“Except for the meat pies,” Chloe added.
“Now that Faircliffe knows, what are we to do?” Graham asked. “Is this the end of Great-Aunt Wynchester?”
“Never!” Elizabeth protested. “Great-Aunt Wynchester is my favorite sprightly old bird.”
“Pah, sprightly grandmother types have untimely deaths all the time.” Tommy’s eyes widened. “Have Chloe tell you about the horrible collection of German fairy tales at the reading circle. At least I was unmasked by a duke rather than pecked to pieces by crows.”
“Crows are very intelligent,” Jacob said. “I’ve trained mine to do dozens of tricks.”
“Are they assassin crows?” Graham asked politely.
Jacob considered. “Not yet.”
“Then they have nothing to do with Great-Aunt Wynchester’s delicate constitution. Only one thing does.” Graham turned to Lawrence. “Well, Your Grace? Can you keep a wee family secret?”
Five bright gazes fixed in Lawrence’s direction.
Warmth filled his chest. They were trusting him with a secret—trusting his word that he would keep it—becauseChloetrusted him. Treating him like family, if only for this moment.
“I suppose,” he said as casually as he could. “Great-Aunt Wynchester is safe to continue terrorizing the streets of London.”
“Huzzah!” Thomasina tossed her cosmetic-covered serviette into the air.
Chloe’s smile melted Lawrence’s insides.
She was sensational. Her siblings were astonishing and awe-inspiring. They accepted one another for who and how they were, disguises and strange pets and all.
Despite Chloe only being able to trace her history back to a basket discarded on an orphanage’s steps, she had a huge, loving family that anyone would yearn to be part of. Irreverent, always laughing. The sort that would stand up for one another at any cost.
Despite being able to tracehislineage back eight generations to the first Duke of Faircliffe, Lawrence had…
Nothing.
A clatter in the corridor caused everyone’s attention to swing to the doorway.
“It’s Marjorie!” Tommy said in delight.
“Come and sit with us,” Jacob called.
Marjorie did not leave the doorway.
“Who is this?” she asked, her voice loud and her eyes directed toward Graham.
“I’m the Duke of Faircliffe,” Lawrence responded, presuming she meant him.
She didn’t react.
Chloe waved in his direction. “That’s the Duke of Faircliffe.”
Hadn’t he just said so?
Marjorie’s eyes lit up. “We have our painting?”
“Not yet,” Elizabeth said. “Help us torture him until he agrees to hand it over.”
“I like torture,” Marjorie said cheerfully, then took the seat farthest from Jacob. “I dislike birds at the dinner table.”
“I forgot about Sir Galahad.” Jacob dashed from the room with the bird still on his shoulder, only to return seconds later, parrot-free.
