As disjointed possibilities swirled in Tessa’s mind, her eyelids began to feel impossibly heavy. She would close them for a few moments of rest. Just a few moments and no longer …
The next thing she knew, morning sunlight was flooding her bedchamber. In horror, Tessa realized she had never written that letter.
Chapter 4
“Ho there, Guy! Come, be a good fellow and talk some sense into Mama.”
Guy had been heading down the corridor to his study but felt obliged to detour into the breakfast parlor to greet his cousin and aunt. Though it was past eleven, Edgar Whitby sat at the linen-draped table with Aunt Delia and her companion, Miss Knightley, a quiet, thirtyish spinster.
Guy had returned from abroad to find his relatives ensconced in the east wing of Carlin House. They’d moved in here at his grandfather’s decree upon the death of Guy’s uncle, Lord Victor. Edgar had been only fifteen at the time and under the duke’s guardianship. Guy had had no objection to continuing the arrangement. At least their presence kept him from rattling around this great pile with only servants for company.
Discounting Sophy, of course.
Thinking of his daughter, Guy felt his chest tighten. Would he ever see her settled and happy as a normal child? In light of what he’d just found out, that hope seemed more elusive than ever.
A moment ago, he’d dispatched a servant to fetch the new governess to his study. Miss James would be in a dither, wondering if he’d discovered her secret. Let her wait. She deserved to suffer for her lies.
Having already breakfasted at eight thirty, he ignored the salvers of eggs, kippers, and toast on the sideboard and walked toward the coffeepot. A footman sprang ahead to fill a porcelain cup from the silver urn. “Your Grace.”
Guy gave a nod of thanks as he accepted the cup. Perhaps in a year or two or ten, he’d become accustomed to the high degree of service Grandfather had demanded of the staff. It was a far cry from boiling his own tea over a camp stove with water from a crocodile-infested river.
As he walked to the table, he eyed his cousin and heir. Edgar lounged with his legs crossed, bootheels propped on the seat of the neighboring chair. At twenty, Edgar had the air of a Corinthian with a steel-blue coat tailored to fit broad shoulders, buckskins and polished top boots, and a patterned Belcher kerchief tied at his throat. By contrast, Aunt Delia wore the black of mourning into her fifth year of widowhood. She had sad eyes and a droopy mouth, and as usual, her manner exuded all the joy of a funeral.
Guy leaned down to plant a peck on her papery cheek. “I trust you’re well this morning, Aunt.”
She cast a long-suffering glance at her son. “If only that were so. But I’m afraid my digestion is sorely overwrought today.”
“No need to be in a pelter, Mama,” Edgar said, cutting a slice of sausage on his plate. “I’m old enough to be at liberty to do as I please.”
“Except to put your boots on the dining chairs,” Guy said.
His cousin grumbled but lowered his feet and straightened his posture.
“See how he heeds you, Guy, but not me,” Aunt Delia lamented. “Why, I’d told him that very thing only a minute ago and he wouldn’t listen. Now, I do hope you can dissuade Eddie from this dreadful course of action!”
“Edgar, if you please,” her son corrected. “And it ain’t dreadful in the least. Just a few days’ jaunt out of town.”
Guy sat down to drink his coffee. Edgar was a keen sportsman who relished a challenge and excelled at athletics. “So what is it this time? A boxing match? Fox hunt? Carriage race?”
“Newmarket,” Edgar said with great enthusiasm. “Chesterton invited me and a couple of mates to stay with him. His papa keeps a stable near the track where we can watch the horses train. One of his prime nags will be running later this week.”
Aunt Delia clutched a black-edged handkerchief to her shriveled bosom. “Only think of all those sharp hooves! Not to mention the drunkards and the gamesters. Why, the very thought of you among them makes me shudder.”
“Bother it, Mama, I’m no longer in short pants,” Edgar griped. “I’ve nearly reached my majority.”
“Not for another six months. If your grandfather were still alive, he would forbid you from associating with such unsavory characters.”
“Fustian! Lord Chesterton is top of the trees, Sedgwick and Hopkins, too. They’d stare to