grave?”
“They are grave already. Do you mean if Troy dies? That would have been time enough to inform Rensdale, when he could not make matters worse. But do not even think that, my lord. My brother will live, and my half-brother need never have known. I think you have taken great liberties, my lord. You should have consulted me first.”
“What, a mere girl? Do not be absurd.”
She looked at him oddly but said nothing, so Ian went on: “And why should I not have told the head of your household? Are you worried that he is going to race to London to fetch you back? Rather than leave you in the keeping of strangers and absent seafarers?”
“He is Troy’s guardian. If he wishes my brother home, he would have to hire extra servants, a comfortable traveling coach, and physicians to attend him—and that after staying in London at a hotel for weeks. Even he could see that Troy cannot be moved yet. As for me, Uncle Barnaby was designated my guardian, not Spartacus, thank goodness. Rensdale cannot order me to do anything.”
“Except stay away from your brother?” he guessed, and knew he was right by the stricken look that crossed her face.
“Yes,” she said with a hoarse whisper, “he can take Troy from me.”
Only a monster would separate this devoted pair. “I will tell him how hard you are working to keep the boy alive. He will see.”
“He will see an excuse to leave me in London, fixed in Uncle Barnaby’s household instead of Renslow Hall.”
“Nonsense. I will tell him—”
“You have already told him enough, thank you.”
The angry voices, or the anguish in his sister’s, disturbed Troy, who tried to say something. Both Athena and the earl leaned closer to him. “He’ll say…told you so.”
“Of course he will, the prig. But do not worry, dearest, by the time Rensdale arrives—if he bothers to come at all, and you know how Veronica hates to travel—you will be right as rain.”
“Riding… Mad Dog’s horses.”
That was a surprise to Lord Marden, but he rose to the challenge. “Your pick of the stables, after you’ve proved yourself aboard Rita. She is a gentle mare I keep for my sister’s use. Game, but not headstrong.”
Troy smiled, swallowed another mouthful of the fever infusion, and shut his eyes.
The earl’s startled promise redeemed him a bit in Athena’s eyes, so she whispered a thank you. Then she muttered, half to herself, “We were doing so well that Rensdale could never have found fault. Troy was feeling a great deal better, until some idiot shot him.”
“It was an accident.”
“An accident that need not have happened if grown men were not out playing with guns.”
The truth was painful. Ian broke off a piece of biscuit and handed it to the dog, seeking someone’s approval, anyone’s.
“Now Rensdale will have another excuse to keep Troy penned in at home until he does expire, from boredom. I was hoping Troy could attend university in a few years, and he has been working hard at his studies to be ready. Now our brother will claim he is too frail. The expense is too high, more likely.”
“Surely he would not deny the lad an education if he is fit for it.”
“More surely the gudgeon will not want it known that a Renslow is less than perfect. Troy’s weakness has been a constant embarrassment to him and Veronica.”
Ian understood that attitude, so prevalent in Polite Society that was anything but polite to its own cripples and invalids. “My own sister—”
She interrupted. “By Neptune’s crown, you should have brought my brother home to Cameron Street, where he belongs!”
“What, with a pirate, a missing groom, and a cook to look after him?”
“We would have managed.”
That was not worth a reply. Ian raised an eyebrow instead, but Miss Renslow was not looking. She was back to wiping her brother’s brow, humming off-key, the ungrateful, unmusical wench.
*
She was an ungrateful wretch, Athena told herself. He was her host, her
“They are grave already. Do you mean if Troy dies? That would have been time enough to inform Rensdale, when he could not make matters worse. But do not even think that, my lord. My brother will live, and my half-brother need never have known. I think you have taken great liberties, my lord. You should have consulted me first.”
“What, a mere girl? Do not be absurd.”
She looked at him oddly but said nothing, so Ian went on: “And why should I not have told the head of your household? Are you worried that he is going to race to London to fetch you back? Rather than leave you in the keeping of strangers and absent seafarers?”
“He is Troy’s guardian. If he wishes my brother home, he would have to hire extra servants, a comfortable traveling coach, and physicians to attend him—and that after staying in London at a hotel for weeks. Even he could see that Troy cannot be moved yet. As for me, Uncle Barnaby was designated my guardian, not Spartacus, thank goodness. Rensdale cannot order me to do anything.”
“Except stay away from your brother?” he guessed, and knew he was right by the stricken look that crossed her face.
“Yes,” she said with a hoarse whisper, “he can take Troy from me.”
Only a monster would separate this devoted pair. “I will tell him how hard you are working to keep the boy alive. He will see.”
“He will see an excuse to leave me in London, fixed in Uncle Barnaby’s household instead of Renslow Hall.”
“Nonsense. I will tell him—”
“You have already told him enough, thank you.”
The angry voices, or the anguish in his sister’s, disturbed Troy, who tried to say something. Both Athena and the earl leaned closer to him. “He’ll say…told you so.”
“Of course he will, the prig. But do not worry, dearest, by the time Rensdale arrives—if he bothers to come at all, and you know how Veronica hates to travel—you will be right as rain.”
“Riding… Mad Dog’s horses.”
That was a surprise to Lord Marden, but he rose to the challenge. “Your pick of the stables, after you’ve proved yourself aboard Rita. She is a gentle mare I keep for my sister’s use. Game, but not headstrong.”
Troy smiled, swallowed another mouthful of the fever infusion, and shut his eyes.
The earl’s startled promise redeemed him a bit in Athena’s eyes, so she whispered a thank you. Then she muttered, half to herself, “We were doing so well that Rensdale could never have found fault. Troy was feeling a great deal better, until some idiot shot him.”
“It was an accident.”
“An accident that need not have happened if grown men were not out playing with guns.”
The truth was painful. Ian broke off a piece of biscuit and handed it to the dog, seeking someone’s approval, anyone’s.
“Now Rensdale will have another excuse to keep Troy penned in at home until he does expire, from boredom. I was hoping Troy could attend university in a few years, and he has been working hard at his studies to be ready. Now our brother will claim he is too frail. The expense is too high, more likely.”
“Surely he would not deny the lad an education if he is fit for it.”
“More surely the gudgeon will not want it known that a Renslow is less than perfect. Troy’s weakness has been a constant embarrassment to him and Veronica.”
Ian understood that attitude, so prevalent in Polite Society that was anything but polite to its own cripples and invalids. “My own sister—”
She interrupted. “By Neptune’s crown, you should have brought my brother home to Cameron Street, where he belongs!”
“What, with a pirate, a missing groom, and a cook to look after him?”
“We would have managed.”
That was not worth a reply. Ian raised an eyebrow instead, but Miss Renslow was not looking. She was back to wiping her brother’s brow, humming off-key, the ungrateful, unmusical wench.
*
She was an ungrateful wretch, Athena told herself. He was her host, her
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