With that, she stepped inside, the door closing softly behind her. Ewan stood there for a moment longer, contemplating the challenges ahead. The evening had shown them a glimpse of what could be, this plan may just work.
Chapter Twenty-Three
April 22, 1820
In the drawingroom of Barrington Hall, Lady Aurington paced in front of the hearth. “Are you certain he will be here?”
“I sent him the message this morning.” Hughes was sitting at the writing desk, papers in hand. “Ewan will be here,”
Lord Aurington had not raised his head. He sat on the sofa, continuing to read the London Chronicle. “Pacing like that will not make him arrive any faster. And you will wear a hole in Barrington’s fine carpet.”
“One would find it difficult to believe that only hours ago, you were atdeath’s door.” Lady Aurington had stopped pacing long enough to admonish her husband. “How do you plan on explaining that to Ewan?”
The clatter of coach wheels drew Lady Aurington to the window. “He’s here.” She hurried and sat beside her husband, picked up her embroidery, took a deep breath, and created a casual scene.
The rapid footsteps across the marble floor echoed through the entrance hall. Sanderson, the butler, called out just a beat behind them, “Good morning, my lord. They’re in the drawing room.”
Glenraven’s stride faltered as he entered the drawing room. “Father!” his eyes locked on his father, sitting comfortably reading a newspaper. The initial relief that he was alive and wellswiftly turned into a surge of anger. It was obvious the man had not been as gravely injured as he was led to believe. His chest was on fire with the urge to confront him, to demand answers.
“It’s obvious you’re on your deathbed. Why the deception?” Glenraven challenged him, his thoughts a tumultuous storm against the calm façade he struggled to maintain.
Lord Aurington looked up, his eyes meeting Glenraven’s. “Ewan,” he said, with a calmness that contradicted the gravity of the situation. “It is good to have you home.”
“And when Barrington brought me into your room,” Glenraven fought to control his voice, but his fists were clenched at his sides. “Letting me believe you were at death’s door.” The hurt was obvious by the tremor that ran along his clenched jaw. “How could you not tell me?” he whispered.
His mother, her embroidery forgotten, stepped forward, her presence a steady force. “We feared for you.” Her voice broke through his anger. “I know you well.” She reached out and lightly touched his arm. Her fingers rested there, warm and reassuring. “You would have charged into danger, and you wouldn’t have rested until you found what or who you were looking for, just like you did on your quest to find the oldest oak tree in our woods. Nothing stood in your way.”
Glenraven’s breath caught, his anger fading like mist in the morning sun. He turned to look into his mother’s eyes.She was right.The realization settled in him with the heaviness of a stone in his stomach, but it dulled the edge of his frustration.
He let out his breath slowly. “I should have been told,” he insisted, though the fire behind his words had reduced to a smolder.
Lord Aurington’s composure was as steadfast as ever, yet there was a certain depth to his gaze, quiet evidence of the past week’s strain. Trembling hands folded the newspaper, and there was a new deliberateness to his movements.
Glenraven detected these minute changes, the quiet signs of a man who had faced his mortality and carried the responsibility of his family’s safety on his shoulders.
“It was to protect you,” His father said as he set aside the newspaper and rose. “Barrington shared a great deal with you. There is more.”
The words hung between them as Glenraven’s anger ebbed away, replaced by the undeniable truth of his father’s love and the lengths to which he would go to safeguard his family. Glenraven’s resistance crumbled, and he stepped forward, embracing his parents.
“It was your news last night that had me out of bed. Congratulations.”
“Yes. I have married,” Ewan announced, his voice echoing in the high-ceilinged room.
Curiosity danced in his parents’ eyes. “To whom, my boy?” There was excitement and concern in his father’s voice.
“I cannot say. As with you, Father, there’s been a threat. For now, her identity must remain a secret from you and her family.”
The room fell into a hushed silence, the gravity of his words settling like dust over the family portraits. His mother’s hand fluttered to her chest, her eyes wide with worry. “A threat? But why—”
“It’s a matter we’re handling,” Hughes interjected, offering a reassuring nod. “Glenraven’s actions are for the protection of all involved.”
Lady Aurington glared at Hughes. “You know who our son married.”
He nodded. “Yes, I do. And I took the necessary actions to ensure its legality. We spoke about this when His Grace gave me power of attorney. It was to facilitate securing the continuation of the line while maintaining the illusion of His Grace’s grave condition. In that, we have been successful.”
“Was there a marriage settlement?” his mother asked. “There must have been.” She sat back, proud of her approach to sleuthing.
“I assure you the young lady is a peer of the realm, smart, witty, and quite charming. Yes, there is a marriage settlement. Glenraven has been generous. And before you ask, as your solicitor with power of attorney, I have signed the agreement. And as for the Glenraven inheritance stipulation, I have also submitted the papers signed by the archbishop who performed the weddings to attest to it all.”
