Page 100 of A Lady’s Guide to Subterfuge and Science

“In that case,” Oliver said, “there is a young lady.”

“Oh, thank the Lord you didn’t marry before we found each other again,” Rosemary burst out. “I worried about that all the time, you know.”

“I haven’t asked her that just yet,” Oliver told her, vaguely aware of how odd it was that they were managing such casual conversation. “I’m waiting for her to admit she’s gone and fallen in love with me. You know how it is.”

Rosemary leaned against the back of the chaise. “You’re exactly as I imagined you to be.”

“So are you,” he murmured.

“You can marry in Kent, if you like,” she said. “I don’t know how many people I can fit into the cottage, but the garden could work for a wedding breakfast.”

Oliver mirrored her posture, his gaze focused on the wall in front of him. “For a while, I told myself I’d never settle down with anyone.”

“Why?”

“I was worried I’d end up like him, or that I’d make someone miserable without meaning to.”

Rosemary pressed a kiss to his temple. “You’re nothing like him. I’ve always thought so.”

“But whatever anxiety I had about it just—disappeared one day. And now I can’t help but wonder why I ever felt that way at all.”

“Love will do that to you,” his mother said softly. “Risks are nothing in the face of it.”

“I’m sorry,” Oliver said, turning toward her. “For not writing.”

She pulled him toward her. “I’m sorry for leaving you.”

They stayed like that, a mother holding her son, twenty-three years feeling like nothing more than twenty-three seconds. There was no anger, no resentment. Whatever traces Oliver had held onto melted away, even if he knew he was entitled to all the bitterness in the world. He had, after all, been a child caught in the crosshairs of his parents’ crumbling marriage. But then, his mother had been caught in those crosshairs, too.

And she was more than a shadowy fount of maternal affection to him now. She was a person—one who was deserving of his empathy and forgiveness. And as she held him, he knew that she felt the same about him. Because he had been old enough to reach out for a long time, could have written whenever he’d pleased. He hadn’t, just as she hadn’t, either.

Even after decades apart, they were still alike, down to their every flaw.

And William had made sure to keep them apart, as drunk off the power that gave him as he was off the liquor he favored.

A knock came at the door, and Hughes stuck his head in. “Apologies for the interruption, sir, but your father is home.”

Oliver felt his mother stiffen next to him. “Where is he?”

“In his study.”

“I’ll go to him.” Oliver stood, holding out a hand to stop his mother from following. “He’ll go mad if he knows you’re here. I can take care of this.” He looked to Hughes. “Keep her away from him.”

Hughes nodded. Oliver headed to his father’s study before his mother could speak, glancing at the old clock as he passed. He still had some time before he had to ready himself for the seminar. Not a lot of it, but some.

He burst into his father’s study without knocking. William jumped, the movement causing his brandy to spill over the edge of his glass.

“What is the meaning of this, boy? Are you completely devoid of any manners?”

Good, Oliver thought. He isn’t drunk yet.

“Rosewood is mine,” Oliver said, “isn’t it?”

The color drained out of his father’s face, and he placed his glass down on the desk with a careful clink. “Where in God’s name did you hear that?”

“Answer the question.”

“That damned mother of yours. Did she write you?”