Page 13 of Goodbye, Earl (Ladies’ Revenge Club #4)

F reddy had been born with a talent for a few, very specific things. Charm, yes. Conversation, naturally. But above all, he had always been able to bluff.

He had, of course, refrained from doing so in the usual contexts for some time now. He had wondered a few times, in moments of idle reflection, if perhaps he had lost the talent due to lack of practice. Lying, after all, was a skill as much as it was a sin.

Plenty of people were bad at it.

Bluffing was more than just lying, however. It was often the practice of simply saying nothing at all, of embodying innocence.

Claire, bless her, was hopeless at it. He’d tried to teach her once, years ago, when they had started to frequent the tables in Paris. He’d sat with her and dealt her cards and tried to coach her, to teach her to not reveal absolutely every secret through her eyes, her mouth, her hands.

She never could do it.

So, today, in that little meadow at the base of the Rollright Stones, Freddy had learned something very important about both of them.

He could still bluff.

She still could not.

He had watched every flicker of panic, of outrage, of perhaps violent plotting as they danced over her delicate little face, and he’d been able to stand and smile and soothe without a single giveaway that below his skin, there was a raucous melee of organs and humors, clashing and frothing and boiling away.

He had done it. He had walked away whistling while his lips still burned like they would bubble and blister from the simple act of brushing her cheek.

He knew she did not see it. He knew because deep down, he was still a sneaky bastard, and he was very good at bluffing.

Thank God for it, too. Thank God for that.

If they were both openly falling apart, they’d never make any progress, would they?

“When you go back to London,” she’d said, while instructing him to write to his son.

Back to London! As though he’d even consider it.

He wasn’t going back. She might only suspect it right now, but he knew it for certain.

He grinned to himself as they unloaded from the carriages back at Crooked Nook, both because he knew he wasn’t going anywhere and because he knew she would lose her absolute mind when she allowed herself to realize it.

There was still time before that, though. Still time to consider how best to move his pieces, how best to prepare for her ultimate explosion.

So far, the Claire he knew had been buried under several layers of anxieties and panic. He had only seen her as one sees a prey animal during a chase. She hid, she fled, she turned pink. Her claws hadn’t come out yet, but Freddy knew they would.

He anticipated it, even. He looked forward to it.

He wouldn’t mind being her scratching post. Not one whit. In fact, the idea was rather stimulating.

“Good night, doggy,” Oliver was whispering to Abra from inside the carriage. “I will miss you.”

“Come along, lad,” Freddy said, holding out his arms. “The carriage is going to take Tommy back to the dower house.”

“Say goodnight to me too, young man,” Tommy said with a raise of her white eyebrows. “I deserve one too.”

“Good night, Tommy,” Oliver said with a sleepy smile, climbing onto her lap and putting a wet, dutiful kiss on her cheek.

“Good night, Oliver,” she returned gently. “And you, Freddy.”

He winked at her as he caught his son, who had decided to depart the carriage with a forward leap. She winked back.

She always winked back.

Freddy’s heart ached sweetly.

He really was home, wasn’t he?

The governess appeared at their side, ready to take the child if needed. She did not say anything but flicked her eyes to Oliver a couple of times, as though gauging how difficult it was going to be to get him through his evening routine.

“I don’t want a bath,” Oliver said in a loud whisper to Freddy, as though he could feel her cruel intentions in the twilight. “I’m not dirty.”

“You are a little dirty,” Freddy replied reasonably. “We spent all day in the dirt, didn’t we?”

“No!” Oliver protested on a yawn. “I don’t want a bath. I’m not sleepy.”

“I can see that,” Freddy told him, letting the boy nestle into his side and put his lolling head on his shoulder. “I’ll just take you up to the nursery anyway, hm? Just to see that everything is in order.”

“Noo,” Oliver protested, yawning one more time.

Silas glanced over with a faint smile, falling into step beside them. “Your cousin Vivian hates bath time too,” he said to Oliver, brushing a bit of hair behind the boy’s ear, “unless we make extra bubbles in the water. Have you ever had extra bubbles?”

Oliver considered this, twisting the fabric of Freddy’s jacket between his fingers. “Extra? I don’t think so.”

“Oh, well, that’s a shame, isn’t it?” Freddy said, raising his brows at the governess, whose face had suddenly sharpened with intent. “But you don’t want a bath tonight, so I suppose we won’t be able to try it out.”

Oliver frowned. “I might have one,” he said after considering it, “if there are extra bubbles.”

Freddy chuckled, wondering if he’d just been the recipient of a very young Hightower boy learning how to bluff. Would Oliver take after Freddy or Claire in that regard? It could go either way.

He saw the boy to the nursery and into a bubbly bath basin and stayed for the washing and the drying and the transfer to pajamas.

He took the comb from the governess, who walked him through how to comb Oliver’s hair without making him cry, for the boy was still very sensitive to the pain of snarls and knots.

She asked, politely and uncertainly, if Freddy himself wouldn’t like to tuck Oliver into bed tonight, since he had already stayed through the bath.

“Oh,” said Freddy, surprised by the offer and perhaps feeling a little out of his depth. “Without you?”

“If you like, my lord,” she said, as though she would be unbothered one way or the other.

“Yes, Papa, please,” Oliver put in, already sitting in the nest of his blankets, blinking with eyelids that had gone heavy with the weight of nighttime. “Please.”

Of course he couldn’t decline such a request. No one could.

The governess stayed in the corner of the room, lest Freddy need a lifeline, but did not otherwise interfere or instruct.

Freddy managed to fluff the pillow, to draw the blanket, to kiss the brow without incident. When Oliver requested a story, Freddy remembered Claire’s letter, and offered the Wild Hunt and the Cuckoo. Oliver, however, only wanted the Stone King, one more time.

Oliver fell asleep before the witch could issue her first decree. He slipped right out of the world and into dreams the way a child should, unburdened and easy.

Freddy kissed him one more time. He inhaled the scent of his damp hair. And he backed away as quietly as he could, wondering how he had ever lived a day of his life without this boy in it.

He pondered that question all the way back to his room.

He had felt something similar once, many years ago, after he had seen Claire on that staircase in the Fletcher house.

It hadn’t been as simple, of course, and certainly nowhere near as pure, but he had felt it.

One look at Claire Yardley and he hadn’t remembered what his life had been without her in it.

They were his. And he was theirs.

Freddy knew that in his bones.

He climbed the staircase, anticipating his own hot bath and soft bed. It had been a long day, yes, but it had also been actually perfect.

He’d done it. He’d demanded a perfect day and he’d gotten one.

How about that?

He shook his head in wonder, realizing that he had likely been expecting disaster all the while.

When none had arrived, he wasn’t quite sure what to do with it.

Perhaps he didn’t need to do anything at all.

Perhaps, like Oliver, now he could bathe and sleep without any worry, at least until tomorrow.

He pushed the door of his bedroom open and paused, surprised to find Silas inside, standing by the window and looking out over the darkened expanse of the Nook below them.

“Silas?” he said, drawing the door shut behind him as his brother turned to regard him. “What’s happened?”

“Does something need to have happened?” Silas replied with a crook of his dark eyebrow and a twist of his lips. “I was just admiring your collection here on the windowsill. The devil’s toenails. I still have some too.”

“Do you really?” Freddy crossed the room, looking down at the line of fossilized oysters he’d put on the sill, two on each side of the rushwork Brigid’s Cross that sat in the center. “You always seemed so bored on Tommy’s nature walks when we were children.”

“I was bored,” Silas replied with a chuckle, touching the edge of the cross. “But I suppose age brings us sentiment. What is this?”

“A talisman,” Freddy replied, blinking. “Ember made it.”

Silas looked surprised, turning to meet his brother’s eyes. “Did she? For you?”

He nodded. “She’s forgiven me. At least one of them has.”

Silas shook his head. “Dot forgave you too,” he reminded him. “Or she accepted your apology, in any event.”

“Not quite the same thing,” Freddy returned with a frown, drawing out a chair from the little table in the corner and falling into it. “But yes, I suppose that’s true. Millie let me live with her for a few months, so perhaps she did too. I’ve never asked outright.”

“You rarely do,” Silas said with a little chuckle. He brushed his fingers over the fossils once more and then turned to the table where Freddy sat. “I brought you something.”

“A gift?” Freddy guessed, knowing it was not a gift.

“In a way.” Silas turned to rifle through his jacket on the coat tree. From it, he withdrew two things: a crumpled envelope that had gone yellow at the edges and a little glass bottle of amber liquid.

“I don’t drink,” Freddy reminded him, casting a wary look at the bottle.

“Apple juice,” Silas returned, tilting it one way and then the other, as though the light filtering through the liquid could attest to its innocent contents. “If that is amenable.”

Freddy nodded, sliding out of the chair and moving to the sideboard to retrieve glasses. “Apple juice, eh?”

“I like sweet things,” Silas said without shame. “Don’t you?”

Freddy rolled his eyes, setting the glasses down and reaching to pour the juice. “What’s the occasion? Or were you just hoping to hide your filthy fruit juice habit from Dot?”

Silas chuckled again, which was more unsettling than he likely realized.

Once upon a time, Silas never laughed.

“I told you once,” Silas started, taking up his drink and holding it in the air, “that we’d toast your becoming a father.”

“After I’d earned it,” Freddy recited with narrowed eyes, remembering that promise all too well. “I recall.”

“Well,” said Silas, nudging the other glass in Freddy’s direction. “You’ve earned it.”

For a brief, thick moment, Freddy did not move. He did not think. He did not breathe.

“I …” He paused, attempting to swallow as his fingers found their way around the glass. “What?”

“To you, Freddy,” Silas said, sliding his own drink forward to click against Freddy’s, which was still on the table. “Congratulations on becoming a father. I think you will be a good one.”

“What?!” Freddy repeated, staring at his brother with more than a little wild confusion dancing at the rims of his eyes.

“Now you drink the juice,” Silas instructed with a patient sort of amusement, demonstrating the act of sipping liquid as a helpful visual aid. “Go on, Papa. You’ve earned it.”

“I … yes,” Freddy said, shaking his head and trying to clear his throat. He looked down at the apple juice, lifted it toward his face, and stared through the liquid at his brother. “Cheers?”

“Cheers,” Silas agreed.

“Right,” said Freddy, and he drank. The mercy of the sweet liquid restored moisture to his throat, and he took another gulp, relief battling with confusion on the surface of his skin.

He put the empty cup back down and stared at it like it was not quite trustworthy. To Silas, he said without looking up, “Do you really think so?”

“Yes,” said Silas without elaboration as he refilled the glass.

Freddy watched the rest of the little bottle fill his glass and made a careful, slow show of finding his way back into the seat of the chair.

He blinked a few more times, perhaps to prevent any untoward emotion from spilling out of his face and distressing Silas, or perhaps just because it was one of the few motions he trusted himself with just now.

“The letter,” Freddy said, nodding toward it. “That’s the letter I wrote? The day he was born?”

Silas nodded, pushing it gently across the table. “Yes.”

Freddy reached out to touch it but hesitated, his hand hovering in the air as he returned his gaze to Silas’s. “I don’t even remember what it says,” he confessed with a grimace. “That day is … was … a bit of a blur.”

“Understandable,” said Silas, leaning back and sipping at his own juice. “I thought about giving it to Claire a few times over the years, but it never felt quite right. She was always so … well …”

“Yes, I know,” Freddy said with a dry chuckle. “I understand.”

“She is acting very odd, just so you are aware,” Silas continued with a raise of his brows. “She is never this silent. She never misses dinners. She never avoids attention. I don’t know this woman here with us just now, but I do know that she is only present because you are, Freddy.”

“I know,” Freddy repeated, letting the ghost of a smile find his face. “It’s nice to feel important, isn’t it?”

Silas only sighed, but he did not look reproachful for once. He looked almost approving, actually.

That was also new.

“I’ll give it to her,” Freddy said, this time letting his fingertips fall all the way to the aged paper of the envelope. “When it is time.”

“That’s what I was hoping you would say,” Silas replied, this time pleased enough that his smile included a flash of teeth. “I am proud of you, Freddy.”

“Stop,” said Freddy as he snatched up his juice and took another long quaff. “I can only handle so much tumult in one day.”