by Erica Ridley
Despite his initial reaction, Lawrence now appeared to accept her siblings as they were. He might still say the wrong things, but that wasn’t a new quirk. He’d had a long history of awkwardness before meeting any Wynchesters. In fact, they’d designed their ruse to exploit his naïve earnestness.
She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Now that he knew, would Lawrence still want her in his life?
26
Hidden behind Lawrence’s laughter was visceral, burning embarrassment.
Contrary to his imagination, the “poor, pitiable orphans” lived in obvious luxury. The old baron may have failed to provide dowries for his adoptive daughters, but—regardless of individual poverty—the Wynchester clan was far from shabby-genteel.
Had he felt sorry for them for not living in fashionable Mayfair, scrunched in with titled, important neighbors? The Vanderbean property’s lush garden was larger than Grosvenor Square. Their marvelous three-story home was as spacious as an entire terrace row of town houses like his.
Despite its ample size, their home’s classic architecture was ordinary on the outside…and full of splendor inside. White plaster ceilings with gilded floral friezes. Marble fireplaces carved in neoclassical patterns that matched the fanciful trim around doorways and the decorative lunettes on the ceilings.
Great-Aunt Wynchester was right to criticize Lawrence’s woeful carpets. Every detail of the Wynchester home was well thought-out and gorgeous.
The walls were hung with silk: this room the soothing green-blue of the sea; that room a deep and sumptuous rose; others ornamented with dazzling stucco. Intricate gilded candlestands rested on elegant marble pillars. Tempting Chippendale settees and armchairs abounded with plush silk-upholstered cushions. Lawrence trembled with mortification.
Good God, had he really explained the concept of spoons to Chloe?
His palms went clammy. He wanted to sink through the tasteful emerald-and-gold Kidderminster carpet that had been woven specifically to echo and complement the ceiling pattern overhead. His stomach twisted harder.
He had been trying to save her from embarrassment, and in return she had shamed him to his very bones.
He hurt. He was angry at himself that he let himself be hurt.
Lawrence had wanted their connection to be more than physical. It was true for him, and he had needed it to be true for her, too.
But what right did he have to feel betrayed in matters of love? He was the one who had been planning to propose to someone else. He had thought so little of Chloe and so much of himself that he had accepted farcical assertions of ignorance as obvious fact.
Of course she needed his help, he’d told himself. Didn’t everyone?
No, Chloe did not.
He might have known the truth sooner if he had not compounded his father’s mistakes by cutting himself off from the “undesirable element” in the name of protecting his reputation. In doing so, he had behaved just as reprehensibly as his father.
The Wynchesters would not have had to resort to trickery if Lawrence had been willing to listen.
He was listening now. Despite his and Chloe’s inauspicious beginning, despite all of his prejudices and arrogant assumptions, she had come to be as essential as art. Whenever they were apart, he longed for the moment he would see her face again.
If his heart was now in the hands of someone who didn’t want it, well, that was his own bloody fault. He had dreamed of a family like the Wynchesters. Of course they would rally together and defend each other from all evils. Starting with the actions of Faircliffe dukes.
It was time to take responsibility for his past actions and forge a better future.
Lawrence cleared his throat. “I apologize for my father’s shameful behavior. And for my own. I should not have ignored your attempts at outreach. As much as I would like to say I didn’t register my failures to acknowledge you publicly, the truth is I did so on purpose. I did think myself above you, and I did instruct my household to reject any calls or correspondence, based solely on your name and status. I was wrong. I am sorry. I don’t expect you to forgive me.”
The Wynchesters exchanged meaningful glances.
“To be honest,” Jacob said, “we wouldn’t expect a duke not to act superior.”
Elizabeth patted her cane.
Lawrence remembered there was a knife hidden inside.
“I’m glad you disappointed yourself, and you deserve to feel that way,” Elizabeth said. “I am pleased you’ve realized your mistakes.”
“More than realizations,” he said. “I’ve changed, hopefully for the better. I hope you can give me a chance to prove my remorse is real.”
Graham sent a sideways glance toward Chloe. “I assume we’d be tarred and feathered if we did not.”
Chloe’s cheeks flushed pink, but she held her brother’s eyes.
“Consider this your good-faith second chance.” Jacob’s dark gaze pinned Lawrence. “Don’t make a hash of it.”
Lawrence coughed. “I’ll try my best.”
He could not stifle a thrill at the idea of having an opportunity to be near a family like this. To be close to Chloe. To have a second chance with her.
“Oh, good.” Great-Aunt Wynchester rubbed her hands together as a pair of footmen carried heavy silver trays into the dining room. “Tea at last.”
Lawrence’s stomach turned at the prospect. At this point he would have to gag some down out of politeness. He hoped there was an extra tureen or two of sugar to make it more palatable.
The footmen set the trays in the center of the table. One was piled high with meat pasties. The other bore a jug of lemonade, a carafe of coffee, and what looked like a decanter of fine port.
Neither tray held a teapot.
He swung his startled gaze toward Chloe.
She batted her eyelashes at him innocently. “Don’t follow the rules. Create them.”
“That’s the Wynchester way,” Elizabeth agreed, and reached for the port.
“I begin to think you might all be secretly related after all,” Lawrence grumbled, but he helped himself to lemonade.
“We wouldn’t keep it a secret,” Jacob assured him.
“We keep other secrets,” Great-Aunt Wynchester agreed.
Her nieces and nephews tried to hide their chuckles.
Lawrence cast a suspicious gaze about the table. “No…”
They were not nieces and nephews. They were orphans of disparate parentage. Which meant none of them was related to the old woman seated across from him.
He narrowed his eyes at her. “Are you even a Wynchester?”
“I told you he would start to suspect,” Chloe crowed.
“He got partway there,” Graham admitted grudgingly.
Jacob waved a hand. “Go on, Tommy. Help him out.”
Who was Tommy? Lawrence glanced over his shoulders, but no other siblings had entered the room.
“Oh, all right.” Great-Aunt Wynchester set down her meat pasty with an aggrieved sigh, reached her liver-spotted hands up to her thin white hair…and pulled it off her head.
Lawrence dropped his fork with a clatter. “What in the…”
She ran her fingers through a shock of short brown hair, then pulled a stoppered glass bottle from her reticule. After dousing her serviette with some sort of fragrant oil, she swiped the wet cloth down one side of her face.
The age spots and wrinkles smudged onto the linen.
“You’re…not…” His voice failed him.
Great-Aunt Wynchester added more drops of oil from her vial and proceeded to erase every trace of age from her face, neck, and hands.
A lad of perhaps five and twenty years grinned cheekily back at him.
Lawrence could not breathe. Had he thought discovering “poor orphans” living in luxury to be humiliating? There was no brash, clueless Great-Aunt Wynchester. It was just another lie his self-important, unfounded assumptions had let him believe without question.
“Tommy?” he said hoarsely.
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“Thomasina,” the lad said, and Lawrence revised his opinion yet again.
Not a lad but a young woman. With sharp cheekbones, a stylish male coiffure, and laughing brown eyes.
“But you can call me Tommy,” she said. “Everyone who knows me does.”
He gaped at her. “I can’t believe my eyes.”
“Wigs and cosmetics,” she explained. “It’s a bother to keep long hair pinned up against one’s head, so the practical thing was to lop it off.”
“Also it’s easier to sneak into the reporters’ gallery as a man,” Elizabeth murmured.
Belatedly, Lawrence remembered Great-Aunt Wynchester saying she’d never stuff herself into a dusty attic. He now realized why: she didn’t have to.
“Absolutely,” Tommy agreed. “Being a man is the best part.”
“I want to die,” Lawrence mumbled into his palms.
“You gammoned yourself,” Jacob pointed out. “The ruse would never have worked if you didn’t have such abysmal preconceived notions about the elderly and us.”
Tommy nodded. “You believed me to be frail and helpless, so I was. You believed Wynchesters to be ill-mannered, embarrassing bumpkins, so we were. What say you to that, impertinent pup?”
“God save me.” He sank deeper into his plush, expertly carved chair. “I let you call me that in front of witnesses.”
She patted his hand. “Never underestimate an old lady.”
Ears burning, he lifted his face from his hands. “You let me ply you with compliments and fish for family stories about Chloe.”
“All lies,” Tommy agreed cheerfully.
“Except for the meat pies,” Chloe added.
“Now that Faircliffe knows, what are we to do?” Graham asked. “Is this the end of Great-Aunt Wynchester?”
“Never!” Elizabeth protested. “Great-Aunt Wynchester is my favorite sprightly old bird.”
“Pah, sprightly grandmother types have untimely deaths all the time.” Tommy’s eyes widened. “Have Chloe tell you about the horrible collection of German fairy tales at the reading circle. At least I was unmasked by a duke rather than pecked to pieces by crows.”
“Crows are very intelligent,” Jacob said. “I’ve trained mine to do dozens of tricks.”
“Are they assassin crows?” Graham asked politely.
Jacob considered. “Not yet.”
“Then they have nothing to do with Great-Aunt Wynchester’s delicate constitution. Only one thing does.” Graham turned to Lawrence. “Well, Your Grace? Can you keep a wee family secret?”
Five bright gazes fixed in Lawrence’s direction.
Warmth filled his chest. They were trusting him with a secret—trusting his word that he would keep it—because Chloe trusted him. Treating him like family, if only for this moment.
“I suppose,” he said as casually as he could. “Great-Aunt Wynchester is safe to continue terrorizing the streets of London.”
“Huzzah!” Thomasina tossed her cosmetic-covered serviette into the air.
Chloe’s smile melted Lawrence’s insides.
She was sensational. Her siblings were astonishing and awe-inspiring. They accepted one another for who and how they were, disguises and strange pets and all.
Despite Chloe only being able to trace her history back to a basket discarded on an orphanage’s steps, she had a huge, loving family that anyone would yearn to be part of. Irreverent, always laughing. The sort that would stand up for one another at any cost.
Despite being able to trace his lineage back eight generations to the first Duke of Faircliffe, Lawrence had…
Nothing.
A clatter in the corridor caused everyone’s attention to swing to the doorway.
“It’s Marjorie!” Tommy said in delight.
“Come and sit with us,” Jacob called.
Marjorie did not leave the doorway.
“Who is this?” she asked, her voice loud and her eyes directed toward Graham.
“I’m the Duke of Faircliffe,” Lawrence responded, presuming she meant him.
She didn’t react.
Chloe waved in his direction. “That’s the Duke of Faircliffe.”
Hadn’t he just said so?
Marjorie’s eyes lit up. “We have our painting?”
“Not yet,” Elizabeth said. “Help us torture him until he agrees to hand it over.”
“I like torture,” Marjorie said cheerfully, then took the seat farthest from Jacob. “I dislike birds at the dinner table.”
“I forgot about Sir Galahad.” Jacob dashed from the room with the bird still on his shoulder, only to return seconds later, parrot-free.
Marjorie wrinkled her nose at Lawrence. “She said you were handsome.”
Chloe closed her eyes. “Marjorie, this is not the moment.”
“Er…” The back of Lawrence’s neck heated up. “Sorry to disappoint.”
Marjorie considered him. “You’re very handsome. If I painted portraits, I would paint yours.”
He wasn’t certain what to do with this information. “Why don’t you paint people?”
“I prefer landscapes. What do you paint?”
“Marjorie,” Graham interrupted gently. “Not everyone lives and breathes art.”
“Lawrence does,” Chloe said.
Jacob wiggled his brows. “Lawrence does, does he?”
“Er, Faircliffe,” Chloe corrected quickly. “His Grace. Who has our painting. I hope.”
That got their attention. All their eyes turned to him at once.
Elizabeth tapped her fingers on her sword stick. “Do you have it?”
“I do,” he admitted. “Why are there two copies?”
“Who knows? We only care about ours.” Chloe’s eyes were fierce. “It’s a piece of Bean and an intrinsic part of who we are. Puck & Family is us.”
All six siblings touched their fingertips to their hearts, then raised them to the sky.
How Lawrence yearned to be part of such a tight-knit, caring group. To know what it was like to care for someone so much and be an integral piece of something bigger than oneself. To love unconditionally and be loved unconditionally in return.
“Well?” Great-Aunt—or, rather, Tommy prodded. “Will you return our painting?”
He certainly couldn’t hold on to something that meant that much to them. Particularly when it was an object that no longer belonged to him.
Lawrence nodded tightly. “I shall.”
They erupted in cheers and began talking over each other at once.
He watched them make plans amongst themselves in silence, as if he were a distant observer in a lonely theatre box gazing wistfully down at a fantasy world below.
When he handed over the painting, that would be it. The Wynchesters wouldn’t need him anymore.
They had never been interested in him from the start.
27
As soon as Lawrence returned home, he hurried to the library. This was where he’d brought all of the artwork his wastrel father hadn’t managed to lose over a whist table. Or, apparently, sold off to his friends.
The majority of the paintings on the walls had come from the country seat. The rest had hung throughout the town house. They had even found a handful of forgotten paintings tucked away behind a sideboard in his father’s study. Lawrence had wondered why.
He now supposed that his father had removed them from the walls because he intended to sell them. The selections made sense: the rejected paintings had unusual subjects for an aristocratic household. Besides, if Father happened to have a near duplicate of the same painting, why bother to keep both?
Which begged the question: Where was the duplicate? Neither Lawrence nor the staff had come across any additional artwork, or it would be displayed here on the library walls.
He thought back to the night of his father’s accident. Father was impulsive and reckless in all things. Apparently, the duke had been fleeing the scene of a crime, having just stolen a painting from the Wynchesters.
He’d driven himself in a curricle that did not survive the crash.
A broken axle had thrown Father to the street, where one of the horses kicked his stomach and his leg. Lawrence was eating supper alone in the dining room when the front door banged open and the corridor filled with heavy footsteps and panicked voices.
That was when Lawrence glimpsed the painting. It would not have registered, had Father not seemed more concerned about its safety than the state of his fractured limb. Lawrence summoned a surgeon to inspect the injured leg. Father seemed fine. Once his leg was splinted, he took the framed painting into his study and did not emerge for hours.
By the third morning the old man could barely speak. He was drowsy and nauseated, and his limbs had swollen alarmingly. The sore leg was not the gravest concern after all. When the horse kicked Father’s midsection, organs began to fail inside. There was nothing the surgeon could do. That night, Father was gone.
The painting must still be in his study.
Lawrence strode from the library to investigate at once.
The study had been dusted and swept but otherwise it was still the way Father had left it. A pile of journals here, a deck of cards there, a stoppered bottle of brandy next to an empty glass. The bare shelf where the cherub vase had once stood. Nothing on the walls.
He turned in a circle. Father had taken the painting without permission. He would have hidden it from view. Perhaps even removed the canvas from its frame.
Lawrence would find it.
Blood rushing in his ears, he lit every candle and sconce in the room. He was no longer willing to live beneath his father’s shadow.
He flung open drawers, yanked tables aside, tossed papers about. The study was not a shrine. He could tear down the walls with his bare hands if he wished.
But he didn’t have to.
Lawrence pulled up short and sent a considering glance toward the escritoire.
Years earlier he had glimpsed one of his father’s hiding places on one of his many childhood visits. Lawrence had sat unnoticed in the corner, attempting to be close to a father who would rather find his pleasures anywhere but at home.
