Page 29 of The Art of Sinning

“When Edwin heard of it,” she went on, “he abandoned his studies at Oxford to ensconce himself here at Stoke Towers with me.”

“Thank God someone in the family had sense. Though I’m surprised that your father allowed your brother to leave school.”

“They had a mighty row about it when Papa briefly returned so he could order Edwin back to Oxford. I heard most of the argument before my governess caught me eavesdropping and took me away.”

Her voice hardened. “Papa said it was a daughter’s place to sit with a mother. That girls were good for little else, but his heir should be at school. Edwin refused to leave. He told Papa I was too young to watch Mama die and should be in the schoolroom instead. Edwin insisted upon staying at Mama’s side.”

A troubled look crossed her face. “Edwin won the argument. When Papa saw that Edwin wouldn’t budge, he returned to London. Meanwhile I was relegated to the schoolroom until she died.”

“And that bothers you?”

“I would have liked to stay with her. It’s not as if I learned much anyway, sitting up here trying not to think about Mama coughing away downstairs.”

“But your brother was right. It was no sight for a child of ten. And where was your brother Samuel in all this?”

“Still at school. Edwin and I were the only ones here. He spent his days in Mama’s bedchamber, repairing automatons, and his nights trying to comfort me.”

“Which your father should have been doing.”

Anger flared in her eyes. “Papa said he hated sickrooms. So we didn’t see him until the funeral.”

Nowshe looked tragic. So tragic that he could hardly bear to put the image to paper. God rot her father. What sort of man abandoned his children at such a time?

“Edwin made excuses for him,” she went on, “said that Papa couldn’t handle the loss of Mama, but I always knew there was more to it than that. Because it seemed to me that he handled it perfectly well. He went off to London and never gave it another thought.” She glanced at Jeremy. “Rather like you, abandoning your sister.”

The attack took him off guard. He could understand how she might look at it that way, especially since it was uncomfortably close to the truth.

Unfortunately, defending his actions would mean revealing some ofhisdarkest secrets, and he wasn’t about to do that. Not with her, not with anyone. He could barely stand to think about the past, much less talk of it.

Best just to let her believe him being as irresponsible as her father.

So, as always when the conversation veered out of his control, he changed the subject.

Seven

“Speaking of London,” Mr. Keane said, “I’ve arranged for our brothel visit. I should have told you before, but I forgot.”

“Youforgot?” Yvette was cold and sore and growing more annoyed by the moment with sitting for the artist.

“If you’ll recall, when you first came up here you were a bit... unsettled.”

“Oh. True.” Until this afternoon, she hadn’t been in their schoolroom in years, and the idea of spending her nights in here with him had made her uncomfortable.

Little had she guessed it would end up being nothing to the discomfort of lying sideways on a hard wooden table, wearing hardly anything, with her arm resting across her face. No wonder he’d asked repeatedly about her well-being earlier. Her left foot was going to sleep. So was her right hand.

And he wasstillonly sketching her. She hadn’t seen him pick up a paintbrush yet. For that matter, she didn’t see any brushes or paints at all.

“Anyway,” he said, “I’m telling you now.”

Telling her what? Oh, yes. That he’d arranged for their brothel visit. “However did you manage it?”

“I engaged the help of my cousin Zoe.”

Yvette stared at him in horror. “You told her I wanted to visit a bawdy house?”

“Don’t be absurd.” He chose another charcoal. “I told her I needed her to throw a masquerade ball as soon as possible. She was more than happy to oblige, since she owes me a favor.”

“That must be some favor.”