Page 87 of A Lady’s Guide to Subterfuge and Science

“Well, yes.” Hughes propped the iron up and moved to handle the letter like it was the most delicate thing in the world. “A year or two ago, wasn’t it?”

Oliver gave him a half-hearted grin. “Lazy of me, I know.”

“Not at all,” Hughes said. “Quite brave of you, actually.”

Right then, in that moment, Oliver felt like a fool. If he’d been so desperate for a father figure, he shouldn’t have looked further than Hughes. Rosewood’s butler was everything William and Comerford were not. And he always had been. But Oliver had been too caught up in his desire to escape, and had convinced himself that the support he was searching for could not be found within the walls of his family home.

But he’d never had to go out of his way for Hughes’s approval. It was always simply and easily given.

Guilt coursed through him as Hughes returned to his cravat folding. How could he have taken him for granted all these years? And what could he do to—

“I love you.”

Hughes’s expression was one of pure surprise. “Sir?”

Oliver’s cheeks begin to burn in embarrassment. “You’ve been more of a father to me than anyone,” he forced out. “Whether you intended to take on that role or not, I love you for it.”

A slow, soft smile bloomed on Hughes’s weathered face as he reached over to place a hand on Oliver’s shoulder. “I treat you the way you deserve to be treated, Oliver.”

Oliver swallowed hard, willing himself not to burst into childish tears. For all the years Hughes had taken care of him, he’d never called him by his first name.

“I love you like my very own son,” Hughes continued quietly. “And I am proud of you for writing your mother.”

Oliver pulled Hughes into a clumsy hug, desperate to absorb the comfort and kindness that had always been given freely to him. Hughes returned the gesture, patting Oliver on the back in a steady, soothing motion.

“Kalila made me to it,” Oliver mumbled. “Indirectly, but still.”

Hughes made gentle work of disentangling himself from Oliver’s embrace. “I assume you intend to convince Miss Darwish to stay in London.”

Oliver grimaced. “I have to talk to Comerford.”

“Good lad,” Hughes said. “What will you say?”

“I don’t know.” If he had any hope of discussing the subject of the paper with Comerford, he had to make sure he went in prepared. “I don’t know anything about the research that started all of this to begin with.”

Hughes hummed. “If only there were someone who could enlighten you.”

Oliver raised a single eyebrow. “Is that sarcasm I detect in your tone, Hughes?”

“I was being sincere,” Hughes told him. “And I happen to recall a certain young lady who might be willing to teach you all you need to know.”

“Have you?”

“So”—Hughes picked up the letter—“I will take care of this, and you will seek your new teacher out.”

“Sarcastic and bossy,” Oliver observed. “Most unbecoming. But you’re right—I must be off. And Hughes?”

“Sir?”

“Thank you.”

“You’re most welcome.”

Satisfied with the exchange and feeling lighter than he had in almost a decade, Oliver left Rosewood and made his way to the townhouse. He could fix things, he was sure of it. He simply needed to tackle one issue at a time.

This time, Amelia let him in, exclaiming that he had no business being out in the rain. Oliver made his way up to the attic, knocked, and waited. After what felt like an age, the door opened to reveal Kalila, who appeared to have been crying, if her red-tipped nose was any indication. Over her shoulder, Oliver could see Dameer seated on the bed.

“I suppose I’ll be going,” Dameer said, stumbling to the door and squeezing his way past Oliver. “Amelia, Caroline, and I are all expected at Willow House, anyway. You’ll be all right, won’t you, Kal?”