Page 95 of Lord Hartwell’s Refuge

Leopold’s looked more like suffering. “I called upon her family.”

At least he had done that. “A good first step. And?”

“They received me.” He stood still as stone then, eyes on the window, peering into some tragic past instead of the outdoors.

Tamsin waited. Leopold continued pacing without a word. The determination toward dramatization had well-earned their father’s nickname of the peacock. It had little to do with arrogance and much to do with his propensity to act theatrically.

Had he not been a gentleman, he would have done well on the stage.

After he took another two dozen paces, Tamsin finally prompted him for more information. “And? What happened during the visit, Leo?”

“And…nothing.” He turned toward her and held both arms open wide with his announcement. “That is precisely the problem.”

It astounded her that Leopold could take so long to say so little, and how she used to wait patiently for such conversations to occur. Today, however, she had things she wished to attend to, and Roman would look for her soon.

If he was not too distracted with his own affairs. Again.

Perhaps she did have time to indulge her eldest brother. “I am afraid I do not understand.”

“Neither do I.” His shoulders drooped.

That, at least, appeared to be honest. Tamsin folded her hands in her lap. “Did you see Miss Despencer?”

“Yes.” His eyes widened, head bowed in apparent sorrow, and his pacing continued at a slower rate.

“Did she refuse to speak with you?”

Leopold grimaced. “No.”

“That ought to be a good thing, surely. Unless she was angry?”

Another heavy sigh. “No. She was not. She was composed.”

None of this made sense, but Tamsin had not expected it to. “Did she ask you to leave?”

“No.”

Really, her choices were either to demand the whole story at once or suffer through it with patience. The latter was more in keeping with how they usually interacted. “What happened when you spoke to her, Leo?”

Leopold finally stopped moving, his back to her. “She was polite.”

Staring at him, she repeated, “Polite.”

“Exceedingly so.”

Not encouraging, irritated, or any other sort of emotion. Politeness was, for many women, their best possible defense against unwanted attention. Many a mother taught a daughter such a thing, and it had been Matilda who had imparted the wisdom to a younger Tamsin, who in turn taught her sisters that indifferent politeness was a safe shield.

Poor Leopold. “I see.”

“You do not,” he immediately insisted.

“I am beginning to.”

Leopold dropped into the chair opposite her with a grimace. “She spoke to me exactly as she spoke to everyone else in the room.”

“Was she supposed to do otherwise?”

“Yes.” He groaned and shook his head. Tamsin’s eyebrows rose. “Not—that is not what I meant. How to explain?” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Before she went away…everything was different.”