Francis banged the tumbler on the side table. “Who’s the lucky lady?”
“I’m not.” Peter wondered why the notion upset Francis so much. “There’s no lady.” Unless—oh no. They’d been over that.
“See?” Brennan retreated behind his newspaper. “Nothing to fret over.”
Peter would not let Francis drag Celia into conversation—even the truth was less awful than that pain. “I want to bring my sister to London. She can be my hostess, and I can help her become accustomed to society.”
“Elinor?” Francis perked up like a terrier. “Isn’t she terribly young?”
“Sixteen.” Peter sipped his water, discombobulated. At sixteen, Celia told him how she had been managing her entire household and raising her twin half-brothers, which was more or less what his own older sister had done. Peter didn’t know many females, so the evidence was strong that sixteen was practically an adult. “Not very young.”
“Is your older sister coming to help?” Brennan asked.
“Eliza has her own children.” Peter touched his breast pocket. “But I have made a list. A long list. I’ve been collecting instructions.”
“For how to raise a sixteen-year-old girl?” Brennan asked, more slowly, as though Peter were dicked in the nob.
“Peter, have you evenmeta sixteen-year-old girl?” Francis demanded.
“Yes! I play chess with Marianne Thompson. Nearly every week…. Well, I used to.”
They both gaped, as though there were even more holes in this plan than Peter had considered.
Peter paced to the marble fireplace. “One day when I visited Thompson, the other ladies weren’t home yet so Miss Marianne poured out the tea. She is poised and opinionated, and a girl like that seems perfectly capable of running one small house for one measly brother. It’s not like I ever entertain.”
“The question isn’t what you need, it’s what Elinor needs,” Brennan said.
“I know that!”
“You cannot use Marianne as your equivalency.” Francis spoke gently. “She is being raised by Celia Westhaven, while your sister is off in Northumberland having a solitary attack of the nerves while your mother takes yet another nap.”
“Hey!”
“Oh, for Crissakes.” Francis flung himself back against his chair. “I’ve been to your house, which you haven’t even done.”
“Thank you for the drink. That’s all. Goodnight.” Air, he needed air, needed to run, night sky—
But Brennan was blocking the door. “Deep breaths. Easy. Easy.”
Just like he used to do. After James—
Peter braced his hands on the wall, panting. So maybe he couldn’t fetch Elinor. Maybe he’d ruin things. Again. For another sibling. He was terrible. Useless. Dirty.
Francis clattering in the background. Brennan’s low voice, reminding him to breathe. A long minute passed. Quiet now.
“That’s right,” Brennan said. “You’ve made it. You’re through, Alcott. We’re all over-wrought tonight.”
Francis’s steps drew close, his voice gentle. “You think the grief is gone and…” He shrugged.
“Flares right up again. Makes you rude to your friends.” Brennan escorted both of them back to the red chairs.
For months afterwards, it had been difficult for Peter to even draw a single full breath. Now he went hours without thinking about James, the guilt even more bitter than grief. It was his own brother.
His own fault.
The fire crackled. Brennan hummed, low and haunting.
Peter flopped down. “So you think I can’t do it?”
