by D. M. Quincy
“That is correct. On every other Wednesday.”
“And do the same guests attend each time?”
“Not at all. Some of the guests are the same, but about half are not.”
“How large are these salons?”
“Between thirty and forty people attend.” Lord Balfour crossed one arm over his chest while resting his chin on the fist of his opposite arm. “We do prefer to keep the gatherings somewhat intimate.”
A few dozen guests did not strike Atlas as a particularly intimate group, but he’d recently learned that the peerage saw such matters through very different eyes.
“I see,” Atlas said. With that number of guests, not to mention servants, having access to the weapon, it would be extraordinarily difficult to isolate who had absconded with Lord Balfour’s weapon.
“Thank you for your time, my lord,” Atlas said. “I shall not keep you from your shooting practice any longer.”
“Not at all,” Lord Balfour responded warmly. “I am pleased to have met you. Your father always said you possessed the keenest mind of all of his sons. He had the highest of hopes for you.”
As Atlas walked home in a cold light rain, he reflected on Lord Balfour’s revelations about his father. Silas Catesby had rarely complimented his sons. That his father might have admired his intellect buoyed Atlas. It seemed a man was never too old to crave his father’s praise.
He found it difficult to envision his father discussing his children with Lord Balfour or anyone else. Silas Catesby had been too wrapped up in his life’s work, his writing, as well as his passionate love for Atlas’s mother, for either of them to bestow an abundance of attention on any of their six children.
Not that Atlas’s childhood had been any hardship. The children had been fed, clothed, and educated in comfort. The six siblings had kept one another company while their father and mother had indulged in their secret society for two that no outsider could ever hope to breach. Phoebe, twelve years Atlas’s senior, had been more like a mother to Atlas than their own mother had been.
The arrangement had never struck any of the children as abnormal. Atlas certainly held no ill will toward either of his parents. Quite the contrary. He’d always held them in high, albeit somewhat distant, esteem.
As he crossed through Berkeley Square, Atlas tried to ignore the growing ache in his left foot. Not for the first time, he silently cursed the drunken idiot hackney driver responsible for his accident and the lingering pain in his left foot. He passed colorless grass and bare trees that had surrendered most of their leaves to the late autumn frost. He had the square all to himself, the foul weather having driven most people away.
It was dusk, and the damp cold had seeped into his bones by the time he reached home. He trudged up the stairs, pain now radiating through his left foot. He was eager to divest himself of his sodden garments, warm up with a brandy, and settle in to work on his puzzle.
He caught sight of a huddled figure sitting on the landing outside his apartments. As he came up the stairs, he realized it was Nicholas.
His nephew’s stricken expression made Atlas’s heart momentarily lose its rhythm. “What is it?” he asked. “What has happened?”
“Did you know?” Emotion strained his nephew’s voice. “Did everyone know except me?”
“I am not sure what you are asking.”
“Did you know that I have a half brother?”
CHAPTER 17
“You had better come inside.”
Pale-faced, the boy came to his feet. “You did know.”
Atlas set a light hand on his nephew’s shoulder to usher him into the welcoming warmth of his sitting room, where Jamie had lit a fire. He then excused himself just long enough to change out of his wet clothes before rejoining his nephew and pouring them both a drink.
“Yes, I knew.” Atlas handed the boy a brandy. “But I have not known for long. I only recently became aware of Francis Pike’s existence.”
Nicholas held the crystal with both hands and took a long, deep swallow.
“Go easy.” Atlas settled into his chair, filling the soft grooves his body had imprinted onto the cushions. “Are you accustomed to imbibing?”
“My father was with Mrs. Pike well before he married.” Nicholas’s eyes glistened. “He consorted with that woman while he was wed to my mother, and then he moved his doxy into our house after my mother died. It is as if he cared nothing for my mother.”
“How did you find out?” Atlas spoke in a gentle manner. “Did you run into Francis?”
He shook his head. “My father told me. I have never met this man who is supposedly my brother.”
“Your half brother.”
Pain clouded Nicholas face. “I am not my father’s eldest son.”
“What does that matter? You are his sole legitimate son and his heir. You will be the Marquess of Vessey one day. Not Francis Pike.”
“I inherit the title and Francis receives our father.” Nicholas bottomed out his glass. “Hardly a fair bargain.”
Atlas frowned. “What do you mean about Francis getting your father?”
“I have never had a family. Not really. Father did not want me to be tainted by his mistress and her children. I have long known that I have two half sisters. But I have never seen them.”
Atlas had no interest in protecting Vessey, but at the same time he did not care to witness his nephew’s suffering. “It is not unusual for a man to keep his by-blows away from his legitimate heirs.”
“That is just it. I was the one who was kept away. Mrs. Pike and her children lived with my father at Stonebrook while I was sent away to live at school. I rarely saw my father, and I had no other family.”
You could have had us, Atlas wanted to scream, but he did not because the last thing Nicholas needed at the moment was to feel the weight of Atlas’s long-simmering resentment toward Vessey.
“But the worst part of it all was how my father showed such disregard for my mother. To keep a mistress before, during, and after their marriage. First Mrs. Pike came between my mother and father, and then she came between my father and me. That woman ruined both of our lives. And my father allowed it.”
Atlas took a long draw on his brandy and forced himself to he consider his words carefully. “Many noblemen have a mistress, even if they are wed.”
“Would you keep such a loose commitment to your wedding vows?” Nicholas asked sharply. “Will you engage a mistress after you wed Lady Roslyn?”
Surprise rippled through Atlas. “What makes you think I intend to wed Lady Roslyn?”
“Everyone in society speaks of it.”
“They do?” He’d had no inkling that society had made certain assumptions about his acquaintanceship with the duke’s sister.
“You are her only escort aside from her brother.”
Atlas knew London society watched Lilliana with open curiosity. The duke’s sister was something of an enigma to the ton. She’d vanished from society as a girl of sixteen and returned ten years later as the widow of a murdered merchant.
Only Somerville’s exalted title and powerful position in society had spared Lilliana’s reputation any hint of scandal. That and, Atlas believed, Lilliana’s own innate patrician manner, which commanded respect and deference in its own right.
“It is well known that she rejects all other potential suitors,” Nicholas continued. “Do you deny you are courting her?”
Atlas paused for a moment. “No.” It was the first time he had admitted the truth to anyone, including himself. “I do not deny it.”
He had wanted to make Lilliana his almost from the first, when he’d thought her to be a merchant’s widow, before he’d learned she was the daughter and sister of a duke. Given the wide social chasm between them—he was the lowly, untitled, unmoneyed fourth son of a newly anointed baron—he had relinquished any hopes of wedding her. Now Atlas had to admit that he’d never given up on Lilliana and never would.
“And, in answer to your questio
n, no, I would never keep a mistress,” Atlas continued, buoyed by a new sense of surety. “If I am so fortunate as to wed Lady Roslyn, I would keep faith with her. When I give my word, I keep it.”
Nicholas flushed. “Yet you excuse my father for behavior you could never countenance for yourself.”
“I have never excused your father’s behavior.”
“Is this why you hate Vessey?” Nicholas studied Atlas’s face. “Is it because he humiliated my mother by keeping a mistress?”
“No,” Atlas answered truthfully, if not fully, “I only recently learned of Mrs. Pike’s relationship to your father.”
“Then what is it?” Nicholas demanded. “I want to know about my mother. My father never speaks of her.”
“You are a great deal like her,” Atlas answered, taking pains to sidestep Nicholas’s question about why Atlas detested Vessey. He’d been given the perfect opening to tell the boy the truth, had in fact dreamed of doing so for years, but now, looking into his nephew’s ravaged face, Atlas knew he could not add to the boy’s anguish. “I loved your mother very much.”
“What was she like?” Nicholas all but whispered the words. He sat forward, eager to resurrect his mother’s memory from its early grave, where it had been prematurely consigned along with her body. His earnest green-brown gaze was so like Phoebe’s that a piercing nameless sensation that had been dormant since his sister’s death quietly unfurled inside Atlas’s chest.
“She was very loving and gentle, too gentle for this world, as it turned out. She was twelve years my senior, the eldest of six. I was the youngest.” Strong emotion pressed on his vocal chords, constraining his voice. “She mothered me, coddled me.” He smiled, remembering their bond. “She helped me hide a frog in my bedchamber once. I had captured the creature as a tadpole in the creek near our country home. Once it transformed into a frog, Phoebe convinced me to release it. She said all living things were meant to be free.”
“Please do continue,” Nicholas implored. His face was pale, as if he’d seen a ghost, and Atlas supposed that in a way he had. “Tell me more. I want to know everything.”
And so Atlas did. He went on and on, speaking openly about his lost sister for the first time in more than twenty years, wandering from story to story, traveling from one memory to inhabit another. He shared Phoebe with the boy who should have known her but who would never remember his mother’s touch or her scent or her particular way of covering her mouth with her fingers when she giggled. Nicholas would never know Phoebe’s sense of fun and mischief.
Atlas told Nicholas of his mother’s love of drawing—Phoebe was rarely without a sketchbook—and how her siblings were often her subjects. It is almost impossible to convey all of the qualities that make a person uniquely him- or herself, but Atlas tried for his sister’s sake and for that of her beautiful son.
As he shared his sister with her son, Atlas experienced a strong visceral sensation he had never felt before—one that would compel him to always look after his sister’s child. He would envelop Nicholas in a shield of love and devotion, as Phoebe had done for Atlas while she’d lived. Atlas would do whatever was required to protect the boy from harm. He hadn’t been able to save Phoebe from Vessey, but here at last was something he could finally do for his sister. A way for him to make amends. And this time he would not fail her.
The fire was low in the grate by the time Atlas stopped speaking, and the sun had long since gone down. Sometime during their conversation, Jamie had slipped in to light the candles and lanterns, bathing the sitting room in soft, glowing light, but Atlas could not recall his valet doing so.
He did take note when Jamie entered carrying a food basket. Atlas realized he must have spent well over two hours introducing Phoebe to her son, answering the interested questions the boy interjected at intervals during their conversation. They’d laughed together at some of the memories and grown somber at others.
“I do beg your pardon for interrupting, sir,” Jamie said tentatively. His gaze darted between his master and Nicholas, “but the Duke of Somerville’s cook has sent over some food.”
“From the Duke of Somerville’s household?” Nicholas grinned at his uncle, a knowing look on his young face. “Interesting, that. I suppose we do not have to wonder who sent it.”
Atlas grinned back, delighting in this sudden unexpected camaraderie with the nephew he had longed to know, and be known by, for so many years.
He gestured for Jamie to come forward. “That was very kind of Lady Roslyn to think of me. Let us have it then,” he said heartily. “My nephew will be joining me for supper.”
* * *
“You must bring Nicholas around for supper one evening soon.” Thea sipped her coffee from a chipped porcelain cup made of the finest of china but worn by years, perhaps decades, of use. “I will invite Jason and Hermes as well.”
Atlas grimaced. “Let us try not to scare the boy away. Too many Catesbys in one room is a great deal to cope with all at once.” He reached for another slice of plum cake. “Perhaps gradual introductions would be more the thing.”
He and Charlton were having breakfast at Thea’s after their early morning hack through Hyde Park. Charlton provided the horseflesh for their twice-weekly outings. Atlas did not keep a mount. He found it difficult to justify the costs of stabling his own animal when he spent months at a time traveling abroad, far from London. Besides, Charlton kept only the finest horseflesh, far better than Atlas would ever be able to afford. Stopping by Thea’s for breakfast after these outings had become their custom in recent months.
“Your cup is chipped.” Charlton surveyed the table and the plates full of warm buns and plum cake. “In fact, several of these dishes are damaged. Why does your butler not replace them?”
“Why ever should he?” Thea shot the earl a scornful look. “They are still perfectly serviceable.” Charlton was well aware that Thea found a use for almost everything until it was completely in tatters.
Thea and the earl could not have been more different in that respect. Charlton favored tailored clothes, expensive horseflesh, shiny carriages, and a well-appointed home. Thea’s Spartan-like philosophy was difficult to comprehend by a man who surrounded himself with every luxury.
“Nicholas really is so like Phoebe.” Atlas brought the conversation back to their nephew. He’d been particularly eager to see his sister today in order to share the details of his encounter with the boy. “I told Nicholas all about his mother. I cannot wait for you to become acquainted with him. He is a fine young man.”
Thea moved a hot roll onto her plate. Faint cracks spread across the porcelain surface, branching out like veins. “I do hope you were not terribly morose about it.”
Atlas swallowed the last of his plum cake. “What does that mean?”
“It is just that you are always so glum when you speak of Phoebe. It can be tiresome.”
“At least I remember that she existed,” Atlas snapped. “You do not even think about her. It is as if you do not even care that she is not here.”
“Yes, we all know how much Atlas has suffered because Phoebe died young. And we are aware of your distress because you never allow us forget it.”
“Go to the devil.” He flung his linen napkin on the table. “I barely mention Phoebe.”
Charlton uttered an exclamation of disapproval. “Now, there is no need for coarse talk in the presence of a lady.” Charlton’s wary gaze bounced from Atlas to Thea and back again. “Surely we can all be civil.”
Thea ignored him. “You do not need to mention her name because Phoebe is that big heavy weight on your shoulder that prevents you from having a family of your own. She is in the ships in the wharf that carry you away from us for months at a time.”
Atlas rubbed his temples. “Please do spare me your prattling.” No one had the capability to irritate Atlas more than Thea. They were almost of an age, with Thea barely a year his senior, yet that proximity did little to curb her desire to manage him.
“Has it ever occurred to you,” Atlas said, “that I travel because certain members of my family can be insufferable?”
“No, it has not.” She spoke matter-of-factly, striking the same tone she might use to explain one of her complicated mathematics equations. “You have been unmoored since Phoebe died. Do you not think it is rather past time you moved on from that unfortunate episode?”
“Unfortunate incident?” Atlas’s temper flared. “That is how you refer to the murder of your sister? You truly are a heartless shrew.”
“Enough now, Atlas.” A pained expression stamped Charlton’s aristocratic face. “Thea might not be one to show emotion, but that is no reason to insult her. After all, she did look after you after your carriage accident when—”
Thea didn’t even look at Charlton when she interrupted him to respond to Atlas. “Do you think Phoebe would want you always to be sad when you think of her? I choose to remember the good in Phoebe, to remember the happy times.”
“Are you implying that I do not recall how wonderful Phoebe was?”
“Not at all.” She tore her bread roll in half. “You have made her a proverbial saint in your mind. Which she most certainly was not. Phoebe was lovely, but she was far from perfect.”
“I know she was a real person. I was there when she died.”
“You do Phoebe a disservice by making everything about how she died.” She spread butter on her roll, methodically covering the entire surface. “Perhaps you should focus on how she lived. You have made her this tragic figure, almost a symbol, and hardly even a person.”
Atlas rubbed his chest. It felt like a hot iron rod was wedged inside it. “Forgive me for not being a heartless bastard.”
“Really, you two, this is hardly appropriate conversation for mealtime,” Charlton interjected before muttering, “or ever.”
Atlas glared at his sister. “It is really no wonder that your husband stays as far away from you as he can most of the time.”