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“Mother.” He bowed.
Mari caught his eye and gave him a nearly imperceptible nod. She stood with the children, one on either side of her. Her steady gaze told him that he could atone for the mistakes of his past. That he could be something better.
He wanted to be worthy of the confidence he saw in her eyes, but at the first glimpse of his mother, the old, tangled wall of thorns had closed over his heart.
Still, he would do his best to be polite.
Everything broken can be mended.
Perhaps this was an opportunity.
He schooled his face to cordiality. “You look well, Mother.”
“Not quite one of India’s artifacts yet.”
She’d softened at the edges, her stern jaw had the hint of a jowl and her hair had gone light with silver.
Too much to hope that the woman had softened along with her jawline?
“Have you taken up bareknuckle boxing?” A disdainful inventory of his shoulders and arms. “You’ve a ruffianly look about you.”
Too much to hope.
“I work at a foundry. I make steam engines.”
Also, too much to hope that he wouldn’t answer in kind.
“Most unfortunate.” An injured sniff. “I heard you were persisting with your endeavors inTrade.”
The worst thing a gentleman could sink to. Worse than adultery. Debauchery. Drunkenness.
The eighth deadly sin and the most wicked of all.
Trade.
He wasn’t going to have this conversation again. Not now. Not in front of spectators.
Conversation resumed. Footmen served claret and punch. The fruit arrangement on the sideboard, topped by a towering, spiny pineapple, had been disemboweled.
But he knew that everyone had half an ear on what he and his mother were saying. They were just waiting for the veneer of politeness to slip. For the ugliness to emerge.
“Why did you come, Mother?” he asked, wearily.
“Why did you invite me?” she countered.
I didn’t. India did.Where was India, anyway?
Probably arguing with Ravenwood in a corner, again, sparring like pugilists at a boxing match.
“I had hoped you might want to meet your grandchildren.” He glanced pointedly at Michel and Adele.
She followed his gaze. Another sniff.
Not good enough.
“Rather too likethat woman, don’t you think?” She took a small sip of claret.
That woman meaning Sophie. “It’s not charitable to speak ill of the dead, Mother.”
