Sophie sampled the soup, savoring the subtle flavor. “Delicious.” She set down her spoon. “If the timing does not pose an inconvenience, Esme wishes to proceed.”
“Of course.” He met her eyes. “And my father? Has he accompanied her?”
Sophie shook her head. “He is not here.”
“He always was a contrary old bastard.” The words were spoken without anger. Rather, a peculiar affection tinged each syllable.
“Before Esme attempts to make contact, she has a question for you. You selected two locations frequented not only by your father, but by the woman he was with when he passed from this earth. Why?”
“Each seemed a logical place to start. My father cared for Miss Malone. In her own way, she brought him some measure of happiness. I could not begrudge him that.”
“And your mother? Did she know about Miss Malone…before your father’s death?”
“Yes.” He lightly drummed his fingers against the table. “Not that she gave a damn by that point. Mother stayed at the country house, tending her garden, pouring her grief into those blasted roses of hers.”
“Grief? Over your father’s betrayal?”
“No.” He lifted his glass and took a drink. “She’d grown used to his unfaithfulness. Annabelle Malone was the last in a parade of women. Truth be told, I think my mother fancied it a relief. Theirs had not been a love match by any means. But my brother’s death…now that gutted her spirit.”
The pain in his tone was real. Regret twinged through Sophie. She hadn’t meant to tear open an old wound, much less one so obviously painful. Heaven knew she had experience with scars that would never entirely fade. She’d no desire to inflict such sadness on anyone else. She wanted to reach out to Stanwyck, to place her hand over his and offer comfort, but she stilled the impulse. Though rooted in kindness, even a small intimacy certainly wouldn’t do, much less after he’d seen fit to kiss her.
“A mother’s grief is like no other,” she said. His forehead creased, as if a question had formed in his thoughts, but she went on before he had a chance to utter it. “Your brother’s death had quite an impact on you as well, did it not?”
“In more ways than you might imagine.” Again, his tone bore what seemed a genuine sadness. “Cameron and I were close in age, but not in temperament. He was our father’s heir, in every way. I’d never considered the notion he might die, even in battle. As a lad, he’d seemed invincible.”
“You feel his loss acutely.”
“What man would not?” He motioned to the silver tureen. “Have another taste, Sophie. No sense focusing on the reasons we’ve had to mourn.”
So, he’d picked up on the sorrow in her words, the despair she could not hide when she thought of her mother’s desperate grief for her infant son. Sophie’s heart had broken with the loss of the child. Benjamin had seemed a perfect little doll, beautiful and vigorous and bright-eyed. Until the babe’s precious life had been stolen away by a wretched fever, not quite a year after his birth. Sophie had often wondered if her parents’ despair had played a part in the carriage accident that had claimed their lives weeks later. She’d survived that dismal time, but she’d learned young that sadness etched scars as deep as any blade.
The tempting aroma of the delicate soup wafted to Sophie’s senses, but her nerves protested the thought of food. For now, she’d focus on the task at hand, learning what she might about Stanwyck.
“Esme has posed a question,” she said, shifting the focus back to her supposed powers. “She would like to know when you last saw your father.”
His brows raised. “I trust she means before the funeral.”
“Quite so.”
“I cannot recall the precise date. We sat down to a meal together shortly after I returned from the Nile expedition. My time in London was brief. I departed the next morning. It was a matter of some urgency that I return to Egypt.”
“Why?”
“A team led by Sir Kenneth Boyle was set to embark on a dig.”
“And you intended to reach the tomb first?”
“Precisely. The artifacts needed to be catalogued and preserved, not sold off to the highest bidder.”
So, Stanwyck did possess scruples. Not so much the scoundrel after all.
“You have not profited from your expeditions?”
“Not in monetary terms. But the experience never fails to enrich the spirit. And, of course, there is the matter of my research.”
“Considering the perilous nature of your adventures, it is a bit of a challenge to picture you as an academic.”
He shrugged. “I would not describe my explorations as adventures.”
