But if she told the truth, he would know what a ramshackle family she came from. He would know that Rachel had run off with another man, leaving behind her two daughters, because she was being beaten and abused at home. He would know that her father had been a drunken, brutal man and a heavy gambler, so that they had all lived more by their wits than by honest money for the last few years. He would know that Mrs. Harper, gambling hell owner and courtesan, was her stepmother.
And he would know that the marriage he had made was even more of a disaster than he already realized. She would see that knowledge in his face.
But she was growing to love that face and the person to whom it belonged.
“Six years ago,” she said. “Clara was two and Beatrice four. Boris was sixteen.”
“And you eighteen,” he said. “And so at a time when there should have been parties and balls for you and suitors, there was an ailing and grieving father to tend to and two small children to bring up. What was wrong with your father?”
“He had stomach problems,” she said vaguely. “He was bedridden for the last year.”
“He had a nurse?” he asked.
She smiled fleetingly. “Me,” she said.
He squeezed her hand.
“Your brother,” he said. “Did he go to university or want to do so?”
She shook her head. “He wanted passionately to go into the army,” she said. “But he could not. Papa . . . Papa needed him at home.”
But talking of Boris reminded her. Her face lit up.
“I have thought of how we may help him,” she said. “Boris, I mean. You do want to help him too, don’t you, Miles, even though he is just my brother and really you scarcely know him at all? But, of course, he is your relative even apart from our connection, isn’t he? I wish I could help him myself, but of course I cannot, partly because I do not have the means, and partly because he would not knowingly accept help from a living soul, even me. He is so very proud, you know. And I am afraid that unless he has help soon, he will go to his grave as an old man with Papa’s debts unpaid and nothing whatsoever made of his own life.”
“Abby,” he said, taking her free hand into his and squeezing them both. “Tell me your plan, dear. I confess, I am at my wits’ end.”
“We must find out where he goes to do his gambling,”she said. “I am sure he gambles, though he was never addicted to it at home. Indeed, he had something of an aversion to it. But he is desperate for money now, and a great deal of it too, so I believe he must gamble.”
“And then what?” he said.
“You must find someone who cheats,” she said. “It might be difficult to find such a person, but there are men who cheat and make a handsome living from doing so, are there not? Would you know how to find such a person, Miles?”
“I daresay it might be done,” he said, his lips twitching. “But why?”
“He must be persuaded to allow Boris to win a large sum,” she said. “And then Boris will pay off all Papa’s debts and perhaps have some left over to begin a decent life on his own account. And he will never know that he does not owe his good fortune to his own efforts and to luck. Don’t you think it a splendid idea?”
He looked at her for a long while in silence. “People who play cards regularly can usually spot a cheat without much effort,” he said.
“But someone who is cheating to lose?” she said. “Who would ever suspect?”
“I shall have to think about it,” he said. “It is an interesting idea, Abby.”
She beamed at him. “Do you think so?” she said. “People usually think my ideas quite shatterbrained, though they always make perfect sense to me.”
“Abby,” he said, “you have so much love in you. Your family was fortunate indeed to have you to see to their well-being. You have not heard from Bath yet?”
She shook her head. “But it is easy to be generous with someone else’s money,” she said. “You do not know how much money Boris needs, Miles.”
He raised one of her hands to his lips. “You shall tell me some other time,” he said. “The sum is quite unimportant. The tray arrived five minutes ago. Are you going to pour?”
“Oh,” she said, looking blankly at the tea tray. “I had not noticed.”
“YOU ENJOYED YOURSELF, Abby?”
The Earl of Severn turned his head to look down on his wife’s tousled curls. She was seated beside him in his carriage, her arm linked through his, their fingers laced together, her head resting against his shoulder. Both of her slippered feet were resting on the seat opposite, an inelegant but quite endearing pose. She was humming tunelessly.