Lily nodded, though she said nothing.
“I could find no evidence that either of these things was true, and I cannot say whether I would be better or worse for knowing. If I accept that Nicholas’s suicide was precisely as it appeared, then the why of it troubles me as it does Cybelline. You have reason to know that he was a most amiable fellow. He doted on Cybelline and was elated at the birth of his daughter. He was a man with varied interests and a true scholar of antiquities. He provided more than adequately for his family. He did not gamble, keep a mistress, or entertain himself with whores. How did it escape us, then, that he was possessed of demons?”
Sherry took another short swallow of whiskey. “I made a point to learn all I could about Mr. Caldwell before he married my sister. It is not something I would admit to anyone save you, but I am not ashamed of it, either.”
“Do you think Cybelline would really be surprised to learn you made inquiries about her betrothed? I am certain she knows how seriously you take your responsibilities toward her. And if she thought scruples would restrain you from doing such a thing, she would not acquit Lady Rivendale of having the same.”
Sherry returned to his desk but not his chair. He hitched one hip on the edge closest to Lily and rolled the tumbler of whisky between his palms as he considered what she’d said. “If you are right, then Cybelline depended on me not to allow her to make a mistake, and—”
Lily interrupted. “I did not say she depended on you. I said she would not be surprised by your actions. It is not the same thing at all.”
He went on as if she had not spoken. “And it does not relieve me from the knowledge that my inquiry failed to bring something dark in Nicholas’s past to light.”
“Why do you think it must have been in his past? Could circumstances not change after his marriage? It might have been something in his present that troubled him enough to kill himself. How can you expect that you should have known that? Or warned Cybelline? Or prevented it? I love you, Sherry, and have thought upon occasion that the sun rises and sets by your pocket watch, but you are not all knowing.” She paused and under her breath added, “Your pocket watch is not even always accurate.”
Sherry blinked. After a moment, one corner of his mouth twitched. “You are damnably good at taking me down a peg. Two pegs in this instance. To discover that I am no visionary and my pocket watch is off the mark, well, it is most definitely lowering.”
Lily stood and stepped into the vee made by Sherry’s splayed legs. She took the tumbler from him and finished it before setting it aside. Taking his wrists, she drew his arms around her waist in a loose embrace. She felt his hands lock behind her and his double fist rest against the small of her back. Lily leaned forward just enough to brush his lips with hers.
“Cybelline is fortunate, indeed, to have you for her brother. You are in every way a good man, no matter that you do not always believe it. This strain will not last. I think her journey to Penwyckham is a first step in ending it. When you favor her with a reply, tell her that we miss her and Anna, that we wish her peace and joy of the season, and that we understand her decision to leave London. Write to her of what is in your heart, Sherry. She will find relief there, not more pain. I have to trust that you will find the same.”
Sherry lifted his head just enough to rest his cheek against Lily’s hair. She fit herself more closely to him, and he closed his eyes. “It is good advice,” he said quietly.
“I have not overstepped?”
“No. No, not at all. I cannot tell Cybelline what is in my heart without telling her of you. There is no part of you that is separate from it.”
She placed her palm over his chest and felt the steady beat. “It is no different for me,” she said. “No different at all.”
Restell Gardner regarded his brother from his half recline on the chaise longue. “I say, Kit, you have been in a dark mood of late. I don’t believe you’ve been attending me at all.”
Ferrin did not turn away from the shelf of books he was studying. “Good for you, Restell. I am not attending you. In fact, I am ignoring you. I believe you are bright enough to understand it is of a purpose.”
“I stand corrected,” Restell said. “It is not a dark mood. It is a black one.”
Porter Wellsley, sitting in the wing chair turned toward the fire, chuckled appreciatively. “You would do better to relate all of the particulars of your adventure to me and not attempt to include Ferrin. He is lost to us, I’m afraid, when he is engaged in matters of scientific inquiry.”
“Is that what he’s doing? Science?”
“Just so, though I don’t pretend to understand it. He’s a deep one, is your brother. It was the same at Cambridge. The darling of the dons and the bane of all of us with less talented upperworks. He was at his most content in one of the fusty old laboratories or the library. I was not the only one who despaired he would come to a bad end, blow up some damn fool thing or another. That’s what was in the wagering books, with substantial winnings to be earned by predicting what part of his anatomy he would lose to his experiments.”
“He has all his fingers and toes.”
“More’s the pity,” Wellsley said. “I wagered on the left pinky. I was his friend, you see, and I felt that making money from the loss of a larger appendage was rather beyond the pale.”
Ferrin made his selection from among the titles he was perusing and finally turned. “You would have wagered on the loss of my left bullock, Wellsley, if you thought I would be that careless.”
Wellsley shrugged. The grin he cast in Restell’s direction was somewhat sheepish. “He’s right. It was not misgivings that prevented me from making the wager but some understanding of your brother’s meticulous work habits.”
Restell laughed outright. “I am glad that I was sent to Oxford, then. Under no circumstances could I be mistaken for the darling of the dons. It would have been too much to follow in Ferrin’s footsteps at Cambridge. It is deuced difficult now, and I am only trying to secure a reputation as a gentleman about town.”
Ferrin looked up from his book long enough to roll his eyes.
Wellsley scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Mayhap you are too determined in the matter. Ferrin is two and thirty and has been at it for a time. There are those—Lady Gardner, for one—who would say he’s been at it too long. If you want to cultivate a rep such as your brother enjoys, you must not be so quick to avoid the clutches of all those females with marriage on their mind. Ferrin has always been careful to allow those young things and their mamas to hope that he can be caught. At least that is what I have observed as the trick of it. He is fascinating to them because he permits them to think he might be changed. I fear it is more of a balancing feat than I am able to manage. I am quite ready to be changed, while your brother is peculiarly content to remain a rascal.”
“I want to be a rascal,” Restell said feelingly.
“What do you mean you are ready to be changed?” Ferrin asked at the same time.
Restell, realizing that in his self-absorption he had missed something of import, echoed his brother. “Yes, Wellsley, what do you mean by that?”
“It means what it means,” Wellsley explained stoutly, if inadequately. When he saw that this was not going to pass muster with either Ferrin or Restell, he reluctantly elaborated. “I am all for the comforts of a married state. I think I will like to share the breakfast table with my wife.”
“Yes, but will you share the newspaper?” asked Ferrin.
Ignoring that, Wellsley went on. The broad planes of his face softened and a smile played at the corners of his mouth. His eyes, while in no way remote, were certainly engaged in seeing something as if from a distance. “I will enjoy the tricks wives get up