Reluctantly, Rupert straightened, picked up his sheet, and held it out.
Therese took the drawing and studied it, in truth more closely than she had Spencer’s. Although he was a year younger, Rupert’s effort showed a better grasp of line and perspective than Spencer’s. “You have a good if still developing eye,” Therese told her second son. Making a mental note to continue to monitor Rupert’s artistic progress—drawing, after all, ran in her family—she handed him the sheet. “That’s enough on that one for now. Go and put it with Spencer’s so your father can see it later, and then”—she collected Spencer with her gaze—“I have another challenge for you both.”
Spencer hurried back to the table and sat. While waiting for Rupert to leave his sketch with Spencer’s and return, Therese glanced down at Horry. Her daughter was sitting on the floor to one side of Therese’s chair, being watched over by Gillian, one of the nursemaids.
At eighteen months old, Horry could barely hold a crayon, but as she sat on the floor, a large sheet of paper spread before her, with her small features contorted in a furious show of concentration as she stabbed and slashed at the paper, she seemed single-mindedly focused on making her mark.
Therese smiled, then returned her attention to her sons as Rupert returned to his chair. “Now, take another sheet of paper each.” There was a stack of fresh sheets in the center of the table, and she waited while they each helped themselves to one. “Very well—I want you to draw me a tree.” She held up a finger to stay them. “I don’t want you to draw anything but the tree, but first, I want you to close your eyes and imagine the tree until you can see it clearly in your mind. I want you to be sure what sort of tree it is—you know enough different trees by now. I want you to think of how the branches angle out from the trunk and how the leaves hang from the twigs. Once you are absolutely sure what your tree looks like, you can open your eyes and start drawing.”
Both boys had their eyes closed. A slight frown marred Rupert’s brow, but even as she looked at Spencer, his face cleared, and he opened his eyes and picked up his pencil.
Rupert, however, kept his eyes shut for a full minute more before he opened them and, still frowning slightly, started to draw.
Hmm. Therese made another mental note to ask her uncle, Gerrard Debbington, what exercises he would recommend to encourage a child who might possess a talent for drawing.
While the boys worked and Horry stabbed and slashed, Therese poured herself another cup of tea. Sitting back, she sipped. Her gaze drifted to the window, and she found her mind sliding from her children to their father.
She was now very certain that something in their relationship had changed. Not in the sense of maturing, as she’d initially assumed, but actually altered, albeit in a subtle way.
She recalled her earlier thought of a shield lowering, of some barrier being taken away, and yes, it was something along those lines, and it was Devlin who had changed, not her. He was the one removing some amorphous barrier.
So what was he revealing?
Potentially more importantly, why? Or why now? Was it something to do with Child appearing—reappearing—in Devlin’s life?
She pondered that, but while Child-as-cause fitted the bill time-wise, why Devlin’s childhood friend would be a catalyst for Devlin—who had known Child virtually since birth—to change with respect to her, she couldn’t imagine. She certainly didn’t believe jealousy had anything to do with it; Devlin knew very well that she had never been interested—not in that sense—in any other man, not even one as undeniably handsome and urbanely charming as Child.
Allowing all she’d sensed over their recent nightly interludes to flow through her mind, she felt quite sure Devlin knew precisely where he stood with her—that he was the center of her world. She had never disguised, much less attempted to conceal, what emotion drove her when it came to him. He was the man she loved, and neither she nor—she would wager the Alverton diamonds—he had ever seriously questioned that.
The boys informed her that they’d completed their trees. She drained her teacup, set it aside, and duly admired their efforts, evenhandedly praising both, although, as she’d suspected would be the case, Rupert’s tree was a great deal more treelike than Spencer’s.
She sent them to place the trees with their pictures of their ponies and got to her feet. When they pelted back to her, she bent and hugged them, then releasing them, straightened. “I have to go downstairs, but Gillian and Patty and Nanny Sprockett will help you with whatever game you want to play.”
She glanced around as the motherly Nanny Sprockett came bustling up, a smile creasing her comfortable face.
“It’ll be lunchtime in a little while,” Nanny Sprockett informed her charges. “Perhaps we can play Spillikins until then.”
“Yay!” The boys raced off to fetch what was presently their favorite game.
Therese exchanged an understanding smile with Nanny Sprockett and made her escape.
On reaching the front hall, she noted that, as usual, Portland had left the day’s mail stacked on a silver salver on the hall table. She went forward, intending to collect whatever invitations had been delivered, only to see, prominently displayed on the top of the pile, an envelope with the name “Alverton” boldly scrawled across the front in harsh black ink, with the word “Urgent” angled across one corner and underlined three times.
Therese reached out and picked up the missive, absentmindedly registering the poor quality of the paper. Normally, she wouldn’t dream of opening a letter addressed to Devlin, but…even though it had been a long time since she’d seen Martin’s handwriting, she was as certain as she could be that the inscription was his penmanship.
She stared at the letter, then swung on her heel and walked to Devlin’s study. As she’d expected, given Portland had left the letters in the hall, Devlin wasn’t there.
She walked to the bellpull and tugged it, then went to stand by the desk. When Portland arrived, she waved the letter so the butler could see which one it was. “Did his lordship say when he expected to be back?”
“No, my lady. Indeed, the earl said that he couldn’t be sure when he would be home, other than that he anticipated joining you for dinner.”
“I see.” She tapped the letter against her fingertips. “I don’t suppose he mentioned where he was going?” If it was to one of his clubs, she could send the letter with a footman.
“He said he was going to a business meeting, my lady. Unfortunately, he didn’t mention where.”
She grimaced. A business meeting could be held anywhere in London. Increasingly concerned, she stared, frowning, at the letter.
Portland cleared his throat. “I take it the letter is the source of some anxiety, my lady.”
It wasn’t exactly a question, but still staring at the envelope, she replied, “I strongly suspect it’s from my brother Martin.”
“The one who only recently returned to England, ma’am?”
Trust Portland to put his finger on the point that most worried her. “Exactly.” Speaking slowly, she went on, “It’s possible Martin’s in some sort of trouble. I really can’t imagine why else he would write urgently to Alverton.”