Page 88 of Counting on Love

“Wait,” Crispin said. He removed those ledgers, set them on the floor, then opened four more and stacked them, open, on Georgiana’s lap. “Did you notice this as well?” He shuffled the books, pointing at something. Reginald tried to see what he indicated, but Crispin moved the ledger too quickly.

But Georgiana had seen it. She exhaled, closed her eyes, her expression pained, and nodded. “I could not make sense of that. I didn’t…have time.” Her voice was small.

“To correlate all the changes in tuition costs at Harrow with the irregular salaries for tutors? I’ll help. Look. I had to leave school here.”

She opened her eyes and then nodded. He flipped to another book. “And here. Father hired tutors for me for six months first, and then for a year.”

Georgiana’s eyes widened. Reginald recognized the look that came into them. Excited. Challenged. He felt a warm rush of communion. However strong her fear of violating society’s norms, it was evidently no match for her drive to pursue her passion—just as he was driven to abandon a perfectly respectable profession as a clergyman to translate long-lost Greek philosophies. She pulled the book from Crispin’s hand and scanned it. “Give me the other again.”

He handed her the ledger and she scanned that too. Then she looked at the pile on the table beside Crispin and pointed to the spine of one. They were marked by year. Crispin passed it to her. She turned several pages rapidly, then paused, then looked up at Crispin and nodded.

“What?” Reginald said. What did they see that he didn’t?

“Your Harrow tuition was also about twice the cost of mine and Jasper’s.”

“That’s nonsense. Why would it be?”

“Because he was sponsoring another student,” Crispin said. “And Bradwell was hiding it.” He was still looking at Georgiana rather than Reginald. Then he asked, “Do you know what I am asking? Do you have proof?”

“Of the student?” Georgiana asked.

Crispin shook his head. “I know who he was. And frankly, his mother does not interest me. But his father?”

Georgiana tightened her grip on the books, then nodded.

“The Earl?” Reginald said. Loudly. Too loudly. “You can’t mean the Earl. Our father? Crispin! You’re saying he had a son? Another son? I don’t believe you. That isn’t true. That can’t be true. He may have sponsored a boy’s education, but that doesn’t mean anything.”

Crispin asked quietly, “Have you proof? In case Jasper wants proof.”

“Bloody hell!” Reginald shouted. His entire world was crashing down on his head. “I want proof!”

Georgiana answered Crispin in a soft voice, but one that was matter-of-fact, without any polite ladylike apology. “It isn’t proof. It’s conjecture.”

Reginald saw how Crispin had not once removed his focus from Georgiana. While he had been having quite reasonable-under-the-circumstances fits, Crispin had maintained a steady, calm demeanor while coaxing her along. By God. Reginald could picture him cooly organizing his regiment while under fire—and just as cooly sending his men to their deaths.

“Will you show me?” Crispin asked, with an almost soothing deference. “Only if Reginald wishes it too.” A tiny bit of steel entered her tone. She would not allow Crispin to lead her like a lamb to the slaughter.

Crispin looked at him. “Reg?”

No. This could not hinge upon him. It was not his role to decide the fate of the Taverstons, to destroy their belief in the rightness of their familial bonds. I don’t know why you are digging—”

“Because he’s our brother.”

“Who?” For God’s sake! Who?

“Tibury, goddamnit! He’s our brother, and we never knew it, and he never knew us! Except that we are ‘the lords of Iversley’ and he is not. And we have all this! And Olivia. And each other! And he gets the worst of the two benefices and has to thank Father, then slink out while we are all gathered to support each other through a deathbed vigil. Can you live with that? Can you? Because I cannot!”

Reginald stared. His mind was a scramble. All he could manage was, “Tibury?”

“I read the recommendations. He’s a good man, our brother. But it wasn’t simply that his friends were putting him forward. Father had evidently written first. He must have asked the rector, asked the elders, asked Tibury’s ordination examiners—he wanted to know. He wanted to know more about his son than he did.” Crispin put his face in his hands, then shook his head and murmured, “At least he must have been proud of him, from what he read.”

“‘I’ve good boys. All of them,’” Reginald said, remembering. He swallowed hard. His head swam. “Father said that the other day. I thought he meant us.”

Crispin laughed hoarsely. “I don’t think Reg or I need any more proof,” he told Georgiana. “But Jasper might. He’s not going to do anything that will upset Mother. Not that I would wish to. Especially not now. But I want to reach out to Tibury. I have to.”

“Because it is one of those conversations that you live for?” Reginald realized aloud.

Crispin sniffed. “Yes. Exactly.”