“No. When I left, I went north.”
“You were the one who left?” He could not hide his surprise. “The duke didn’t have you removed from the house?” In his distant memory, he’d pictured her clinging to the door jamb, begging to stay.
She kicked at the straw strewn over the cobblestones. “I fled in fear of my life. Your father … he had a terrible temper.” She tucked her hair behind her ears, drawing attention to the small scar across her cheekbone. “I’d thought to come back, but the duke … he made it impossible for me to return.”
As a child, Lucius didn’t care which parent started the fight. He didn’t care who was to blame for their arguments—as long as they were together. A family. Now, he felt the need to punish someone for causing his pain.
But who?
The duke was an invalid on his deathbed.
Julia Fontaine looked to have suffered enough.
“Why seek me now?” he said, shocked at the coldness in his voice. Was this not the woman he had spent years mourning? Was this not the person who could fill the gaping hole in his heart?
“Surely it’s obvious.” Her watery laugh held no amusement. “I heard the duke is confined to his bed. They say he cannot speak. They say he lacks the strength to hold a nib and scrawl his name.”
Perhaps it was Atticus’ influence that made him wary and led him to ask, “Who told you of his illness? To my knowledge, few people are aware of the duke’s condition.”
“Does it matter?” She paused to cough into a handkerchief. “What matters is that after such a lengthy separation, we can be together now. What can he do? He cannot instruct his men to hunt me down. He cannot use devious methods to keep me away.”
“Then why are you hiding in the shadows?”
His mother laughed again, though the sound carried mild annoyance. “Must you question everything? Are you not pleased to see me, Lucius?”
He should have been ecstatic.
Yet for some reason, he felt detached.
Despite knowing beyond a shadow of doubt that this woman was Julia Fontaine—his missing mother—he did not feel the instant connection.
“I thought you were dead,” he repeated. “It’s a shock to find you’re living and breathing and not buried at Bideford Park.”
She closed the gap between them and gently touched his upper arm. Oh, he wanted to feel that rush of unconditional love—a warm burst of happiness—but it didn’t come.
He waited.
Nothing.
He brushed his anxiety aside.
These things took time.
“Perhaps I might come home with you this evening,” she said, hope springing in her doleful eyes. “If we must talk of the past, let us do so before the comfort of a warm fire, in the privacy of your drawing room. Away from your father’s spies.”
He hesitated.
An internal conflict raged. A war between a lonely boy’s hopes and dreams and the responsibility that came with being a man. What was he to do? Trust in a fantasy or something tangible?
“I have a prior engagement that cannot be postponed.” Nothing, not even the untimely arrival of his mother, would force him to leave Sybil alone at Bronygarth. Nothing would prevent him seeking justice for Atticus, the person who had given his friendship and support. “Give me your direction, and perhaps we might meet tomorrow evening.”
Her mouth thinned into a bitter smile. “Don’t you trust me, Lucius? Has your father poisoned your mind against me?”
This was where he might have faltered, might have tried to reassure this stranger who had disappeared so long ago. But over the last few years, he’d learned to look at most situations objectively.
Unless the subject was Sybil Atwood.
Then he lost all sense and reason.