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Because if she was going to go to battle with Lord Timothy, she needed to be absolutely sure.
A tear rolled down her son’s freckled cheek. “No one else was there, Mama. It was just the two of us. Cousin James and Cousin Edward didn’t come along to the auction, and there was no one else crossing the road but the two of us.”
Ophelia caught the teardrop on her finger, wiping it away. “Thank you for telling me.”
“Am I in trouble, Mama?”
“Of course not, my darling boy.” She drew him near and pressed a kiss to the top of his head, her heart aching, the urge to gather him up and never let him go a stronger force than the need to breathe. “I want you to always tell me what troubles you. It’s my responsibility as your mama to know and to protect you.”
A responsibility she had apparently failed in deciding to hostess the Wicked Dukes Society country house party. Tears rose to her own eyes, stinging and burning. She had left her children alone, and whilst she had done so with good intentions and her children’s futures at heart, she had also been selfish during her tenure at Wingfield Hall.
Nearly disastrously so. What if Reggie had been run over by the horse and cart and seriously injured or, worse, killed? She never would have been able to forgive herself.
But there was much more to consider beyond her own self-loathing. There was also the matter of whether what Reggie had felt was real or if it had been his imagination. Reggie had once vowed to her that it was another lad who looked just like him who had painted the Axminster in the nursery with an entire box of watercolors. And he had also claimed to have seen a soldier hiding in the gardens. And that a rabbit with giant teeth and dragon wings had visited him in his bed at night to sing him lullabies.
Yes, he had a very vivid imagination, but he had never once claimed someone else had harmed him in any way. His fanciful notions had been limited to mythical creatures and ghosts and lads upon whom he might pin the blame for his own naughty behavior.
And if her brother-in-law had indeed shoved her son before a cart in the road, it meant…
Her stomach dropped.
It meant that Lord Timothy had wanted to harm Reggie.
But why? What did he possibly have to gain by hurting an innocent child?
The moment the question rose in her mind, the blood went cold as ice in her veins. Because her answer was immediate. The title. If Reggie were to perish, Lord Timothy was next in line to become the next Marquess of Corbett. And if Lord Timothy inherited, then he would gain the estates, and his own sons, James and Edward, would, in turn, be heirs as well.
“Mama?” Reggie tipped his head back, studying her. “Are you turning into a watering pot?”
She blinked hastily and forced a reassuring smile to her lips. “Of course not, darling boy. Thank you for telling me everything. It’s very important for you to come to me with anything that upsets or worries you. Do you understand?”
He nodded. “Yes, Mama.”
“Good. You shall never be in trouble for telling me about something that Uncle or anyone else has done.”
He nodded again, his lip quivering and his eyes wide. She had no wish to worry him, but she also needed to be certain he wouldn’t leave the town house with Lord Timothy alone again. She’d be notifying Mrs. Clare and the rest of the domestics of the change at once.
Gentling her voice, she added, “I’m sure that what happened was an accident, but from now on, you aren’t to go anywhere with Uncle alone, Reggie. Can you promise me that you won’t go with him? No more horse auctions or anything else unless I know and approve.”
“I won’t go anywhere with Uncle, Mama,” he repeated. “I promise.”
“There’s a good lad.” She kissed him on the head again. “Now then, let’s go to the kitchens and see if we can find any shortbread Cook has made. What do you say?”
His face brightened. “I say yes, Mama!”
She rose and took his small hand in hers, inwardly vowing she would protect him and his sister both as long as there was still breath left in her lungs.
CHAPTER 20
He was a fool.
Or a madman.
Perhaps both.
Either way, Apollo found himself standing at the threshold of his own bloody drawing room, peering in as if he were a house cracksman eyeing up the family silver in the hope he might filch it when the household was asleep. Specifically, what he was ogling was not silver. It was worth far more. More than gold.
The it was a she.
