Page 89 of Wicked By Design

“Did you have many visitors?”

“No. We lived quietly most of the time. My father was a gregarious soul, but Mama disliked noise and too many people. We went to town every year for the season, but Mama hated it and only went out under sufferance. He went out a lot, I remember, so Mama and I were often left by ourselves. I remember being dreadfully relieved when he came home. The house felt strange and was far too quiet without him.”

“So, your mama had you all to herself, and your father too, when he was home?”

Damian shrugged. “Yes. I suppose so.”

“Did your mother have any friends?”

“No.”

“Family?”

The remark was casual, but it caught Damian’s attention. “No. Not that ever visited, at any rate.” But surely, she had family. Why had none of them come after she’d—? But then that was easy enough to answer. No one wished to ally themselves with a murderess. The greater the distance, the better, in fact.

“Did she have brothers and sisters?” The reverend’s tone was mildly curious but not probing.

Damian frowned. “A sister, I think. They were not on speaking terms, if I remember correctly. Mama never forgave her for marrying a foreigner. An Italian count, I believe. She moved abroad before I was born.”

“You never met her?”

“No,” Damian said quietly, wondering why he had never thought about his Aunt Julia before. Not that he knew anything about her. His mother had only ever spoken of her with scorn. For all he knew she was locked up in an asylum in Italy. All the same….

The reverend let the silence rest quietly as Damian’s mind turned, and then he set down his teacup and reached for the cognac. “Your very good health, Lord Rivington.”

“Damian,” he corrected with a smile, picking up his own glass.

“Damian,” Honeywell said, and there was something in his tone, something warm and fatherly, and for a moment he sounded so much like his papa, Damian’s throat tightened.

He looked away and sipped the cognac. It was every bit as wonderful as the man had predicted, and a warm glow pooled in his belly. Damian allowed a little of his tension to ease and turned his attention back to Honeywell.

“When your brother came to me, he was terrified by the prospect of marriage, more so by the thought of siring a child. He feared that the illness afflicting your poor mama might taint his bloodline too. Of course, he had the relief of discovering he was not of the same blood at all. But I think you cannot say the same.”

Damian shook his head. “I’m her son. We look too alike, are too alike. There is no doubt.”

“But you and Gideon are also very alike.”

“Yes, we look like our father too, Gideon more than I.”

Honeywell nodded sagely, turning his glass in his hands thoughtfully. “And yet the resemblance is remarkable. No one could mistake the fact that you are brothers. You must both be very like him indeed.”

Damian stared at the reverend, wondering what he was getting at. Honeywell smiled gently at him.

“You have spent a good deal of time fearing you are like your mother, and yet you have failed to realise how very much you are like your father. You have both their bloodlines, Damian, not just the one.”

Damian let out a breath, considering the truth of this. Before he could decide how this changed anything, Honeywell spoke again.

“Bearing in mind your mother still lives, can you tell me how Gideon came into your lives? It must have been quite a shock to have another woman’s child enter that quiet little world your mother had created for you all.”

“A shock?” Damian gave a short laugh. “Yes, that’s one word for it, though to be honest, I remember little of it, for they never argued in front of me. There were rows, though, raised voices that frightened me, and then silences that felt as brittle as glass, but it wasn’t until I tracked down Nanny Pierce earlier this year that it all made sense.”

“Your old Nanny, I collect?”

Damian nodded. He explained what she had told him about his father’s affair, the death of Gideon’s mother, the way his father had deliberately stayed away from town and quietly put it about his wife was pregnant again.

“She blamed my father for Mama’s madness,” he said, remembering the vehemence with which the woman had spoken. At the time he had been too angry with his mother, still grieving the man he had loved so deeply, and had not allowed her words to penetrate, but now he considered them afresh. “She said my father knew she was not strong enough. She said he had always placated Mama, treating her more like a spoiled child than his wife when he could not control her moods, but that he underestimated the depths of her rage when presented with his infidelity. According to Nanny Pierce, my father thought she would create a few scenes and sulk and punish him, but that she would be unable to resist the sweetness of Gideon. For he really was an adorable child. I never remember him crying,” Damian said with a laugh, but his voice sounded odd, rather rusty and he took another hasty swallow of the cognac.

“But she never forgave him.”