Page 88 of Wicked By Design

“I know it’s here somewhere. I’m perfectly certain… aha!” With an air of triumph, he extricated himself from the cupboard and blew the dust off an ancient-looking bottle. “Before the war, I had the honour of doing a kindness for a fellow who turned out to be a French duke. He sent me two crates of the best cognac you ever tasted in thanks, bless his heart. My housekeeper has most of them under lock and key in the cellars, but I managed to squirrel one or two away before she did so. This is the last of the bottles at liberty.”

Damian laughed, charmed by the old fellow. “Are you sure you wish to waste it on me?”

Honeywell frowned. “Waste? No such thing, my boy, no such thing. I shall enjoy it all the more for your company, I assure you.”

With a grin reminiscent of the naughty schoolboy he certainly must have once been, Honeywell poured two glasses and set one at Damian’s elbow. “Perhaps drink the tea first, it seems like sacrilege to ill use such a vintage by diluting it with tea.”

“Quite so,” Damian agreed, feeling suddenly ill at ease as the man sat down opposite and took up his own teacup. The reverend sipped, gave a sigh of content, and then reached for a biscuit. The sound of chewing and the crackle of the fire were the only sounds.

Damian took a sip of his own tea and replaced the cup in the saucer, gazing at the amber liquid and fervently wishing he hadn’t come.

“I don’t really know why I’m here,” he said with a short laugh.

“Yes, you do.”

Damian looked up into shrewd blue eyes. There was no judgement there, only a deep well of patience and understanding.

Damian laughed despite himself. He gazed down at the tea again, frowning, wondering where to begin, if he ought to begin at all.

“I think you know a little of my er… family history,” he said, avoiding the man’s all-too-knowing gaze.

“A little. Your brother had the kindness to confide in me when he was troubled.”

“Kindness?” Damian said with a snort. “Is that what you call it?”

The reverend’s expression became grave, and he nodded earnestly. “Yes, indeed. For it is a kindness. When someone is at a low ebb and needs to unburden him or herself, for that person to find me worthy of their confidence is both a kindness and an honour. I shall never view it otherwise.”

Damian let out a shaky breath.

“What did he tell you?”

The reverend studied him for a long moment. “He told me about a terrible night, when your mother’s mind betrayed her and made her do dreadful things. He told me how she killed your father, and how she tried to kill him, and might have done if not for the bravery of his older brother, who was only a child himself.”

Damian made a harsh sound and set the teacup down with a clatter. “That’s not true. The servants saved him, I just—”

“Kept him safe until they could restrain her. Yes, I know. What might have happened if you had not stood between him and your mother?”

Damian shook his head, unwilling to think on it.

Honeywell waited, saying nothing, and the silence stretched on and on.

“I’m afraid I’m like her.”

Honeywell nodded, apparently unsurprised by the revelation. “An inevitable fear, given the circumstances.”

Damian nodded, wondering why he felt so disappointed. Honeywell was only a man; a kind, wise man, yes, but he had no miracle cure to offer, no magic potion.

“Tell me about your mother before things became so dreadful. Was she always unstable?”

Damian frowned. “Not unstable, I think, but… but she was rather fragile, I remember that. Papa often told me to play quietly, for Mama had a headache, but she loved to watch me play. She would sit with me for hours. I remember her smiling at me as I set up building blocks and arranged toy soldiers. I felt… loved. She was sweet and would sing to me and kiss me. She was always petting me and stroking my hair, but I always felt a little afraid I might hurt her, because Papa said she was delicate. Her… Her nerves,” he said, remembering now how they had both tiptoed around her.

Honeywell nodded. “She cherished you.”

“Yes. A little too much sometimes,” he said, suddenly remembering how he had wanted to run and play and climb trees, but she had held his hand too tightly. “She was always afraid I would hurt myself. Papa would wait until she had gone to lie down in the afternoon and then open the door with a wink. He’d say, get as dirty as you like, but make sure you are clean and tidy by teatime.”

The reverend chuckled. “A clever fellow, your papa. He knew little boys needed to blow off steam, no matter how their mothers fretted about them.”

Damian smiled. He had forgotten that, forgotten his father’s conspiratorial smile. It was a memory he was glad to have restored to him.