“But it’s not why you came.” Raph’s gaze settled on the package leaned against Drew’s bed. “Mother sent us to deliver that to you.”
His inheritance. The key to Amelia’s freedom.
“What was it?” Atlas asked. “I can’t imagine you picking up a paintbrush.”
“Or mucking about in clay,” Raph added. “Charcoal like Theo?”
“Nothing. I’m taking it. No art required.”
Atlas pulled a square of paper from his pocket, waved it at Drew. “Then take this, too.”
The letter. Their father had left a letter with each painting, one for each of his children. “I don’t want it.” Would he have stopped swinging his fists had Raph not pulled him off? Drew stood before the covered painting and pushed the letter away. “Tell me about Mrs. Bronwen.”
“Tell us what brought you here for that,” Atlas countered. Drew glanced at his brother, lifted a brow. Atlas dropped into a seat near the window. “Clara needed help. Protection. Offered me money in return.”
Ah. An arrangement much like the one Drew had considered. Strange how it sat sour in his stomach now.
“She’s proven her worth.” Atlas spoke as he peered out the window. “As promised, she’s proven a genius with the dower house. And I’ve not had to write a single song since she came.” His brow furrowed. “Can’t seem to, actually.”
“But, Atlas…” How to finish the thought out loud? What right had he to ask his brother about love?
“Is Mrs. Dart here?” Raph asked.
“No.” Drew knelt and picked up the painting.
“She always comes with you.” Atlas tapped his fingers against the windowpane.
“Not this time. Not ever again.” His brothers would want to know, and he needed to tell them or they’d hound him until he revealed all.
“What happened?” Raph asked. “Didshemarry?”
Drew’s mouth went dry. He tried to swallow. He managed to croak out, “I proposed. And she declined.” He threw the painting at the bed. It landed with a soft thump in the very middle.
Atlas jerked to his feet and threw open the window in a single movement. “Oi! Alfie! Get off that!”
Drew peered at the window, craning his neck to an angle identical to Raph’s. A young boy climbed the stable door in the distance, and he did not stop after Atlas’s bellow. He kept right on up, and when he reached the top, he straddled the top of the door and looked at the house. At the window. At Atlas. Drew almost ducked behind the bed so the boy wouldn’t see him.
“Down. Now,” Atlas bellowed.
The boy threw one leg over the top to join the other. Then jumped.
Atlas’s entire body jerked as if he meant to jump with the boy right out the window.
But the boy landed safely, slapped his hands on his breeches, and sauntered off. And Atlas stayed on firm ground.
“Who is Alfie?” Drew asked.
“Atlas’s son,” Raph answered, settling back into his spot on the wall.
Atlas grunted and dropped back into the chair. His gaze swung to Drew. “You mucked it up with Mrs. Dart?”
“I don’t see how, but apparently, yes. So badly she’s not just told me no, she’s quit my employ. Gone off with another man who’s started up his own agency. A scoundrel.”
Raph cracked his knuckles. “Should we visit London together. Visit him? Visit our knuckles into his face?”
“Done and done, brother.”
“You hit him?” Raph stroked his nose, up and over the bump there.
