She placed her gloved fingers in his.
He caught her eye as she joined him on the gravel. “I can’t imagine you approve of his behavior—vanishing like that.”
“No, of course not.” Then she frowned. After a second of cogitation, she said, “But knowing him—at least the him as he then was—I can imagine how it might have come about. He was always quite…uncertainover how he fitted into the family—the fourth child, the third son. It seemed there wasn’t any role for him to fill, not like the rest of us, all of whom had”—she tipped her head—“I suppose you might say, some reason for being.” She paused, her gaze distant, then confessed, “It might seem strange, but I can, indeed, imagine that, at seventeen, Martin might have thought it a good idea to go out and make his own way, entirely separate from the family.”
Devlin knew that by “the family,” she was referring to the Cynster clan as a whole, not just her branch of it. He studied her expression as, taking her arm, he steadied her up the porch steps and concluded that, black sheep or not, she was keen to see her younger brother again. Of her three brothers, Martin was, it seemed, closest to her in age—just two years younger if Devlin’s calculation was correct.
Knowing her character as he now did, Devlin also suspected that, of her brothers, Therese would be most protective of Martin as well.
Portland opened the door, and Devlin released Therese’s arm and followed her over the threshold.
He just hoped her prodigal younger brother didn’t distract her or try to claim too much of her time.
Portland bowed them inside, then closed the door and came to take Devlin’s hat and cane. “You have a visitor, my lord, my lady.”
“Oh?” Therese had laid aside her bonnet and was busy undoing her pelisse. She fixed Portland with an inquiring look.
“A Mr. Martin Cynster, ma’am—not the older gentleman, but I assumed he was a relative.” Portland deftly gathered the greatcoat Devlin shrugged from his shoulders. “I’ve put him in the drawing room.”
He’s eager.Devlin saw anticipation leap in Therese’s eyes. He caught her gaze and arched a brow. “Shall we?”
At least Martin Cynster’s timing allowed Devlin to accompany Therese to the unexpected reunion, one he was keen to witness.
Therese hurriedly handed her pelisse to the senior footman, Morton, then shook out the skirts of her burgundy carriage gown. She cast a swift glance at the mirror on the wall, tucked a stray lock of hair into her chignon, then walked purposefully to the drawing room door, waited for Portland to open it, and head rising, walked through.
Devlin followed at her heels. Looking over her shoulder, he saw a long-legged, dark-haired gentleman hurriedly get to his feet. A faint memory stirred, but Devlin couldn’t imagine where he might have previously met the much younger man. He decided the sense of familiarity was simply due to Martin being so obviously a Cynster, with features that unequivocally proclaimed him one of that breed.
As Devlin watched, Martin straightened to his full, slightly lanky height, somewhere north of six feet. His gaze had fixed on Therese, a mixture of hope and uncertainty plain in his face.
Therese slowed and halted, five paces into the room.
Devlin halted beside her, the palm of one hand resting lightly, supportively, on her back.
Therese stared, then he sensed her drawing in a huge breath. He glanced at her and saw a smile of unabashed joy break across her face.
The same emotion rang in her voice as she exclaimed, “Martin! It truly is you!”
Then she flew across the intervening space and flung her arms around her brother.
Hugely relieved and also faintly bemused, Martin managed to free his arms and gently hugged her back. After a second, he raised his gaze and, with rather wise wariness, met Devlin’s gaze. “I didn’t know…”
“What? Whether I would berate you like a fishwife?” With her head still pressed to his chest, Therese shook him—or tried to—then sniffed and said, “Don’t worry—I fully intend to, but I need a moment to convince myself that you truly are here.”
Martin’s gaze lowered to her face. “I’m sorry.” Faint panic edged into his voice. “By all means berate me, but for God’s sake, don’t cry.”
“I’m not.” Therese pulled back enough to swipe her knuckles across her cheeks. “Or at least, they’re only happy tears—you don’t need to panic.”
She clearly knew her brother well, because there had definitely been incipient panic in his expression as well as his tone.
Then she stepped back, and Martin’s arms fell from her. She searched his face. “My God, Martin—you put us through such aterribletime.”
His face fell, and he held up a hand in a fencer’s gesture of surrender. “I know—well, I know now, and I’m sorry. I never thought…” He broke off and grimaced. “But you know that. Back then, I didn’t think things through all that well.”
Martin had forgotten Devlin, and Devlin was in no hurry to make his presence felt. He studied the younger man critically as Martin met Therese’s eyes.
“I never meant for anyone to worry about me, but…” He gestured vaguely. “The longer I was over there, the harder it became to even think of contacting anyone here—and at first, I was too ashamed.”
Sincerity rang in his tone. Seeing the genuine contrition in Martin’s face, Devlin felt respect—faint but definite—stir. Coming back from the dead—rescripting a belief that, it seemed, he’d fostered by omission—wouldn’t be easy.
