it comes to that, I expect you to have the decency to let me win at cards for once.”
“Never,” Adrian said, and left.
Oscar was alone again. The fire hissed, the gin tasted sharper.
It is an arrangement. Nothing more.
He drank to that.
When Oscar returned to Scarfield, the entire house vibrated with the sound of distant misery.
He shrugged off his coat and deposited it in the hands of a footman who looked as though he would rather be anywhere else. The manor was as bleak as ever, and the only thing that seemed to move with purpose was Mrs. Tullock, who was shepherding a harried maid bearing a tray laden with untouched food down the main staircase.
He intercepted them at the landing. “Is it always a parade?” he asked, nodding at the congealed contents of the tray.
Mrs. Tullock straightened, hands folded like a barricade. “Dinner, Your Grace. The children would not touch a bite.”
“Nor breakfast, if I’m not mistaken,” Oscar said.
The maid winced. “Not since yesterday, sir. We’ve tried everything—puddings, pies, custard, toast?—”
“They scream at toast now?” Oscar asked.
“Only if it’s cut the wrong way,” Mrs. Tullock said. “Yesterday, Miss Clara demanded triangles. Today, it is rectangles, but Henry won’t have them unless the crust is left on. You see the difficulty.”
Oscar did. “You have my permission to experiment with circles, if it comes to it.”
The maid stifled a nervous laugh, then scuttled away, tray trembling in her grip.
Mrs. Tullock eyed him, a spark of real concern behind her wariness. “They won’t last like this, Your Grace. Not for long. The boy’s already pale as skimmed milk, and the girl—well, she bit one of the stable lads this morning. Drew blood.”
Oscar considered this, then shrugged. “Perhaps he deserved it.”
“That is not the point,” Mrs. Tullock said, but there was a fondness in the way she set her jaw. “They’re grieving. You should not be surprised.”
Oscar nodded, then squared his shoulders and mounted the rest of the stairs. The climb to the nursery felt longer every time, as if each trip stretched the distance between him and the children he was supposed to save.
At the door, he braced himself for screams or, at minimum, an airborne missile.
Instead, there was a silence—heavy, bracing, like the calm before a hurricane.
He stepped inside.
The carnage was impressive. The rug was strewn with blocks and torn paper. The window seat held two pillows that had clearly lost a war with tiny, angry hands. Henry huddled in the far corner, knees tucked to his chest, eyes rimmed red. Clara stood at the center of the chaos, arms crossed, a look of open challenge on her face.
She reminded him so sharply of Peter that for a second Oscar could not speak.
“Are you here to make us eat?” Clara asked, defiant.
“No,” Oscar said, crossing the room and perching on the edge of the bed. “I am here to ask what you want.”
