“I know. I can see that you’re sincere. It’s just that before the wedding, you said it didn’t matter if Poppy’s heart belonged to Mr. Bayning, as long as—”

“As long as I had the rest of her,” Harry said, smiling in self-contempt. “I was an arrogant swine. I’m sorry, Cat.” He paused. “I understand now why you feel so protective of Poppy and Beatrix. Of all of them. They’re the closest thing to a family you’ve ever known.”

“Or you.”

An uncomfortable silence passed before Harry brought himself to admit, “Or I.”

They stopped at a bench set alongside the path, and Catherine seated herself. “Will you?” she asked, gesturing to the space beside her.

He obliged, lowering to the bench and leaning forward with his elbows braced on his knees.

They were quiet but oddly companionable, both of them wishing for some kind of affinity, not knowing quite how to achieve it.

Harry decided to start with honesty. Taking a deep breath, he said gruffly, “I’ve never been kind to you, Cat. Especially when you needed it most.”

“I would dispute that,” she said, surprising him. “You rescued me from a very unpleasant situation, and you’ve given me the means to live handsomely without having to find employment. And you never demanded anything in return.”

“I owed that much to you.” He stared at her, taking in the rich golden glitter of her hair, the small oval of her face, the porcelain fineness of her skin. A frown pulled at his brow. Averting his gaze, he reached up to rub the back of his neck. “You look too damned much like our mother.”

“I’m sorry,” Catherine whispered.

“No, don’t be sorry. You’re beautiful, just as she was. More so. But sometimes it’s difficult to see the resemblance, and not remember . . .” He let out a taut sigh. “When I found out about you, I resented you for having had so many more years with her than I’d had. It was only later that I realized I was the fortunate one.”

A bitter smile touched her lips. “I don’t think either of us could be accused of having had an excess of good fortune, Harry.”

He responded with a humorless chuckle.

They continued to sit side by side, still and silent, close but not touching. The two of them had been raised not knowing how to give or receive love. The world had taught them lessons that would have to be unlearned. But sometimes life was unexpectedly generous, Harry mused. Poppy was proof of that.

“The Hathaways were a stroke of luck for me,” Catherine said, as if she had read his thoughts. She removed her spectacles and cleaned them with the edge of her sleeve. “Being with them these past three years . . . it’s given me hope. It has been a time of healing.”

“I’m glad of it,” Harry said gently. “You deserve that, and more.” He paused, searching for words. “Cat, I have something to ask you . . .”

“Yes?”

“Poppy wants to know more about my past. What may I tell her, if anything, about the part when I found you?”

Catherine replaced her spectacles and stared into a nearby blaze of daffodils. “Tell her everything,” she said eventually. “She can be trusted with my secrets. And yours.”

Harry nodded, silently amazed by a statement he once could never have imagined her making. “There’s one more thing I want to ask of you. A favor. I understand the reasons we can’t acknowledge each other in public. But in private, from now on, I hope you’ll do me the honor of . . . well, letting me act as your brother.”

She glanced at him with wide eyes, seeming too stunned to reply.

“We won’t have to tell the rest of the family until you’re ready,” Harry said. “But I would rather not hide our relationship when we’re in private. You’re my only family.”

Catherine reached beneath her spectacles to wipe at an escaping tear.

A feeling of compassion and tenderness came over Harry, something he had never felt for her before. Reaching out, he drew her close and kissed her forehead gently. “Let me be your big brother,” he whispered.

She watched in wonder as he went back to the house.

For a few minutes afterward Catherine sat alone on the bench, listening to the drone of a bee, the high, sweet chirps of common swifts, and the softer, more melodious twitters of skylarks. She wondered at the change that had come over Harry. She was half afraid he was playing some kind of game with her, with all of them, except . . . it had to be real. The emotion on his face, the sincerity in his eyes, all of it was undeniable. But how could someone’s character alter so greatly?

Perhaps, she mused, it wasn’t so much that Harry was being altered as he was being revealed . . . layer by layer, the defenses coming off. Perhaps Harry was becoming—or would become in time—the man he had always been meant to be. Because he had finally found someone who mattered.

Chapter Twenty-four

The mail coach had arrived at Stony Cross, and a footman was dispatched to fetch a stack of letters and parcels addressed to Ramsay House. The footman brought the deliveries to the back of the house, where Win and Poppy lounged on furniture that had been brought out to the brick-paved terrace. The largest parcel was addressed to Harry.

“More reports from Mr. Valentine?” Poppy asked, sipping sweet red wine as she curled next to Win on a chaise.

“It would appear so,” Harry said with a self-mocking grin. “It appears the hotel is managing brilliantly in my absence. Perhaps I should have taken a holiday sooner.”

Merripen went to Win and slipped his fingers beneath her chin. “How are you feeling?” he asked softly.

She smiled up at him. “Splendid.”

He bent to kiss the top of Win’s blond head, and sat in a nearby chair. One could see that he was trying to be at ease with the idea of his wife carrying a child, but his concern for her practically radiated from every pore.

Harry took the other chair and opened his parcel. After reading the first few lines of the top page, he made a sound of discomfort and winced visibly. “Good God.”

“What is it?” Poppy asked.

“One of our regular guests—Lord Pencarrow—injured himself late last evening.”

“Oh, dear.” Poppy’s brow furrowed. “And he’s such a nice old gentleman. What happened? Did he take a fall?”

“Not exactly. He slid down the banister of the grand staircase, from the mezzanine level to the ground floor.” Harry paused uncomfortably. “He made it all the way to the end of the balustrade—where he crashed into the pineapple ornament on top of the newel post.”

“Why would a man in his eighties do such a thing?” Poppy asked in bewilderment.

Harry sent her a sardonic smile. “I imagine he was in his cups.”

Merripen was cringing. “One can only be glad his child-siring years are behind him.”

Harry paused to read a few more lines. “Apparently a doctor was summoned, and in his opinion the damage is not permanent.”

“Is there any other news?” Win asked hopefully. “Something a bit more cheerful?”

Obligingly Harry continued to read, this time out loud. “I’m sorry to report another unfortunate incident that occurred Friday evening at eleven o’clock, involving—” He broke off, his gaze skimming swiftly down the page.

Before Harry managed to school his expression into impassiveness, Poppy saw that something was very wrong. He shook his head, not quite meeting her gaze. “It’s nothing of interest.”

“May I see?” Poppy asked gently, reaching for the page.

His fingers tightened on it. “It’s not important.”

“Let me,” she insisted, tugging at the sheet of paper.

Win and Merripen were both quiet, exchanging a glance.

Settling back on the chaise, Poppy glanced over the letter. “. . . involving Mr. Michael Bayning,” she read aloud, “who appeared in the lobby without notice or warning, thoroughly inebriated and in a hostile temperament. He demanded to see you, Mr. Rutledge, and refused to accept that you were not in the hotel. To our alarm, he brandished a—” She stopped and took an extra breath, “a revolver, and made threats against you. We tried to bring him to the front office to calm him in private. A scuffle ensued, and regrettably Mr. Bayning was able to fire a shot before I was able to disarm him. Thankfully no one was injured, although there were many anxious queries from hotel patrons afterward, and the office ceiling must be repaired. Mr. Lufton took a bad fright from the incident and experienced pains in his chest, but the doctor prescribed a day of bed rest and said he should be right as rain tomorrow. As for Mr. Bayning, he was returned home safely, and I took the initiative to reassure his father that no charges would be pressed, as the viscount seemed quite concerned about the possibility of scandal . . .”

Poppy fell silent, feeling ill, shivering even though the sun was warm.

“Michael,” she whispered.

Harry glanced sharply at her.

The carefree young man she had known would never have resorted to such sordid, irresponsible melodrama. Part of her ached for him, and part of her was appalled, and part was simply furious. Coming to her home—for that was how she thought of the hotel—making a scene, and worst of all, endangering people. He might have seriously injured someone, perhaps even killed someone. Dear God, there were children in the hotel—hadn’t Michael spared a thought for their safety? And he had frightened poor Mr. Lufton into apoplexy.

Poppy’s throat went tight, anger and misery stinging like pepper. She wished she could go to Michael right then and shout at him. And she wanted to shout at Harry as well, because no one could deny that the incident was a consequence of his perfidy.

Occupied with her roiling thoughts, she wasn’t aware of how much time had passed before Harry broke the silence.

He spoke in the way she most hated: the amused, silky, callous tone of a man who didn’t give a damn about anything.

“He ought to be more clever in his murder attempt. Done properly, he could make a wealthy widow of you, and then you’d both have your happy ending.”

Harry knew instantly that he shouldn’t have said it—the comment was the kind of cold-blooded sarcasm he had always resorted to when he felt the need to defend himself. He regretted it even before he saw Merripen out of the periphery of his vision. The Rom was giving him a warning shake of his head and drawing a finger across his throat.

Poppy was red faced, her brows drawn in a scowl. “What a dreadful thing to say!”

Harry cleared his throat. “I’m sorry,” he said brusquely. “I was joking. It was in poor—” He ducked as something came flying at him. “What the devil—”

She had thrown something at him, a cushion.

“I don’t want to be a widow, I don’t want Michael Bayning, and I don’t want you to joke about such things, you tactless clodpole!”

As all three of them stared at her openmouthed, Poppy leapt up and stalked away, her hands drawn into fists.

Bewildered by the immediate force of her fury—it was like being stung by a butterfly—Harry stared after her dumbly. After a moment, he asked the first coherent thought that came to him. “Did she just say she doesn’t want Bayning?”

“Yes,” Win said, a smile hovering on her lips. “That’s what she said. Go after her, Harry.”

Every cell in Harry’s body longed to comply. Except that he had the feeling of standing on the edge of a cliff, with one ill-chosen word likely to send him over. He gave Poppy’s sister a desperate glance. “What should I say?”

“Be honest with her about your feelings,” Win suggested.

A frown settled on Harry’s face as he considered that. “What’s my second option?”

“I’ll handle this,” Merripen told Win before she could reply. Standing, he slung a great arm across Harry’s shoulders and walked him to the side of the terrace. Poppy’s furious form could be seen in the distance. She was walking down the drive to the caretaker’s house, her skirts and shoes kicking up tiny dust storms.

Merripen spoke in a low, not unsympathetic tone, as if compelled to guide a hapless fellow male away from danger. “Take my advice, gadjo . . . never argue with a woman when she’s in this state. Tell her you were wrong and you’re sorry as hell. And promise never to do it again.”

“I’m still not exactly certain what I did,” Harry said.

“That doesn’t matter. Apologize anyway.” Merripen paused and added in whisper, “And whenever your wife is angry . . . for God’s sake, don’t try logic.”

“I heard that,” Win said from the chaise.

Harry caught up with Poppy by the time she was halfway to the caretaker’s house. She didn’t glance at him, only glared ahead with her jaw set.

“You think I drove him to it,” Harry said quietly, keeping pace with her. “You think I ruined his life as well as yours.”

That fueled Poppy’s outrage until she wasn’t certain whether she might cry or slap him. Blast him, he was going to drive her mad.

She had been in love with a prince, and she had ended up in the arms of a villain, and it would be so much easier if she could continue to view everything in those simplistic terms. Except that her prince was not nearly as perfect as he had seemed . . . and her villain was a caring, passionate man.

It was finally becoming clear to her that love wasn’t about finding someone perfect to marry. Love was about seeing through to the truth of a person, and accepting all their shades of light and dark. Love was an ability. And Harry had it in abundance, even if he wasn’t ready to come to terms with it yet.

“Don’t presume to tell me what I think,” she said. “You’re wrong on both counts. Michael is responsible for his own behavior, which in this case was—” she paused to deliver a vicious kick to a stray pebble, “—revoltingly self-indulgent. Immature. I’m sorely disappointed in him.”

“I can’t blame him,” Harry said. “I would have done far worse, were I in his position.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” Poppy said acidly.

He scowled but remained silent.

Approaching another pebble, Poppy kicked it with a vicious swipe of her foot. “I hate it when you say cynical things,” she burst out. “That stupid remark about making me a wealthy widow—”

“I shouldn’t have,” Harry said quickly. “That was unfair, and wrong. I should have considered that you were distressed because you still care for him, and—”