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“I was hasty. They mean well, I am sure.”
Polly gave an absurdly deep curtsy—deeper than anything one might do at court—that mocked the very meaning of the action. “Lead where you will, Master Jude Bottom.”
Jack’s eyes flashed with amusement. I pressed my lips together. “Bottom?”
“There isn’t anything I haven’t heard. She says I’m an Ass—that I sound like a braying donkey when I laugh.” The big beta chuckled. Now it seemed the only one not smiling was my beautiful, proud sister.
On impulse, I hugged her. Polly disliked being touched, yet always smelt of a million conflicting scents. “Come visit me again,” I whispered in her ear. “When things have settled. I know you are… You are more omega than any of us. I know how hard it is on you. And I am sorry for pressuring you about nesting. That wasn’t fair.”
I felt her nod against my shoulder.
“He is better than any alpha,” she whispered back. “Jude is worth more than any alpha. Don’t think I’m unhappy without one of them.”
“I know, sweet girl.”
I woke slowly the next morning. First the mingled scents of my mates and my own sweeter perfume, like a pair of strong arms, grounded me, the soft weight of blankets covering me. The twinge in my side where I was still healing. The sound of my own breath and heart beat. Then, blinking, the rainbow of colour as the morning sun streamed in through the stained glass window. I lay there looking at the window. My thoughts fluttering in my chest.
Instead of my mates, I found a maid tidying their bedroom.
“My lady.” She curtsied. “His lordship and the Colonel have gone out on some errand. Left awfully early and didn’t want to be waking you. There is a letter on the mantle.”
“Thank you.”
“You would like some breakfast, perhaps? Tea?”
“Tea would be perfect, thank you… And, my apologies, your name?”
“Mason, my lady.”
“You are new?”
“Aye. Miss Polly was wanting someone to keep an eye on you. I hope you don’t mind, but she was ever so insistent.”
I snorted. Trust my dear sister to send another of her little mice out into London to keep tabs on the people she cared for.
Without my mates, I took my time getting ready. My clothes were still those of a man, a thing I wished to rectify as quickly as possible. But until then I must do with breeches and jackets.
Today, though, separated from my mates, I wanted their scents on me. So I crossed to the wardrobe. Everything smelt of Pax. The next and the next were the same.
Mason returned with the tea and some toast, which she put on the small table set at the front of the room.
“Where are the Colonel’s things?”
“Oh, in his room. He—”
“I want everything moved in here before nightfall.” She bobbed a curtsy. “Wait. Send Mrs Hubbard to me so that I can discuss, oh, a few things.”
The maid scurried out just like a mouse.
The room Jack had lived in lacked any personal effects. Pax’s mark, his taste was everywhere. “And all that means is that priceless artworks stacked against the walls.”
A flare of affection for Pax’s collection bloomed in my chest. The hoarding made me curious now rather than angry. Perhaps I couldn’t be angry, for in some way these were mine. Each of these artworks now under my purview. My eyes flicked along the stacks, landing randomly on one. I crossed to it and pulled back the heavy dust cover. A few were framed but mainly stretched canvases with the familiar tease of paint on the edge. I rested the first canvas against my thigh. Pulling back each one.
The paintings revealed themselves. Landscapes, portraits, and still lives. Each one so achingly beautiful even when they weren’t because they were ones he had chosen. Then I reached one that caused me to pause. I blinked.
A portrait of a man, clearly an omega by his build and the way the artist had added a ring with a large carbuncle of a ruby. It was from the mid-century, and he wore a wig, neatly curled, and a plum velvet coat with heavy French lacing. The most remarkable part of the painting was that he sat at a desk, his hand holding a quill and a stack of books at his elbow. None of those clues mattered when I knew the face, loved it so much that my heart clench.
“Papa?”
