Adrian stared up at him. Grayson gave Adrian’s forehead an affectionate rub.
“Stop that.” Adrian batted his hand away.
“I wanted to see if you were doing well,” Grayson said, “because I care about your well-being, and it is obvious you’ve had a difficult time of it. Not because I wanted to tell you so.”
Well. Adrian blew out a breath and took a bite of his own apple. It was sweet and just a little tart, and the juice running down his chin gave him an opportunity to think.
“This is awkward,” he said finally. “I’ve spent days avoiding you because I was trying to figure out what to say when you so prominently did not tell me ‘I told you so,’ and now you’ve gone and said something kind and gracious instead. It’s maddening.”
Grayson just shrugged. “How dreadful of me. Would it make you feel better if I said ‘I told you so’ now, just so you could feel vindicated? You’re the one who’s had the month of gunpoint weddings and suchlike. I’ll defer to your wishes.”
“It feels petty to ask for it.”
“You should be more petty, not less so. Let me go ahead. ‘Adrian, I told you so.’” Grayson even managed to get the tone right.
“Oh, it doesn’t work like that! You can’t just throw it out with no context. It is supposed to come after we’ve had an entire argument about how I’m too trusting.”
“That sounds reasonable. You are too trusting.”
“You were supposed to tell me that you used to be more like me. That you didn’t want me hurt the way you were. That you were only trying to protect me.”
“All of that sounds like something I would say,” Grayson agreed. “Consider it said.”
“Then you’d say ‘I told you so.’”
“Right. Now we’re getting to the good part.” Grayson gestured expansively. “Please. Go on.”
Adrian looked down, examining his hands, and then looked up. “And I would say that nothing has changed. Maybe I should learn to be less trusting, but I knew when this whole thing started that it might not turn out well.”
“Really.” Grayson raised a single eyebrow.
“I didn’t tell you I knew it. Just because I didn’t want to admit that you were probably right doesn’t mean I didn’t know it.”
His brother smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind for every future argument we have. Please, finish.”
Where had he been? Right. “I care about you, too.” Adrian said. “I just wanted…” He looked up into his brother’s eyes, and felt all the helpless impotence of the last few weeks. “You’ll be gone on your telegraph cable laying trip soon. I have so much—so many advantages. I didn’t go to war. I’ve never gone hungry, not really. I have so much, and I don’t know why it’s come to me. I’m alive, and I shouldn’t be—and I thought if…if…” Adrian trailed off.
“If what?”
“If I could get Denmore to keep his promises, I could make it up to you.”
Grayson just frowned. “Make what up to me?”
“I could make up for the fact that I stayed here in comfort, and…”
“And our brothers died?”
Now that it was said aloud, it sounded silly. It was impossible to ever make that up. Nothing Adrian did could ever change that.
He shut his eyes. “You’re right. It’s stupid.”
Grayson reached over and set a hand on Adrian’s shoulder. “So. In your imagination, you thought I was going to be petty enough to say ‘I told you so’ but not petty enough to interrupt you three sentences into your monologue?”
“Idiot.”
“My apologies. I’m not good at moments like this. I don’t know what to say, except…” Grayson’s hand tightened on Adrian’s shoulder. “Adrian, they were your brothers, too. Not just mine.”
Adrian felt a hard core of emotion in his chest. He squared his jaw, resisting it.
“You cannot make up for their deaths, because they were not your fault. The only thing that brought me through the war was knowing that at least you were here. That you were safe.”
“But I have so much.” Adrian looked at Grayson. “I just want—I want…” He couldn’t finish his sentence. For a long moment, he struggled. “You’re my brother,” Adrian finally managed. “I want you to have the world.”
“I know.” Grayson put an arm around Adrian. “But I have you. If you take the world for yourself, it will be enough for me. I promise.”
* * *
In the end, there was nothing left for Adrian to do but to tell fifty truths and one half lie.
The truths were easy. Adrian swore during the hearing that was held that he was, in fact, the grandson of the Duke of Castleford and the nephew of the Bishop of Gainshire. Why yes, he had proof—here were his parents’ marriage records.
The gossip would go around. The truth would come out. Acknowledgment or no, his uncle wouldn’t be able to hide the connection.
The questioning went on for hours.
Yes, Adrian said, his uncle had requested that he look into the matter of Bishop Lassiter. Why yes, he had proof as to that, too. Here was the telegram requesting his presence at Denmore’s house; here were the telegrams they exchanged, where his uncle insisted that he complete his investigation.
The lie was harder. Adrian had never been good at lying.
“Did you consummate the marriage?”
Adrian thought of Camilla. Of the way she smiled at him, of the way he had asked her to be his when he had returned from his uncle, of the brilliant wave of delight that had lit her features.
He’d taken that from her—the joy she had in believing that she had been chosen. And he could give it back.
Adrian was a terrible liar; he did his best. “I am the nephew of Bishop Denmore. We have discussed church matters before. I knew that if the marriage was consummated, the marriage could not be annulled. We both deserved better.” It was not exactly an answer, but they did not realize it.
They did not hear we both—not truly. They heard that Lady Camilla—that was how they referred to her throughout the proceeding—deserved better.
They were not wrong. They were just not right in the way they thought they were right.
He did not speak to Camilla at the proceeding; they were interviewed separately, to see if there were discrepancies in their stories. He caught sight of her at the end of a long hallway once, though. Her head tilted toward him; his whole body turned to hers.
They didn’t exchange a word. Just that long glance shared from a hundred yards away.
But there was one person he did speak to.
It was on the final day when Adrian was delivering testimony. He left the room for a brief respite, and was trying to gather his scattering thoughts when a man came to stand in front of him.
“You!” Bishop Lassiter glared at Adrian. “You! I’ve been called here to account for my doings, and it’s all your fault.”
It really wasn’t. Bishop Lassiter, Adrian suspected, bore the lion’s share of the responsibility for his own undoing, with unnecessary added help from Rector Miles.
Still. Maybe his conversation with Grayson enabled Adrian to be just a little petty in the moment.
“Why, thank you.” Adrian smiled at him. “I’m delighted you noticed. I was hoping you would.”
“You were the worst valet I have ever employed.”
“I know.” Adrian tried to look sympathetic. “And that was true even before I publicly exposed you as a criminal.”
Lassiter just looked more enraged. “You were supposed to be a nobody! That was the entire point of making her take your name!”
Yes. Lassiter had decided that Adrian was expendable all those weeks ago, when he’d forced them to marry. Adrian had vowed he would learn otherwise. It felt surprisingly satisfying to bait the man.
“Yes,” Adrian said, still pretending to commiserate. “That was where you went wrong.”