thinner over the past two years, his face gaunt and creased with lines of stress.
“Your brother won’t alter his plans,” he said.
“I know. But if you wrote to him, he’d be more inclined to consider the ramifications.”
“If he continues to reside at the court,” Rushton said, “he will be in less danger there than here.”
“I’ve little doubt Darius can and will take care of himself whether he resides at the court or not. However, I’m concerned about the consequences this could have for us here.”
“Such as?”
“Talia, for one. She’s of marriageable age, and she—”
“As are you.” His father shot him a pointed look.
“But Talia is—”
“Let the girl alone, Northwood. It’s your own lack of prospects that ought to concern you, especially after the Chilton debacle.”
Frustration swelled in Alexander’s chest. They’d all borne the embarrassment that followed his broken engagement. Between that and his mother’s desertion, even Alexander admitted it would be difficult to believe any of the Halls could contract an advantageous marriage.
Since he had no rebuttal to his father’s remark, he chose to change the subject. “Talia has expressed a wish to visit Floreston Manor again.”
Rushton’s expression darkened. “Ought to have got rid of the place years ago.”
“She wouldn’t forgive you if you did.” Although none of them had visited Floreston Manor since their mother left, Alexander knew it was the one place Talia had been happy as a child.
His sister had been a mystery to him then—a bronze-haired child who flitted through the corridors of Floreston Manor and the gardens of St. Petersburg like a wood sprite.
He sighed. Talia was even more of a mystery to him now, though her faint otherworldliness had become weighted beneath a layer of shadows.
“Sebastian has agreed to accompany us, if you’re willing to reopen the manor,” he said. “And we’ll invite Castleford.”
The earl didn’t respond, clipping dead leaves from a plant.
“It would do Talia some good,” Alexander persisted. You, as well. “She doesn’t enjoy being in London during the season.”
Rushton finally gave a short nod. “Very well.”
“Good. I’ll leave the arrangements to you, then?” Anything to get the old bird to do something besides tend to his blasted plants.
He turned to leave when his father’s voice stopped him. “What of the Society exhibition, Northwood?”
“The council has expressed concern about the Society’s connection with France and the substantial Russian component. However, I do not anticipate any difficulties yet.”
His father glanced at him, his mouth turning down. Alexander’s final word seemed to echo against the damp glass of the greenhouse.
Yet.
Chapter Eight
Alexander paced to the hearth, then swiveled on his heel and went to the windows and back to the hearth. Sebastian hunched over the piano, pencil in hand, looking at a sheet of music as if it were an earwig.
After his third trek across the carpet, Alexander stopped. Through three layers of fabric, he felt the heavy weight of the locket pressing into his chest. He hadn’t looked at it closely for the past three weeks, had only dropped it into his pocket every morning for reasons he couldn’t quite comprehend.
He tugged it out now and stared at the silver surface, the intricate engraving.
“You wouldn’t have that grim look about you if you’d got rid of it,” Sebastian remarked.
Alexander shook his head and replaced the necklace. He’d told his brother the whole tale in the hopes of obtaining some words of wisdom. Instead, Sebastian had strongly advocated that he simply give the locket back to Lydia.
Alexander had been unable to explain why he knew she wouldn’t accept it.
“Her mother was mad,” he said.
“Mad?”
Alexander paced back to the windows. “It happened when Lydia was a child. Sir Henry was forced to institutionalize his wife several times. She died at a sanatorium in France after giving birth to Jane.”
“What has that got to do… Oh.”
Alexander’s shoulders tensed as he stared at the garden. “I assume it caused a stir at the time, though no one appears to remember. Or if they do, they don’t care. Perhaps that speaks to the Kellaways’ lack of importance.”
“Then you oughtn’t be concerned about gossip should you”—Sebastian cleared his throat—“pursue her.”
Pursue her. Alexander hadn’t told his brother that was exactly what he wanted to do. And despite his near-constant thoughts about Lydia, his determination to unravel her complexities, his memories of her soft mouth, Alexander hadn’t devised quite the right approach. He could pursue any other woman in the world with flattery and attentiveness, but those alone would not work with Lydia.