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She rose and dragged her feet toward him. “I assumed it would be just us for tea. Then I heard the two of you having a row. I thought it would be a brief, meaningless tiff. But instead…” Her words died in her throat. “I eavesdropped. I have no excuse.”

“Sit down, Kitty.”

She lowered herself onto the bright cushion nestled in the bay window. Outside the sun shone and birds sang. Why couldn’t it be raining to match her dismal mood?

“Once I started to listen, I found myself riveted. It struck me how little I know of your lives. Not that I have a right to know. I’m not family, and soon I’ll be gone and—” She broke off, unable to speak over the burning lump in her throat.

He patted her hand. “It’s only natural you’re curious about us. I’m sure you’ve deduced by now I love my grandsons more than anything or anyone in this world. Perhaps more than I loved their father—my only son.”

The earl’s faded blue eyes clouded. “Joshua was vibrant, full of life, like Zeke. He also had undeniable charm, just drew people to him like flies to honey. Caden, Zeke’s younger brother, inherited that trait.”

“Joshua, your son, my lord?”

He smiled. “Yes. We spoiled him terribly, his mother and I. Everyone did. Everyone fell under his spell. There was just something about him. When he misbehaved, when he cheated on exams, when he showed no inclination to grow up—we turned blind eyes. We thought he’d outgrow his reckless ways in time.

And then, much to our delight, it seemed he did, when he fell in love with Marjorie—Zeke and Caden’s mother.

” The earl chuckled. “She had a will of steel, that one.”

Zeke clearly inherited her trait, she thought, but wisely kept the opinion to herself.

“They married. Started a family. And if he drank a little too much, or gambled a little too freely when Marjorie went to the country or on holiday, we all chalked it up to him being a man’s man.

“After she died, and their unborn babe with her—” He shook his head—“Joshua’s bad habits came back with a vengeance.

He sank into depravity with nary a care for himself, much less the welfare of his two sons who needed him more than ever with the loss of their mother.

” He paused a long moment, then added in a low voice, “He died in a gaming hell—drank himself to death in a filthy back room.”

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. She ached for the earl—and the two little boys who’d deserved so much better.

“Zeke was barely fourteen, and his brother only ten when I tried my hand again. I sometimes wonder if I made the same mistakes.”

“That’s not possible, my lord.”

He gave her a querulous look.

She arched her brows. “Your grandson is a hardly a…”

“Ne’er-do-well?” Claybourne filled in.

“Precisely. Anyone can see he’s disciplined. And fit…fitter than most. So that rules out him being a drunken sot, as well.”

The earl laughed and covered her hands, clasped tightly on her lap. “Oh, my darling girl, you have such a way with words.”

She sent him a tentative grin. “Does this mean you forgive me?” Her grin vanished. “I understand if you can’t.”

He eyed her, a considering expression on his face. “Maybe I was angry for a moment. But the moment’s gone. Besides, how could I remain angry at the granddaughter I never had?”

“Thank you,” she whispered, taking his palm and pressing it to her cheek. She glanced toward the door as if she could see Zeke as he stormed out. “I told you he hated me.”

Lord Claybourne dropped a finger on the tip of her nose. “He’ll get over it.”

Kitty sent the earl a fond smile, and kept her doubts to herself.

***

Zeke emptied his tankard and, not bothering to rise from the wingback chair where he’d sulked for the last hour, flagged one of the club's attendants to bring him another.

He pulled at his collar, and inwardly groaned at the close feel of the room. Didn’t anyone realize it was summer? What were they all doing in the city, at White’s in particular?

He’d come here to get away. To think. But every room teemed with members whose laughter and jovial conversations grated on his every nerve.

He closed his eyes and slunk down into the well-cushioned armchair he’d positioned to face the wall.

He drummed his fingers on the armrest, asking himself for the fiftieth time what happened tonight?

Why had he blown up at the earl? He never lost control like that, and hadn’t spoken to his grandfather with such disrespect since he was a boy.

Recalling his grandfather’s worried gaze soured the ale in Zeke’s belly. Because he’d done more than bellow at Claybourne. He’d lied to the old man. On one of his recent late nights he had visited a gaming hell.

Why had he gone?

Because, at the time, he couldn’t think of a sound reason not to, he supposed.

Nothing else he tried had quieted the edgy, unsettled tension riding him hard since arriving home.

Not over-imbibing, which he’d done on an altogether too frequent basis.

Not carousing 'til the wee hours, like a man not quite twenty instead of one closer to thirty.

Perhaps he had inherited his father’s traits.

A movement out of the corner of his eye drew his attention. An older gentleman stumbled toward the exit, weaving into one of the large potted plants flanking the door.

In a flash, a vivid memory of his father, months before his death, seared his consciousness.

It had been Winter Break. Zeke and Caden were home from Eton, much to Zeke’s displeasure.

If he’d had his way, he’d have stayed on campus, or gone home with a school chum.

Anything was preferable to subjecting himself to his father—or rather the lack of one.

Most times dear old dad spent his days abed, his nights deep in his cups, or absent altogether.

But the earl had assured Zeke Christmas would be a grand affair. He’d called the family to Derby, promising time away from the city would make all the difference.

Zeke remembered the day like it was yesterday. Not a cloud in the sky, but cold enough to freeze his nose hairs—and the air rich with possibility.

He’d set out on his own, much to Caden’s displeasure, saddling his favorite horse for a long ride.

He recalled the wind in his hair, the sun warming his back.

He stayed out of doors, hunting for mischief ’til bone-chilling gusts finally drove him back to Chissington Hall.

Red faced and half frozen, he’d raced up the back steps onto the portico, on a mission to find hot cocoa and biscuits.

He practically tripped over his father, retching into one of the potted palms. The sour smell of spirits told Zeke all he needed to know. The usual. He’d over-imbibed. Nothing had changed by coming here.

He’d stood there. Angry. Afraid. To his shame, fighting tears.

His father gazed up at him, bleary eyed, unkept and unshaven. “Never give your heart away, son. It hurts too bloody damn much.”

“Is that why you’re this way? Because you miss Mother?” Zeke asked, bewildered and disgusted.

“She left me. In the end, she left you, too. No woman’s worth this.”

“My lord? Your ale.”

Zeke’s head shot up as the attendant’s words dragged him from the past.

The servant took one look at Zeke, placed the tankard on the table, and scurried away.

Zeke scrubbed a hand over his face. Why was he remembering these things? There was nothing to be gained reliving the past, or comparing himself to his weak father.

No? An irritating inner voice asked him. Then explain why you visited the den. Explain your staying out all hours. Explain the emptiness roiling in your gut.

Emptiness?

Ridiculous. He had everything he needed, and then some. He was reading too much into his recent behavior—because of his argument with the earl.

He picked up the ale, considered the foamy brew, then set it down with too much force, sloshing liquid onto the glossy wood.

Hell. Coming here had accomplished nothing. He rose to leave when a familiar voice called to him from the open doorway of the sitting room.

“Thurgood? It is you. I didn’t think to see you ‘til God knows when, since you disappeared to God knows where, as per usual.”

An echo of his grandfather’s sentiments. Zeke forced a jovial smile and extended his hand to his life-long friend, Viscount Sterling Randall. “Randall. The earl told me you’d left town.”

“I made it back only this morning.”

“Fortuitous, then, as I arrived early last week. What’s brought you to London this time of year?”

Randall shrugged. “Business at the bank. You?”

“Between trips. Thought I’d check on the earl.”

“Looks like you were on your way out. Stay for one more?” Randall gestured toward a small, ornate bar, where one man lingered over a nearly empty cocktail.

“Why not?” Zeke retrieved his abandoned ale.

Randall ordered a stein from the barman then turned his attention on Zeke.

“You look troubled, my friend. Rather unThurgood-like. Let me guess.” He narrowed his eyes, his lips twitching with amusement. “Couldn’t be woman trouble, unless we’re talking about one you can’t shake off.”

Zeke snorted.

“Let’s see. Gaming debts are off the table. Cuckolded husband, as well. A foiled business venture is simply unimaginable. That leaves Caden or the earl. My money’s on Caden.”

“I haven’t seen Caden since my return. The earl, however…” He thought of how he’d left things. Of his own randy behavior of late.

He couldn’t discuss such private matters, even with Randall, and certainly not here, where the walls had ears.

But Kit was another matter entirely. “Perhaps you could help me solve a little puzzle.”

“I love a good mind bender.”

“The earl’s got himself a tiger. A young man who’s supposed to be his personal assistant, but seems more like a pet monkey.”

“And this bothers you precisely why?”

“Because Kit isn’t a servant. He’s”—he grimaced—“I don’t know what he is, but the old man dotes on him like he’s another grandson or something. Tell me, have you heard rumors about any”—he broke off, lowered his voice—“mistresses Caden may have left in a delicate condition?”

“Caden?” He scoffed. “What about you?”

“I’d know if something like that happened. Besides, the lad’s coloring’s all off.”

Randall laughed. “Perhaps the old man is simply lonely. Neither you nor Caden sticks close to home of late.”

“He isn’t lonely,” Zeke said, though he didn’t meet Randall’s eyes.

“Perhaps he likes having a companion at his beck and call?”

“A damned odd companion. The boy’s”—He shrugged—“far too proper.”

A pale-skinned, wiry man, of average height and with close cropped brown hair leaned across the bar to flag their attention. “Excuse me. What did you say this errand boy was called?”

Zeke didn’t answer. Instead he studied the man with narrowed eyes. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Forgive me. Name’s James. Baron of Maidstone.” He extended his hand.

Zeke gave him a firm shake. “Thurgood of Claybourne. My companion, Viscount Sterling Randall.”

“Ah, Lord Thurgood, I’m quite familiar with your name. I believe my predecessor, the late Baron of Maidstone knew your grandfather, Lord Claybourne. An interesting coincidence.”

Zeke inclined his head, not terribly impressed. James. Didn’t ring any bells. Maidstone Struck a familiar chord, however.

“I’ve been residing in London off and on for some months. On a scouting trip of sorts. I’d begun to think my presence here might prove endlessly fruitless.” The baron’s mouth twisted in a oily smile. “But enough about me. Tell me more about this servant.”

Something about this man grated. The way he’d inserted himself into his and Randall’s private conversation, for starters.

Randall slapped Zeke on the back. “Do tell us his name. Maybe it will ring a bell.”

“Name’s Kit,” Zeke said, his eyes fixed on James.

The baron pulled a cheroot from his coat pocket, scraping a match along the underside of the bar.

Holding the flame to the cigar, his hand shook slightly.

“Kit,” he repeated. The tip of his cheroot glowed red as he took a long draw.

“An interesting name. Unusual.” A long plume of smoke punctuated his words.

Breathing in the sharp scent of sulfur mixed with tobacco, two things became clear. Zeke didn’t like Lord James, and he damn sure didn’t intend to discuss his grandfather’s personal affairs with him. “If you say so.”

“Perhaps Lord James will know something of—Ouch,” Randall bent to rub his shin where the tip of Zeke’s boot had found its mark.

“What’s this Kit like? Is he a large boy? Or small? How long has he been on the earl’s staff?” the baron pressed.

“Not sure how as I’ve only just arrived in town myself.” He smiled coolly at James and returned his attention to Randall.

Seeing his friend had done him some good. It had given him time to cool his heels—And to hear how ridiculous he sounded.

“I’m off. I promised the old man a game of gin. Now you’re in town, perhaps we can coordinate a visit to Jack’s.”

Randall snorted. “Last time I sparred with you I came away with a shiner that lasted two weeks.”

“You’re crying off then?”

“Of course not. I could use the exercise, and it’s not as if a slew of ladies are hanging about whom I wish to impress with my good looks.”

Minutes later, Zeke trotted down the steps of White’s. Claybourne was right, he decided. For reasons not entirely known to himself, he’d come down too hard on young Kit, kicking the proverbial dog as it were. Enough was enough.

He smiled, thinking how pleased his grandfather would be to see him arriving home so early. Doubly so when he witnessed Zeke’s new and improved attitude toward Kit. He set his lips to whistling, and headed for the mews.