Page 3 of Lord Hartwell’s Refuge

“Not a lecture,” his mother said, settling calmly into the chair nearest the window. “Merely an observation. Several observations, perhaps, but none of them lectures.” She smoothed her skirts and looked at him, wearing a mild expression he had long since learned to distrust. “Roman. You have been very quiet lately.”

“I am often quiet.”

“You are often contained. That is different.” She tilted her head toward the window where the last of the season’s roses had been pruned away. She regarded the garden for a moment the way one watched the departure of a beloved friend. “I have written to Mr. Conyers about cutting the roses back properly before the first frost. He assures me he knows what he is about, and he always does, yet every spring I find myself wondering if there is a better way to go about it.”

A basket near the fire held her little dog, whose snores were as miniature as the rest of her.

Roman settled himself across from his mother. “The roses are well enough.”

“The roses are finished for the year,” the Baroness said pleasantly, “which is exactly my point.” She looked back at him, eyes bright. “The assembly rooms will be thin of company soon. Everyone retreating to their estates, or to a port city, or to take the waters, or to wherever it is people go when they have decided York has nothing left to offer them for the autumn.” Here she employed a pause, delicate as a held breath. “I had a most interesting letter from Mrs. Alderton. Her daughter has returned from a lengthy visit to her aunt in Edinburgh. Quite improved, apparently. Very…accomplished.”

“Mhm.” That was all Roman would give her.

“You have met Miss Alderton, I think.”

“I have.”

She waited. He offered nothing further. She accepted this with patience and moved on. “I only wonder whether you intend to visit Hartwell before Christmas, or whether you will remain in York through the winter. I ask only for the purposes of planning, you understand.”

Planning, yes…but what? “I had not decided.”

“How unlike you.” Lady Hartwell folded her hands in her lap. Outside, a gust pushed the dead rose canes against the wall with a dry, rattling sound, and she glanced toward them again briefly. When she looked back, something in her expression had softened past gentle maneuvering into something quieter. “I only want you to be settled, Roman. Happy. That is all I have ever wanted.”

He met his mother’s eyes. She held his gaze a moment, then looked away first—which was unusual enough for him to notice.

“You are not unwell?” A thread of worry for her wrapped around everything else on his mind. Marriage or no, his mother’s health was an entirely separate matter.

“Perfectly well,” she assured him, lifting the bell for tea. “Now. Tell me about your walk.”

He thought, briefly, of the boy and the woman outside the walls. The child’s unguarded delight, Apollo’s undignified enthusiasm, dark eyes that had glittered with amusement before a woman whose full name he didn’t even know turned away.

Jones would have her name before long, most likely. But what to do with it?

“There is nothing of note to tell,” Roman said quietly.

And for the moment, he meant it.

Chapter Two

Within the walls of the Mayweather household, the air was thick with the sounds of happy chaos—joyful laughter, the occasional shout, and the ceaseless energy of feet rushing through the rooms. Attempting to quell the usual upheaval, Tamsin Mayweather had her hands full as she juggled the roles of daughter, sister, mediator, and occasional menagerie-keeper.

A rather typical day, in actuality.

“Daphne, have you seen Henry’s violin bow?” she asked the seventeen-year-old, who looked distracted as she leafed through a book. “He needs it for his music lesson today.”

Daphne shrugged, but before she could answer further, the argument in the corner reached its crescendo.

“But it’s my turn to use the spyglass!” insisted Daisy, her nine-year-old face flushed with determination as she wrenched it toward her.

“You had it all morning,” retorted George, Daisy’s twin, snatching it back.

Tamsin moved amidst the commotion like a sailor on a ship heaved to and fro by the waves, intercepting the spyglass before it could become a weapon of sibling warfare. “We ought to take turns, like mannerly little pirates. Daisy, it is George’s turn. You may play with it again when your brother is finished.”

Daisy had indeed spent the morning spying on the neighbors from the garden for most of the morning.

“I only put it down long enough to play with my kitten,” Daisy argued, her cheeks flushed. “I was not completely finished with it!”

“One could argue we are never completely finished with anything,” Tamsin said patiently. “Let George take a turn. When he puts it down to play a different game, it will be your turn again—or you can find a game both of you can play together.”