Page 80 of Lord Hartwell’s Refuge

She put both hands on Athena’s neck, focusing on the dog’s warmth and gentle eyes. “Because you knew I would take care of everyone else. Didn’t you?”

“Yes.” At least he did not insult her by denying it. “I suppose I told myself you would not mind. You are good at managing things.”

That hurt, even if it was partially true.

Because she hadn’t minded, not always. She loved her brothers and sisters. She loved being the person they came to. She loved knowing what they needed and providing it. She had taken pride in knowing which child required coaxing and which required firmness, which of Anne’s worries would pass if someone simply listened, which household matters Father would forget unless she put the paper directly beneath his nose.

She had been good at it.

“How very convenient that must have been for everyone else,” she murmured.

“You were better at it than any of us,” Charles said, making it praise rather than necessity.

Tamsin forced down a bitter laugh. “That doesn’t mean it should have been mine to carry.”

“No.” The immediate agreement stopped her. There was no defense in his expression, nor any attempt to persuade her that she remembered things unfairly. Charles looked toward the windows at the darkening garden. “You certainly should not have been left to it alone, I see that now. Or I can finally admit it, at least. I should have come back more.”

Tamsin swallowed. “Yes.” She raised her chin. “And I will not make excuses for you, or tell you it is all right when it certainly was not, Charles.”

His lips turned up in a bitter smile. “I know. I won’t ask you to.”

“However,” she said, raising one hand to halt him from saying more. “You came with Henry today.”

“Yes.” He shrugged and put his chin back in his hand. “We talked of the school idea. He asked if he might come and see you.”

Something warm fluttered in her heart. “And you simply brought him?”

Charles frowned. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“I can think of half a dozen reasons why, and they are likely what kept anyone else from offering to do the same. There is always a reason not to do something, especially at Sycamore Lodge.” She knew many of them, because she had heard or seen them employed many times over the years.

Because someone was busy. Because someone else could do it. Because there would be another afternoon. Because Henry was only seven and whatever he wanted could surely wait until an adult found it convenient.

Charles shook his head. “He was wandering about the house looking thoroughly miserable. I asked what was wrong, he told me about school, we talked about it. He asked if I would like to visit you, and if he could come with me. Of course I brought him. He missed you—so did I, in fact.”

Something tightened in her throat. Charles had run away from their family as often as he could, by his own admission, as soon as his life allowed it. He had seen how much Tamsin carried and permitted himself to believe she did not mind, because that made leaving easier.

She was not ready to forgive all of that merely because he had done one thing correctly today.

But he had done it. He had gone back to Sycamore Lodge. He had noticed Henry. He had asked what was wrong. And when Henry said he wanted Tamsin, Charles had brought him straight to her.

Perhaps she was not the only Mayweather who could learn to do things differently.

Roman heard Henry Mayweather before he saw him. The boy’s voice carried from the sitting room and into the corridor, followed by a burst of laughter that was unmistakably Tamsin’s. The sound stopped him in his place.

He had returned home later than intended, with Salmond’s latest amendments to the petition folded inside his coat and three separate matters competing for his attention. He had expected to find Tamsin upstairs dressing for dinner, or perhaps with his mother if Frances had returned from her afternoon visits.

He had not expected to hear her laughter. Not after the last two days. A deep male voice responded, full of mirth, and more laughter followed.

A man’s voice.

The baron handed out his hat and gloves to the footman, who had appeared from somewhere near the stairs. “Lady Hartwell is in the sitting room?”

“Yes, my lord.” After taking his things, the servant continued, “Mr. Charles Mayweather and Master Henry are with her.”

That explained the voices. It did not explain the laughter. The last Roman had heard, the Mayweather’s youngest was unhappy and Charles always absent.

Something had occurred to alter matters, and judging by the laughter, for the better. He wasted no time crossing the hall and entering the room without being announced.