it now resided with him and would want to come and visit.
He pushed such fanciful thoughts aside. Eleanor would never allow it.
‘Ashborne was a man to seldom show his feelings to anyone, Cris. Taris and I would talk about it often and see the difference with Jack’s papa. I can’t remember him ever laying a hand on me save in discipline, though Alice would say it was in his nature to be reserved. We were glad to go off to school.’
A chunk of ice fell from Cristo’s heart. Just like that. Drip, drip, drip. For he remembered exactly the same thing. A mantle of guilt dislodged anger.
‘I wish you might have said something to me at the time.’
Asher looked at him keenly. ‘You thought it was only you he was aloof with?’
Despite meaning not to, he nodded, the many years between his brothers and him compounding the problem. If he had been older they might have said something, included him more. As it was he had had the company of a younger sister and a bunch of wild friends at Eton. No wonder he had taken the track of least resistance. When Ashborne had shouted at him for the next unwise and hare-brained escapade at least he had looked him in the eye and known that he still existed.
Fact skewered fiction. Perhaps it was not the circumstances of his birth after all that had alienated them. Perhaps it was just Ashborne’s character that had left a truth unsaid. The softer edge of England reached around him and held him close.
The many lights of Falder could be seen on the hill beside Graveson and in the western horizon the new moon was low and huge.
Home and a place.
And a puppy now. Patch.
He would ask Milne to prepare a bed for the dog to sleep on in the small dressing room off his chamber. He only hoped Patch might effect the sort of joy in his daughter that he had a great wish to see.
He should not have brought the damn dog! He knew that the moment he had set foot in the carriage for High Wycombe and it had climbed upon his knee with its sad drooping eyes and been sick upon his lap.
A runt was no real description of the physical attributes of this animal and he wondered at his daughter’s decision to choose a dog with no thought for its future development. He was the size of a large kitten with a tail that defied gravity and if Emerald still insisted that the family King Charles spaniel had found another of its like then she had to be kidding herself.
This puppy looked like the result of a mongrel from the backstreets of east London taking one very lucky chance.
‘Sit still,’ he ordered the wriggling hound and was surprised when it did so and fell instantly asleep. He liked the feel of its breath against the back of his hand as the carriage hurled through the last of the countryside towards the house that Emerald’s friend Azziz owned.
‘Florencia. Where are you?’
A small giggle alerted Eleanor to the fact that her daughter now hid behind the oak tree at the far end of the garden and she made her way down the line of ill-cut box hedging.
‘Is she here? No. Could she be here?’ She lifted the leaves of a large plant that drooped across the garden. ‘No, not there either.’ The giggles began again and the skirt of Florencia’s dress was blowing in the wind outside the line of bark.
With a quick dash to the left she caught her daughter to her and swung her round, their hair catching together, undressed and falling long in the slight edge of sun.
It was how Cristo saw them first, laughing and entangled, a mother showing all the affection in the world to a child who plainly loved her. Eleanor was in black, though the lace at her bodice was loose and the swell of her breasts made the colour alluring in a way the pastel shades had never been. His daughter was wreathed in dark blue with a string of what looked to be her mother’s pearls draped in a single strand around her neck.
Interest replaced shock, which in its own turn was replaced by wariness. Had Eleanor fashioned this meeting?
When their eyes caught the rose in her cheeks was flushed high.
He stepped forwards and removed his hat, his fingers gripping the fabric so hard he wondered how it did not tear.
‘Lady Dromorne?’ Florencia lost her smile in the instant of his question and hid in the dark skirts, but Eleanor said nothing, the edges of her lips bound together as though she would not allow even the hint of an answer.
Emerald’s evasive dissembling was suddenly explained. She had set this whole thing up and Asher’s withdrawal from the trip five minutes before departure meant that he was also in on the plot. Lord, when he returned he would strangle them both. He swore he would.
Right now he needed to at least address the worry he saw so prominently in Eleanor’s eyes.
But how?
The wriggling bundle under the jacket of his coat solved the whole problem for, as a small black-and-white head poked out from beneath the lapels of his jacket, he saw in the wide smile on his daughter’s face an absolute delight.
She ran forwards, stopping only a foot or so away from him, the silver in her hair whipped by wind and for the first time ever he heard her speak.
‘Patch? You brought Patch here?’ A small hand reached out to tickle the dog’s nose, wonder in her eyes.
‘Florencia, this is Lord Cristo Wellingham.’
Cristo’s brows were raised, but he did not correct her. Not father, not papa, only a title that a child might or might not remember. The smile looked as fixed on Eleanor’s face as it was on his.
‘Hello.’ He brought out the squirming puppy and held it towards her. She took it immediately, cuddling it in the way only small children can, his pink tongue licking her chin.
When she laughed he saw a child so like him that there could be no possible question of her parentage.
‘I love animals.’
He smiled. ‘And what else do you love?’
‘I am learning to play the piano.’
‘Perhaps one day you might play it to me?’ He thought of his own Stein sitting at Graveson. It had been so long since he had played anything at all.
Eleanor saw that Florencia was unusually brave, this notice from a stranger overcoming her more normal shyness. Her feet scuffed the ground as the puppy jiggled and she saw Cristo take in the movement, the hunger in his eyes poignant. I have missed years, his expression said, and I am not going to miss another moment.
‘You could show Lord Cristo some of your drawings,’ she suggested. The bag Florencia often carried with her lay on the brick steps four feet away and she hurried to get it.
‘There is a seat just here.’ Eleanor indicated an old bench. ‘If you sat on his knee, it might be easier for you both to see, darling.’
Keep it light and easy and natural, Eleanor thought, her hand trembling as she handed her daughter the book. She was pleased when Florencia did as she was asked and stood before him and the look of wonder on Cristo’s face as he touched his child so carefully brought mistiness to her eyes. She made much of doing up the buckle of the bag as he made room for Florencia and the puppy on his lap.
‘This is our house,’ her daughter said after a moment, ‘and this is Papa. He is in Heaven because he likes being there now. This is Sophie in her yellow gown and Margaret in her blue one. They don’t live with us any more but they used to. And this is my dog.’
Eleanor craned her neck forward. A black-and-white dog who looked a lot like Patch gambolled on the page.
‘The