Page 23 of Love Thy Enemy (The Vaughns #4)

“Edward,” said Gregory with a scowl. “I’ve told you again and again, you are free to take what you require, as long as you—”

“Keep a list,” said Edward, holding up a piece of paper with a smirk. “I included the measurements of each item as well.”

The fellow looked so pleased with himself, and Mother didn’t help matters when she chuckled.

“Little brothers are a bother,” grumbled Gregory.

“Not true in the slightest,” said Edward. Nodding at Jackson, he asked, “We aren’t a bother, are we?”

“I’m not, though Wesley can be a pest,” he replied in all seriousness. “He likes to take my things.”

Gregory met his brother’s eye and took the list. “I can imagine how trying that is.”

Nodding at the trio, Edward swept from the room with the same burst of energy with which he had entered it, and Jackson’s brows rose as he met his guardian’s gaze.

“See, a pest,” said Gregory.

But Jackson merely shrugged and turned back to Mother as she guided him through another set of tablets. Perhaps he ought to have encouraged the lad to rejoin his class, but both he and Mother seemed pleased with the arrangement, so Gregory wasn’t going to disrupt their enjoyment.

Glancing through the doorway into the workshop opposite, it was clear that Walter and the other fellows had them in order.

Adding another body to the room would only exacerbate the problem, so Gregory moved to his desk and sat down as the sound of Mother’s instructions transported him back to when he was Jackson’s age and eagerly assisted her in her work.

But then his gaze fell to the journal on his desk, and Gregory’s heart sank.

Rodney’s marriage had lasted some eighteen years, and his friend had been an avid journaler, leaving countless pages to peruse.

So much so that he’d taken to carrying them about to get a bit of reading done whenever he could.

The cover fell open to the sheet of paper Gregory had tucked into the journal, which held his personal notes (including a record of Mrs. Stuart’s claims).

Setting it beside the volume, he flipped to the bookmark and his stomach sank as he reread the words that he’d chanced across before the boys had arrived.

Tessa is expecting again. She came to my study to tell me the news and had the gall to expect me to be pleased with the announcement. About a child who cannot be mine? The lady hardly deigns to do her wifely duty and believes I will ignore the fact that she climbs into bed with countless others?

The eagerness in her eyes was sickening.

Tessa’s acting abilities have grown tenfold during our marriage, for anyone who did not know her better might actually believe she was genuinely happy at the thought of our family increasing.

No doubt she will explain away how the child has Gooding’s nose or eyes.

I cannot do this any longer. I cannot ignore the fact that I live in a battlefield where every discussion ends with broken hearts and bloodied spirits.

If she wants Trevor Gooding, she can have him.

I will not raise another’s byblow as my own, nor will I allow my children to be sullied by associating with a baseborn child.

Tessa’s tears seemed so genuine when I turned her from the house. So much so that even my heart—which knows better—nearly softened toward her. But the child she carries is not mine, and I am done with turning a blind eye to my wife’s infidelities.

Let Gooding deal with her now.

Reading the passage a third and fourth time didn’t alter the words one jot.

Rodney had been the one to drive his wife from the house.

Granted, it was a far sight better than what he could’ve done to an unfaithful wife, but it did prove one thing for certain: Rodney’s letter and stories were inconsistent with the record he’d made at the time of the events.

That, in and of itself, did not throw everything his friend had said into question, but as of yet, nothing in the book contradicted Mrs. Stuart’s claims. Except for the matter of her infidelities.

Yet the more and more Gregory combed through the book, the less and less evidence Rodney presented.

Surely there was something concrete. Something he’d witnessed.

Something more than suspicions and hearsay.

“What has you pulling that terrible face?” asked Mother, glancing up from the powder Jackson was grinding with his mortar and pestle. “You look like you are going to worry yourself into an early grave.”

Gregory didn’t know what to say to that whilst in mixed company, so he shut the book and affixed a smile to his face.

“It is Mother,” said Jackson as he worked the pestle.

Straightening, Gregory shook his head. “I am not worried about your mother. And you shouldn’t be either.”

But Jackson fixed his gaze on the book. “That’s Father’s journal.”

Gregory’s own mother glanced between the two, her eyes seeing far more than Jackson likely knew.

“I heard Mr. Wolsey is doing a very special demonstration in the apprentice’s workshop,” she said, setting a hand on the lad’s shoulder. “I think we ought to join the rest of your class.”

“But…” Jackson glanced at his work, which was only partly finished.

“Let us strike a bargain,” she said. “If you will join the class, I will ask your headmaster if you mightn’t stay behind to help me finish, and I will fetch you back to school after. Perhaps you can even have your supper with Grandpapa as well.”

For all that it was a good bargain—one that favored him highly—Jackson didn’t readily accept it. He glanced at the door and back at Mother, and she shifted so that she could loop her arm around his shoulders.

“Would you like it if I joined you?” she asked, seeming to sense what he wanted without the boy likely understanding it himself.

Then and only then did Jackson nod, allowing himself to be led into the other room—though, like a lad of fourteen was bound to do, he pulled from her touch when his classmates were in sight.

Gregory settled into his chair and frowned at nothing in particular.

Did Jackson yearn for parental guidance?

Or did he seek a mother’s company in particular?

Regardless of the answer, a weight settled into Gregory’s chest at the thought that he was failing both Jackson and Rodney.

Not only was he questioning his friend’s behavior, but the children didn’t even look to him as a father figure.

Leaning forward, Gregory closed his eyes and massaged his forehead as a tempest swept into his sanctuary.

Again.