Unforgivable(39)

“Please don't talk about food,” he muttered.

James merely grinned and set about his breakfast again.

After a few minutes of sitting still, Gil reached for the pile of post that awaited his attention. He sheafed through the letters idly, stopping suddenly when he reached one written in a familiar, flourishing hand. Rose’s handwriting—loopy and flamboyant—had always struck him as somewhat out of character.

Cracking the seal, Gil unfolded the missive, frowning to note how short it was. Mere moments later, he cast it onto the table, shocked by what he had just read.



Gilbert,

I find I am with child. I would be grateful if you would come to Weartham to discuss the way forward.

Yours sincerely,

Rose



“Gil? What is it? What's wrong?”

Gil looked up dazedly. James’s brow was creased with concern. “Who is the letter from?” he asked. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Rose,” Gil said. “It's from Rose.”

“Your wife?” James sounded astonished. Gil never mentioned Rose by name. He’d conducted his life for the last five years as though she didn’t exist.

“She writes with extraordinary news,” Gil said, marvelling at how calm he sounded. “She says she’s with child.”

“What?” James dropped his coffee cup with a clatter, sloshing some of the hot brown liquid into his saucer. “When were you up at Weartham?”

Gil looked at him squarely. “I haven’t been up there in years.”

“What? You can’t mean…”

Gil felt calmer than he’d have thought possible when he met his brother’s incredulous gaze. “I can only assume she has taken a lover,” he said.

James gaped at him. “What are you going to do?”

“Go up there, I suppose. Talk to her.” He paused before adding, almost as an afterthought, “Obviously, I can’t allow another man’s bastard to inherit the earldom.”

“Do you mean to divorce her?”

Gil just stared at his brother.

Divorce.

It shamed him that the word caused a wave of hope to crash over his heart.

“It’s a possibility, I suppose,” he said at last. “And there are other ways…” He left the sentence hanging, unfinished, as the possibilities crowded in on him. None of them seemed anything other than appalling. He shrank from the very idea of taking a child from its mother to grow up with strangers. But perhaps Rose would want that. All these things would have to be discussed.

“When do you mean to go?”

Distantly, he heard himself say, “I’ll set off today.” His mind raced ahead, thinking that it would only take an hour to get packed, and he could easily get one leg of the long journey done by nightfall. It was almost funny that after five years of avoiding Rose like the plague, suddenly he couldn’t wait even a day to set off on this journey.

“I could come with you, if you’d like.” James’s tone was diffident, but when Gil’s gaze jerked up at those words, he saw that James was very serious in the offer, his blue eyes uncharacteristically grave. Gil felt a lurch of gratitude toward his brother, even as he knew he’d have to refuse.

“Thank you,” he said. “But I should go alone.”

“Very well. Is there anything else I can do?”

Somehow Gil managed to dredge up a wan smile. “Have your valet make another batch of that vile brew I had this morning. I have a feeling I’ll need another dose of it before the day is out.”





“Robert White is behind on his rent again,” Will said.

Rose frowned at him. They usually conducted their business in the library, but the library was dark and stuffy, and at the moment, she felt perpetually sick. She had decided to use the old countess’s sitting room instead. If Will thought it was odd that she had opened the room up to the chilly breeze, he did not comment upon it.

“His wife just lost a child,” she murmured. “Another one.” Beneath the desk—a spindly legged French thing—her hand fluttered to her stomach. No one knew about her pregnancy, except her maid. And possibly, by now, Gil.

“He’s been behind before. Several times. You need to take action.”

Rose was silent.

“He drinks the rent money away,” Will added patiently. “Do you imagine that helps his wife?”

She knew he was right. Nevertheless, she wanted to cry at the thought of the lost child. How mortifying. This pregnancy had turned her into a watering pot.

“All right,” she said. “But speak to him first. Give him the chance to sort it out.”

“I always do,” Will said as he made a brief note in his book.