mind, though he couldn’t focus well enough to unravel it. “How long have they been acquainted?”
“I couldn’t say, my lord.”
Fairfax drummed his pen on the desk. Clara had a reckless streak to her, a regrettable inheritance from her mother. The same impulse had sent Elizabeth into more than one untenable situation, requiring Fairfax to set things right by whatever means necessary.
“Well.” He dismissed Saunders with a wave of his hand. “Ensure she does not plan anything foolish.”
Though accosting him screaming in the streets was the height of foolishness, as far as Fairfax was concerned.
Stupid girl. If she’d thought to gain anything by such rash behavior, she would be sorely disappointed.
“Yes, my lord.” Saunders bowed slightly and turned to leave, pausing when he saw the small figure of Andrew hovering in the doorway. Davies the butler stood behind him.
Fairfax frowned. Andrew was thin and pale, nothing like his son, William, had been. William had also inherited Elizabeth’s rash impulses, but at least he’d had a robust constitution and strength of will, which Fairfax knew was a result of his firm upbringing. He’d raised his son well, ensuring he knew how to fight, to defend himself. As a result, William had been strong and fearless.
Fairfax suspected he wouldn’t be so fortunate with his grandson. Already Andrew was weak, preferring picture books and drawing to hunting. The boy couldn’t fire a gun to save his life. Richard would be appalled if he knew his son still flinched at the mere neighing of a horse.
A painful longing pierced him, born from William’s death at too young an age. Fairfax wanted a true son again, one he could count as a companion, one whom he could mold into his own image. A young man of cunning and strength and sportsmanship. One who would prove loyal and obliging to the bitter end.
He stared at Andrew. Not like this introspective boy, who looked as if his fate should lie within the stagnant confines of a church or university.
Pathetic.
“What?” Fairfax asked his grandson, his voice sharp with regret and disappointment.
Andrew didn’t respond, not that Fairfax expected him to. Thin relief curled through him, but not enough to assuage the fear that had burned in his gut since he’d heard Andrew speak to his tutor less than a month ago. Just one word, a whispered answer to a geography question, but it was enough.
As far as Fairfax knew, the boy hadn’t said anything before or since, but he would not risk the chance that Andrew would regain use of his voice for good. For if Andrew were to speak again, his words could prove damning.
Davies cleared his throat. “I believe Master Andrew wishes to see his mother, my lord.”
“Your mother abandoned you,” Fairfax snapped at Andrew. “And do not think you can escape unnoticed and find her. Try to do so, and I’ll flay the skin from your back.”
Andrew flinched. Even Davies looked appalled, as if such a vicious threat had physically struck him. The pain behind Fairfax’s eyes stabbed harder, fueling his anger. Weak lot, all of them.
“Get out,” he ordered. “Both of you. And remember this, Andrew. Your mother is dead.”
Chapter Eight
Moonlight shone gray and pallid through the fog. Sebastian dragged his fingers across the piano keys, the resulting cacophony echoing the restless pulse of his blood. Colors tumbled together, as if they were spinning inside a storm. He slammed both hands down on the keys with a crash. A cramp knotted the fingers of his right hand. He shoved away from the piano, then paced to the hearth.
A mistake. The whole bloody thing was a mistake—his reckless capitulation to his father’s demand, his agreement to help Darius, his acceptance of Clara’s proposal, which had seemed so practical at the time and was swiftly becoming fraught with more complications than he could bear.
The most prominent being that he wanted to kill Fairfax himself.
A brittle fiber of levelheadedness, one that would have made Darius proud, had prevented Sebastian from attacking the baron and forcing his surrender to Clara’s pleas. He knew they required an advantage before Fairfax would agree to speak to them—and even then, Sebastian doubted the man’s willingness to negotiate.
Didn’t appear likely, given Fairfax’s reaction to seeing Clara.
Bastard.
Breath billowed from Sebastian’s lungs as if someone had punched him in the gut.
The front bell rang, bringing his attention to the clock. Nearly seven o’clock. He waved off one of the footmen, then went to the door and opened it. The folds of a hood shadowed Clara’s features,