Chapter 9
“The Rake Duke of Scarfield drinks alone. What a pity.”
Oscar looked up to see Adrian Fairleigh, Viscount of Eastmere, invading his private space at White’s.
“I do hope you are prepared to entertain,” Adrian said, plucking a glass from the sideboard and sloshing gin into it before Oscar could offer—or, more accurately, refuse.
“I was enjoying a brief interlude of silence,” Oscar replied, “but you have always excelled at spoiling good things.”
Adrian took the jibe as a compliment, flopping into the armchair nearest the fire. He was a study in contrasts: coat perfectly tailored, shirt open at the throat, boots gleaming and an aura of mischief clinging to him like the faintest whiff of imported cloves. He raised his glass in mock salute.
“You’re in a fine mood. Shall I assume it’s the marriage that weighs on you? Or are you merely rehearsing your brooding for the morning papers?”
Oscar stilled, the cut crystal pinched between his thumb and first finger. He had not announced the engagement. He had, in fact, only secured the agreement that morning. “I see you have spies everywhere, Adrian.”
“I have servants. Same thing, but they require less training and only slightly more gin.” Adrian sipped, then cocked his head, as if seeing Oscar anew. “Congratulations, I suppose. I never thought you’d be the first of our set to succumb.”
Oscar regarded him over the rim. “I was under the impression you considered yourself married already. To your own reflection.”
“If I do, it is an open marriage. But enough about me.” Adrian leaned forward, elbows on knees. “You’re marrying the Neads girl. The only woman in London more feared than you, and considerably better company.”
Oscar’s mouth twitched, though he refused to admit any humor in the remark. “Lady Nancy will make a capable duchess.”
Adrian let out a scandalized gasp. “A glowing endorsement! If you are not careful, the ton will think you have developed a soul.”
Oscar ignored this. “I assume you did not hunt me down solely to discuss my nuptials.”
A small smile bloomed on Adrian’s face—too slow, too sharp at the edges. “Well, if we must be serious. I did want to offer my condolences.” He lifted his glass. “For the twins. Or rather, for you, in your new role as nursemaid and patriarch.”
Oscar’s jaw shifted. “They will be provided for. That is all that matters.”
Adrian fixed him with a stare, the effect magnified by the firelight. “You don’t believe that.”
Oscar set his glass aside. “What is your point, Adrian?”
“Only that you and I, for all our differences, have one thing in common: we know what it is to be responsible for more than just ourselves.” Adrian shrugged, feigning casualness, but his eyes didn’t leave Oscar’s face. “How are they?”
Oscar sighed, allowing the truth to seep out. “Clara hurls food at the staff and asks for her mother by the hour. Henry cries when he thinks no one is listening. It is…” He broke off, unwilling to confess more.
“Grim,” Adrian supplied, but his voice was gentle. “Children are resilient, or so I’m told. But a good governess does wonders. Have you one in mind?”
Oscar almost laughed. “I have gone through three in as many weeks. The last packed her trunk before luncheon.”
Adrian nodded, as if expecting this. “You require someone… robust. I know a woman. Miss Blythe. She raised my cousin’s brood and emerged with all her faculties intact.”
“Miss Blythe?” Oscar echoed, wariness rising. “Is she a person or a siege engine?”
Adrian grinned. “Both, I think. I’ll have her call on you.”
Oscar made a mental note to burn Adrian’s letters unopened for the next year. But he said, “Thank you.”
Adrian sat back, steepling his fingers. “Do you wish to talk about the marriage? Or shall we continue to drink and pretend the world does not exist outside this room?”
Oscar’s thoughts turned, inevitably, to Nancy. “There is nothing to discuss. We have come to an arrangement. It is logical and efficient. No more, no less.”
Adrian let out a low whistle. “Romantic. I give it three months before one of you attempts murder.”
“Six,” Oscar corrected. “She’s far too disciplined to act in haste.”
Adrian nodded, accepting the wager. Then, with a suddenness that always caught Oscar off guard, he dropped the mask of the clown and became, for a moment, the friend Oscar remembered from another, simpler life. “Are you happy?”
The question was so unexpected that Oscar nearly spilled his drink. “What an idiotic question.”
Adrian shrugged. “Some men are not suited to happiness. I suppose you’re one of them.”
Oscar found, to his surprise, that the statement did not anger him. “I have never understood the concept.”
Adrian tipped his glass in salute. “Then you are the luckiest man alive. You cannot miss what you never knew.”
Oscar thought about the twins. About the way Henry’s small hand clung to his coat, desperate and trembling. About Clara’s fierce, terrified eyes.
He drank, and the fire made the room shimmer.
After a time, Adrian stood. “I must be off. Debts to lose, hearts to break.”
Oscar rose too. “Thank you, Adrian. For the recommendation.”
“Anytime.” At the door, Adrian paused, glancing back. “You know, if you ever tire of marriage and parenthood, you can always join me in a life of dissipation. I will keep a seat warm for you.”
Oscar snorted. “If it comes to that, I expect you to have the decency to let me win at cards for once.”
“Never,” Adrian said, and left.
Oscar was alone again. The fire hissed, the gin tasted sharper.
It is an arrangement. Nothing more.
He drank to that.
When Oscar returned to Scarfield, the entire house vibrated with the sound of distant misery.
He shrugged off his coat and deposited it in the hands of a footman who looked as though he would rather be anywhere else.
The manor was as bleak as ever, and the only thing that seemed to move with purpose was Mrs. Tullock, who was shepherding a harried maid bearing a tray laden with untouched food down the main staircase.
He intercepted them at the landing. “Is it always a parade?” he asked, nodding at the congealed contents of the tray.
Mrs. Tullock straightened, hands folded like a barricade. “Dinner, Your Grace. The children would not touch a bite.”
“Nor breakfast, if I’m not mistaken,” Oscar said.
The maid winced. “Not since yesterday, sir. We’ve tried everything—puddings, pies, custard, toast—”
“They scream at toast now?” Oscar asked.
“Only if it’s cut the wrong way,” Mrs. Tullock said. “Yesterday, Miss Clara demanded triangles. Today, it is rectangles, but Henry won’t have them unless the crust is left on. You see the difficulty.”
Oscar did. “You have my permission to experiment with circles, if it comes to it.”
The maid stifled a nervous laugh, then scuttled away, tray trembling in her grip.
Mrs. Tullock eyed him, a spark of real concern behind her wariness. “They won’t last like this, Your Grace. Not for long. The boy’s already pale as skimmed milk, and the girl—well, she bit one of the stable lads this morning. Drew blood.”
Oscar considered this, then shrugged. “Perhaps he deserved it.”
“That is not the point,” Mrs. Tullock said, but there was a fondness in the way she set her jaw. “They’re grieving. You should not be surprised.”
Oscar nodded, then squared his shoulders and mounted the rest of the stairs. The climb to the nursery felt longer every time, as if each trip stretched the distance between him and the children he was supposed to save.
At the door, he braced himself for screams or, at minimum, an airborne missile.
Instead, there was a silence—heavy, bracing, like the calm before a hurricane.
He stepped inside.
The carnage was impressive. The rug was strewn with blocks and torn paper.
The window seat held two pillows that had clearly lost a war with tiny, angry hands.
Henry huddled in the far corner, knees tucked to his chest, eyes rimmed red.
Clara stood at the center of the chaos, arms crossed, a look of open challenge on her face.
She reminded him so sharply of Peter that for a second Oscar could not speak.
“Are you here to make us eat?” Clara asked, defiant.
“No,” Oscar said, crossing the room and perching on the edge of the bed. “I am here to ask what you want.”
Henry’s head jerked up in surprise. Clara blinked, as if this were a trick.
“We want Mama,” she said, after a beat.
Oscar nodded. “That is impossible.”
Clara’s eyes narrowed. “Then we want to go outside. We want to see the horses.”
Oscar gestured at the window. “There is nothing stopping you.”
Clara’s mouth twisted. “Miss Waverly says we are not allowed until we behave.”
“Miss Waverly does not work here anymore,” Oscar said. “She left this morning.”
Henry’s voice was a ghost. “Why?”
Oscar paused. “Because she did not know how to help you. I am looking for someone better.”
Clara said nothing, but a tiny tremor ran through her. “You’re always looking. But you never find anything that works.”
Oscar stared at her. Five years old, and already a master of the cruelest truths.
He stood. “If you wish to see the horses, you may. I’ll instruct the staff to let you roam the stables at will. But you must try to eat. Or you’ll have no strength for mischief.”
Henry sniffled. “Will you come with us?”
Oscar’s heart constricted. “I have…matters to attend to.”
Henry’s face fell, while Clara raised her chin and sniffed. As if testing him, she asked, “Will you race us, then?”
Did you not hear what I just said?
“I will win if I did,” he replied.
Clara arched a disapproving brow. “You won’t.”
They stared at each other in a silent challenge. Then Henry asked, “Will Lady Nancy come back?”
Oscar froze.
Clara took up the refrain, but louder: “We want Lady Nancy. She’s nice. And she knows how to tell stories.”
Oscar swallowed. “Lady Nancy is… busy.”
“She said she’d come back,” Henry whispered.
Oscar did not answer. Instead, he crossed to the window and looked down at the gray courtyard, the rain slicking the cobbles. He could feel their gaze burning into his spine.
“I will see what I can do,” he said at last.
Clara and Henry exchanged a glance—a language built from shared pain, and something else Oscar could not name.
He left them then, closing the door quietly behind him.
In the hallway, Oscar pressed his palms to his eyes. The futility and dread settled in the base of his skull like a bad tooth. He had not told the children he was marrying Lady Nancy lest they got their hopes up and something went wrong.
Something had to change, and the sooner the better. For the twins. For everyone.