nodded “Peter is his natural child—not that he’ll ever recognise the boy. Clara recently approached Bartlett and asked him to contribute money to Peter’s upbringing. He didn’t take it well.”
Henry stared at Kit. He could just about make out his features now that his vision had adjusted to the darkness, and Kit’s expression was tight with anger.
“She shouldn’t have approached him,” Kit said. “She knew what he was like.”
“Then why did she?” Henry asked curiously.
“Peter has a weak chest. The doctor told Clara she needs to move him to the country and she realised she would have to stop working at Redford’s to do that. So, she decided to try to get the money she needed from Bartlett—and he reacted by sending thugs after her.”
“And is this where we come to why you were at Sharp’s tonight?” Henry guessed.
Kit’s soft laugh was rueful. “It is.”
“You went to see Bartlett? Why? To ask for the money for Clara?”
“Christ, no!” Kit exclaimed, rising up on his elbow. “I would not sink to the level of that slug by blackmailing him. I’ve already told Clara not to worry about money again—she and Peter are family to me, and I will always provide for him. I went to Sharp's tonight with the sole intention of forcing Bartlett to leave Clara alone by publicly confronting him.” He gave a dismissive snort then. “Besides, he’s got no money. His father has some wealth, it’s true—though it’s mostly tied up in land—but I expect Bartlett will run though that within a year or two of his sire passing on.”
Henry gazed at Kit, who was now settling himself back down onto his pillow. His strategy had been well thought out. He was a clever man, and a principled one. Brave, too. He didn’t need to stick his neck out for Clara and Peter, but he did it because he thought it was the right thing to do—and because he’d taken responsibility for a little boy who was not his own son.
Henry was rocked by an unexpected wave of emotion that had him swallowing painfully against a sudden lump in his throat.
When he had himself under control again, he said, “Clara and Peter are very lucky to have you.”
Kit’s expression softened. “I’m lucky to have them,” he said. “Given how Peter was conceived, one might think—” he broke off, shaking his head minutely—“but despite everything, Clara’s devoted to him. She is the best of mothers.”
Henry watched Kit, fascinated, trying to interpret his expressions. After a moment, he said, carefully, “Was your mother… not like that?”
Kit made a soft noise of amusement. “Actually, my mother was very indulgent—very affectionate.” He smiled. “But she was also rather…” He trailed off, as though unsure how to finish.
Henry stayed quiet, waiting as Kit thought.
“Life was not kind to her,” Kit said at last. “And it is hard to be strong when life always beats you down.” He paused, and again, Henry waited, sensing there was more to come. There was something about the darkness that made it easier to share one’s thoughts.
“She conceived me with a client,” Kit said at last. “She didn’t ever tell me who the man was. She may not have known. She’d been pregnant before and got rid of the babe, but for some reason, she decided to keep me.”
Kit must have seen the shock on Henry's face, because his eyes gleamed, hard like polished stone in the darkness. “In the world I grew up in, women like my mother had to make all sorts of decisions you would disapprove of, Henry, just to survive.”
Kit’s anger surprised Henry a little—Kit might as easily have been the babe that was got rid of, after all—but what did Henry know of the life Kit had been born into, or the choices his mother had made?
“Tell me,” he said gently. “What was she like?”
Kit’s anger faded and his lips stretched upwards in a smile that was sweet and a little sad. “She was very beautiful. I suppose everyone thinks that about their mother, but mine really was breathtaking.”
Henry reached a hand out to touch Kit’s face, brushing his thumb over the fine line of Kit’s cheekbone. He was filled with a soft, familiar affection, and it struck him that he had missed feeling like this. It was a different sort of feeling than the one he felt for his children, but with the same sort of tender ache to it.
“I’m not surprised to hear it,” Henry murmured. “If she was anything like