“I confronted him with the differences between his ledger and the one I’d translated using his records. He’d become so wrapped up in his schemes, he didn’t even know how broke we were.” She dropped to her knees to dig out the remainder of the intruder. “Why would he do that? It never made sense that he would lie to himself.”

“Lenders review our accounts before they loan money,” Jasper said. “It’s usually a formality, especially if you have a title and an estate. No one would investigate past the last few pages.”

No one but a daughter who was determined to learn the truth. Jasper lifted her to her feet and took her trowel. She had done enough work today.

“He said reading through ledgers and doing sums wasn’t a suitable pastime for a lady.”

Jasper’s ears twitched. “You don’t like that word, do you? Suitable.”

Annabel’s steps slowed. “Almost as much as you like your lordship.”

He understood his aversion. He wanted to understand hers. “Why?”

“It means I’ve met a mark but not exceeded it. I’m good enough, smart enough, pretty enough.” Her tone sharpened. “You buy a cart horse because she’ll do. You buy a racehorse because she captivates you, and you consider her valuable.”

I need a suitable wife. He’d meant it as a compliment. She’d heard cart horse. And now he had her managing his household and handling his correspondence. And cuddling against him in the middle of the night.

Does she consider everything I ask of her a job?

A houseboy appeared at the gap to the hedges. He whipped off his hat and gave a bow that reminded Jasper of a broken toy. “Visitors, your lordship.”

Assassins likely wouldn’t show themselves in the middle of the day. Still, Jasper kept Annabel close as they walked toward the house. Frederick walked at a safe but respectful distance, his rifle at the ready.

This was their current truth, and none of them had to say a word about it. However, the longer the silence stretched, the more Jasper’s skin crawled with the impression someone other than Frederick was watching his back. If he felt that way, Annabel certainly must.

Stapleton met them at the door. “Lady Lambourn and Mr. Yarwood are in the library, Lord Ramsbury.”

Mother would never leave the girls unattended at a house party unless something had happened, and Kit would have never let her travel alone. This was bad news. “Thank you, Stapleton.”

It was only a few steps to the library, but Annabel took his hand before they reached the door. Her fingers warmed his icy ones, but the warmth crept deeper still. At every other critical point in his life, he’d been alone. Even when there were other people in the room, they were not the ones to bear the responsibilities that followed.

He wasn’t alone any longer.

They entered the library together. Mother, in black, had taken the chair farthest from the windows. She held a crumpled handkerchief to the corner of one red-rimmed eye. Kit, on the other end of the room, paced from wall to wall, head down and deep in thought.

Jasper went to his mother first and curved his free hand around her shoulder. “The girls are fine, yes?” The words almost choked him. Having Annabel in the path of assassins had brought home how dangerous his foes could be to those around him. A house party wouldn’t have a rifleman on the roof.

“They’re fine.” She patted his hand. “Having a wonderful time. Mrs. Linden was kind enough to step in so I could leave.” Her tears began anew. “Edgar has died.”

Jasper hadn’t spent much time with his uncle as an adult, not after his exile to the countryside and his stubborn refusal to repent and reform. What he remembered most was a man with a laugh that was too large for his body, his mother’s favorite sibling in a family she loved to a fault. “I’m sorry, Mum.”

Annabel set a cup of tea on the nearest table.

“Thank you, dear girl,” his mother said. “I am so glad you’re here.”

So was he. Just as he’d been glad to have Annabel across from him in the coach last night and meeting with tenants this morning.

“Are we planning the funeral for here?” Jasper asked. “Or did he make arrangements for a crypt at Warwick?”

Mother looked past him toward the other end of the room, to Kit. It took Jasper back to his father’s death, when Mother had looked over the girls’ bowed heads and sought his input, when he’d navigated the swamp of grief to give the answers everyone expected. Six months ago, after Grandfather’s death, everyone had stood in this room and waited for him to do it again.

Kit had stopped pacing and now stood in front of the desk, facing them, his hands behind his back and his chin held high, as though he was meeting a firing squad. Mother, her mouth in a firm line and her blue eyes like ice, could easily pull the trigger.

“Edgar wanted to be buried in Warwick’s churchyard.” Kit pulled an envelope from his coat pocket. “No crypt, simple stone.”

Jasper’s father had kept a similar envelope in his safe. So had Grandfather. They’d shown him where to find it and what it meant.

Heirs were told those things.

Heirs…

Kit’s nod was short and quick.

“Leave us.” Jasper cast a glance at his mother and his wife. Sending Annabel from the room was like losing a lifeline through the maze in his head, but he needed to ask some very rude, very direct, questions.

The door clicked closed.

“Jasper.”

Ignoring Kit, he walked to the liquor cabinet and poured two shots of Cousin Amelia’s best whiskey. He delivered one to the man he’d considered a brother, if not by blood then by experience. The boy he’d fought beside in the schoolyard. The friend he’d worried over during the war. The man he’d trusted with his secrets and his life. “Cousin.”

Kit’s stare was wary over the rim of his glass. Ever vigilant, his friend. No one read a situation better, whether it was a rowdy crowd in a pub or one man in a library. He could always find the easiest way out, the surest plan of attack, the information that was needed.

“How long have you known?” Jasper asked.

“Since Mum’s death.” Kit stepped back so he could lean against the desk.

Kit had lost his mother during their third year at Eton. “That long?”

“Da told me, but only because he was foxed and miserable.” Kit pulled his body into the shape of a man who spent far too much time stooped in a mine and then slouched on a stool in his favorite pub. “You will always be my boy, even if in the eyes of the law you’re a bastard.” He straightened his spine and sighed. “As though I needed to be told either thing. It was plain the old man loved me, and just as obvious that I looked nothing like him.”

“That’s hardly proof that—”

“Mum had a letter from Edgar in the trunk at the end of her bed, agreeing to pay for my education but nothing else.”

The boys at Eton had teased Kit mercilessly over two things: his Welsh accent and the identity of his benefactor. The larger the crowd, the wilder the guesses, until Kit lashed out. Jasper had fought next to him every time. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Honestly?” Kit shrugged. “I thought you knew.”

“You thought I knew?” Jasper raked his hand through his hair, struggling to keep his temper in check and his brain clear enough to follow Kit’s reasoning. “And simply didn’t mention it for twenty years.”

Kit tilted his glass, first to one side and then the other, as he stared over his shoulder and out the window. “I know how Society is about bastard children.”

Jasper ground his back teeth together to silence his protest. This story was not about him. “How did you get from nothing else to knowing where Edgar kept his will?”

“I never expected to hear from him, but when I enlisted, he sent an invitation to Warwick. I was curious, so I went.”

Edgar had never invited anyone to the country house he’d once referred to as his own personal Elba.