With that conviction at the forefront of his mind, Henry set off again, at a more determined pace.
Less than quarter an hour later, he was approaching Kit’s front door—a door that, as he drew closer, opened.
The first two figures to emerge were a pretty young woman and a little boy. A moment later, they were joined by an elegantly dressed man.
Kit.
The boy, who looked to be five or six, was talking in a high, animated voice, making both Kit and the young woman laugh. He was holding the young woman’s hand, but as Kit drew level with them, he thrust out his other arm, demanding Kit’s hand too. Kit laughed, and let him have it, and then they were swinging the boy back and forth between them, making him squeal with laughter.
The fond way Kit looked at the child, his eyes alight with merriment… this was a side of the man Henry had not seen before. Was this child his? Was the young woman his wife?
Henry stood, rooted to the spot, with nowhere to go. Knowing Kit would see him in a moment. Had he made a terrible mistake in coming here? Should he turn on his heel and go? The questions rushed through his mind, but before he could come to any kind of conclusion, the small party was upon him and Kit, looking up from smiling at the little boy, saw him.
His step stalled, making the boy’s swing stutter and the young woman’s step falter too. The boy began making some piping complaint about Kit’s inattentiveness, but the young woman ignored him. She followed Kit’s gaze to Henry, her own expression quite curious.
“Henry,” Kit said. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
Did he sound put out? Henry wasn’t sure.
“I’ve come at an inconvenient time,” Henry said. “My apologies.”
Kit opened his mouth, but it was the young woman who spoke. “Not at all. We were only going for a walk.” She glanced at Kit and said, “I can take Peter on my own.”
“Clara—”
She smiled ruefully. “Tom can come if it makes you feel better.”
The child glared at her. “I want Uncle Kit to come!”
The young woman gave him a level look and he subsided, though not gracefully, kicking at the ground with one foot. The young woman glanced at Kit then, brows raised expectantly.
Kit sighed, but turned to Henry. “May I introduce my friend, Mrs. Marsden, and her son, Peter?”
Henry’s tension eased. Plainly she was not Kit’s wife.
Kit looked at the young woman. “Clara, this is Henry Asquith, the Duke of Avesbury.”
Henry bowed to her. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Marsden.”
“Charmed, your grace,” Mrs. Marsden said pleasantly with a small curtsey, and a lack of obsequiousness Henry admired. “Peter, say good afternoon.”
Peter stared at Henry balefully. “Good afternoon,” he said flatly, clearly unimpressed.
Henry bit his lip against a smile. The boy reminded him of Freddy at the same age.
“Good afternoon, Peter,” he replied gravely.
Peter ignored him. He looked at the young woman. “May we go now, Mama?”
“We’ll go back and get Tom first, but yes,” she said. “We may.” And with that she nodded to Kit and Henry, and led the boy back into the house.
“I’m sorry to have interrupted your day,” Henry said. “I can come back later if you’d rather.”
Kit shook his head. “No, no, you’re here now. Come in.”
He turned on his heel, leaving Henry to follow him.
Was he annoyed, Henry wondered? He didn’t seem to be, but then Kit had never been one for shows of temper.
By the time they entered the house, there was no sign of Mrs. Marsden or her son—presumably they’d gone in search of the man called Tom.
“We’ll go up to my private sitting room,” Kit said, mounting the stairs. After climbing two flights, Kit led Henry down a short corridor and into a small, much less formal room than the drawing room Henry had been shown into before.
“Take a seat,” Kit said. “Would you like some tea?”
Henry shook his head. “No, thank you.” He settled himself into a small armchair, then immediately wished he’d selected the large chaise longue instead, just to see if Kit would sit beside him. “This is a nice,” he said. “Very cosy.”
“I don’t have many visitors up here,” Kit said. “It’s where I come when I need quiet time.”
Henry felt a warm glow at that—that Kit was allowing him access to this private space of his.
“Do Mrs. Marsden and her son live here too?” he asked carefully.