Page 84 of Lord Hartwell’s Refuge

He looked delighted. “Eventually.”

“Charles.”

“And Father standing beneath it, telling everyone not to make too much noise because we would frighten the bird.”

That sounded sufficiently like Mr. Mayweather that Roman could picture it without difficulty. The man had an affection bordering on obsession for fowls of the air. But that he would worry over such a thing while his own daughter’s safety was in peril?

His opinion of the man slipped as surely as Tamsin had from that window.

She was covering her pink face with one hand as Henry laughed, and Roman looked at his wife. He had known she loved birds. He knew she could identify many of them, had learned much of it from her father. He knew she had a habit of looking toward any birdsong she heard, even in the middle of a conversation.

He had not known thirteen-year-old Tamsin Mayweather had once climbed through a window because she had seen a bird in need of rescuing.

He studied the tilt of her head, color flushing her cheeks and turning the tips of her ears a delicate shell pink. “How did you get down?”

She lowered her hand. “Pardon me?”

“After the ladder arrived.”

Her brows drew together. “I climbed down.”

He knew the answer, but had to ask— “With the bird?”

“Yes, of course.”

That made him smile. Of course she wouldn’t leave it behind. “What happened to it?”

Something in her expression changed. “I kept it in a cage beside my fireplace for a fortnight. Father showed me how to bind the wing to let it rest.”

“And?” He needed the end of the story, and more details, besides. He wanted to know everything.

“And it flew away.” The smile she gave him was small, yet triumphant. Even after all these years, she counted the bird’s survival and release a success. “When it was ready.”

He rather liked that pride and joy in her expression. By what means could he keep it there longer? “What sort of bird was it?”

Tamsin blinked. “A thrush.”

“Yes. But what sort?”

Charles groaned. “Do not encourage her.”

Tamsin’s eyes brightened, so Roman ignored the man. “A mistle thrush. Father thought it had struck something while flying. The wing was not broken, precisely, more—” She hesitated, puzzlement overtaking her features. “You cannot wish to know, truly?”

“Oh, but I do.” Roman waited. Tamsin looked faintly uncertain until he leaned forward, fixing her with a look his opponents called intensely unsettling focus. “Go on.”

So she did. She told him about the thrush: about the markings beneath its wing, the food Cook had grudgingly surrendered, the scraps Tamsin had fed it, her father insisting she must not name a wild creature she intended to release, and Tamsin naming it anyway.

Charles interrupted twice to dispute details. Henry demanded to know the bird’s name.

“Archibald,” Tamsin admitted.

Roman laughed, freely and without reservation.

She frowned at him, her eyes remaining bright and dancing. “I was twelve!”

“I thought you were thirteen?”

“I have decided Charles was correct.”