Andrew turned away. “I never said I failed to observe what happens in my own household.”
“No. You merely behave as though observation is a substitute for participation.”
Andrew’s gaze sharpened. “We are sparring, not sermonizing.”
“Then defend yourself.”
Philip attacked. Andrew met him with more force than finesse. Their practice swords cracked together again and again. For a few minutes, the conversation gave way to movement. Andrew welcomed it. Movement was honest. A strike came, one answered. There were no secrets, no insinuations, and no green-eyed wives asking him to trust her with truths he had sworn not to speak.
But Philip, being Philip, had patience enough to wait until Andrew’s guard lowered.
“And the child?” he asked.
Andrew’s next parry landed badly.
Philip stepped back. “You still have not told me.”
“There is nothing to tell.”
“That, my friend, is an insultingly poor lie.”
Andrew’s temper flared. “Careful.”
Philip showed no remorse regarding his question. “Iamcareful. That is why I am asking you privately, instead of allowing Emma to do it over tea.”
Andrew shook his head. “Emma knows better.”
“Emma suspects more than she says.”
“Then she may continue the practice.”
Philip’s expression sobered. “Is she yours?”
“No.”
The answer came at once, hard and sharp.
Philip held his gaze. “I believe you.”
“How generous.”
“I believed you before. I asked because you have given everyone else reason to wonder.”
“Everyone else may go to the devil.”
“They very often do. Society is predictable in that regard.”
Andrew turned his sword once in his hand, feeling his jaw tight. “This matter is none of your business.”
“No,” Philip said evenly. “Not mine.”
Andrew narrowed his eyes.
Philip did not retreat. He rarely did. “But it is Frances’.”
A cold silence fell between them. From the garden came a brief laugh. It was Emma’s, bright and warm. Frances’ followed a moment later. It was quieter, unwilling, and therefore more affecting. Andrew felt the sound before he could defend against it.
He had heard her laugh in the dining room, softly, despite herself, after insulting his ancestors and tolerating broth at his insistence. He had heard her whispering to the baby in the corridor at night, soothing a cry with words no infant could understand and every lonely heart might.
