No, they were.
But perhaps not the same breed as their father.
“Crane,” the man at the head of the pack greeted. Calm. Simple. Bloody infuriating.
“Maxen.”
Not even a flicker.
He didn’t ask how Blake knew his name, simply accepted it, meeting his gaze with the same steadiness that ran through the entire group of men at his back. It unsettled him to see so much of his own face—their father’s resemblance—reflected back in theirs.
But uncomfortable as he was at all this, he couldn’t even scoff. They had made such an effort, so he attempted a measure of civility in his tone. “I assume you didn’t come all this way to admire the architecture?”
A hand wove through Blake’s arm, drawing his attention to her. Rosilee. She smiled at him, the hitch of her lips enough to gather his heartbeats to match hers.
“Shall we all go in for tea and talk inside?” She glanced at the gathering men. “And sit down perhaps? It’s far less intimidating than presenting like a pack of wolves.”
Blake nodded.
He couldn’t deny her. He could never deny her.
He turned back to the men before him. They had, in all likelihood, suffered a form of the same nightmare he had. And here they stood, drawn together by blood none of them had asked for.
Blake nodded. It was the best concession they were going to get from him. “You can come in for tea.”
Maxen nodded in return.
Viscount Leopold coughed. “Of course, no need to ask my permission for anything.”
What the hell did a man say to that?
Fortunately, a whistle saved him from answering, followed by the rattle of an approaching carriage coming down the drive.
Thank God.
Blake turned to find Bishop—whose task had been to convey Mrs. Prune and Mr. Wiggins—snapping the reins, Ben beside him, while Reaper followed astride his horse.
Bloody everlasting hell.
He had never imagined his whole being would sag in relief at the sight of his butler, man of affairs, and friend.
“Well,” Bishop said, not missing a beat as he climbed down and strolled up to them. “What a delightful gathering. Quite the family reunion, eh?”
Could he retract that sentiment?
“Ah, Mr. Bishop,” Rosilee said with a grin. “Always a bright sight.”
Bishop laughed, smirking at Blake. “She likes me.”
Blake shook his head. Scoundrel. His gaze swept over the people gathered in the courtyard, Mrs. Prune and Mr. Wiggins exiting the carriage with the same optimism that matched the woman he loved.
He sighed. His brothers might be here now, and Bishop might be adding to the chaos, but Rosilee was his anchor, the one person who understood him beyond the scars of his past.
It almost felt . . . right.
And yet, not quite.
“Now,” Bishop said cheerfully, clapping his hands, surveying the group, “are we having tea with a splash of brandy? Or perhaps a brawl in the courtyard? Personally, I think the courtyard brawl would be quite fitting for this motley crew.”
