“Do you, really?” He stared hard at the wavy pane of glass. “Because I don’t think I ever truly did, until today. It wasn’t until today that I realized … Yorke was the closest thing to a father I ever had.”

She made a soft, soothing noise and reached for his hand.

He pulled it away, folding his arms over his chest. Of course, now she would comfort him. She could shower him in sweet, generous affection now, when he was down and plainly hurting and as wretched as some leper in a parable. Isabel had no shortage of pity to offer him. It was only the deep, abiding passion that he was denied.

“You’ll have everything you wanted now,” he told her. “I’ll be the MP. You’ll be Lady Aldridge, the influential MP’s wife. This house is yours, to host as many demonstrations and

Society meetings and social functions as you please. Turn it into a home for foundlings, if you wish. I really don’t care. I’ll be in Surrey for the foreseeable future.”

“You’re … you’re just leaving me here?”

Her tone was wounded.

Good. Petty though it might be, he wanted to hurt her. To inflict just a fraction of the pain she’d caused him.

“Did you have some better plan?” Toby walked around her, crossing to the doorway. “Forgive me, but I really must be off to Yorke’s town house. There’s a sort of gathering, and I promised my mother—”

“Oh, your poor mother.” Suddenly she flew across the carpet to stand before him, latching one hand over his arm. “Toby, let me come with you.”

“To Surrey?”

“Well, I meant to the town house.” Her brow wrinkled. “I mean, I do have the demonstration Friday. The invitations have already gone out. I must be here in Town for that, I couldn’t possibly cancel it now.”

“No, of course,” he said bitterly. “You couldn’t possibly. I understand you perfectly, Isabel. You’re under no obligation to come with me to Yorke’s house, nor to Surrey …” He gave her what he hoped was a cold, unfeeling look. “I’m certain we’ll see one another soon enough.” He turned to leave.

She dodged around him, blocking the door. “Toby, please. I can see how you’re hurting. I want to help. Let me go with you.”

“No.”

She winced. “But—”

“No,” he repeated firmly, walking past her to exit the room. “You’re not welcome. This is a family matter, not a charity event.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Toby had been an infant when his father died. He had no memory of the man, nor any recollection of his mother in her year of mourning. When she referred to Sir James Aldridge she did so in respectful, dispassionate tones—and always in past tense. By all appearances, the dowager Lady Aldridge maintained a cordial relationship with her late husband’s memory.

“Cordial” had never described her relationship with Mr. Yorke. The two had argued over one thing or another—and yet another—for as long as Toby could remember. They made cutting remarks to one another’s faces and said worse behind each other’s backs. By all appearances, they were equally matched in only one respect—mutual dislike.

And never, until this day, had Toby realized the obvious.

They had been in love.

How had he missed it? Toby prided himself on his keen understanding of women, but as it turned out, he had a blind spot of mother-sized proportions. But then, she’d never been “a woman” to him, because she was his mother and he’d never looked for her vulnerabilities. He hadn’t wanted to see them. She was his only parent, the rock of their family, the strongest person he knew.

But not today. Today, she was a pale, teary shambles.

“Mother, why did you never tell me?” Toby sat at her side, holding one of her hands while she pressed a handkerchief to her eyes with the other. The two of them were tucked away in the corner of Mr. Yorke’s parlor. The room was filled with visitors, come to pay their respects before his body was taken to Surrey. People came and went, seemingly at a loss as to where to direct their condolences, considering the deceased’s lack of immediate family. His mother wiped her eyes and whispered, “Should I have told you about my lover? Really, Toby, I know we are close. But there are some conversations a mother does not wish to have with her son.”

She had a point there. “How long had you been …”

“A very long time.”

“Years, then?”

“Decades.”

Decades. Toby frowned at the carpet, trying to decide whether he wished to know how many.

“Not for that long,” she said, reading his thoughts. “I was never unfaithful to your father.”

“I’ve no memory of my father,” he said. He glanced up, toward the bedchamber above-stairs where Yorke’s body lay. “All my memories are of him.”

“He loved you, Toby. He told me he would have left his estate to you, were it not entailed. I know he thought of you as the son he never had.”

“Why not the son he did have? Why did the two of you never marry?”

His mother shook her head. “We would have killed each other, had we lived under the same roof. No, I was accustomed to my independence, and we were both simply too stubborn.” She released Toby’s hand and blew her nose. “His health had been failing for some time. The doctors told him to slow down. For years, I begged him to resign his seat in Parliament, but the mule-headed man wouldn’t hear of it.”

“That’s why you’ve been after me to run against him?”

She nodded.

“Mother, you should have just told me the truth. I would have—” Toby clapped his mouth shut. There was no way to complete that sentence without indicting himself as a complete and total fraud. I would have kept the spirit of my promises. I would have accepted the duty that accompanies my fortunate birth. I would have put someone else’s needs above my own, for a change. All things he should have done, regardless.

“Perhaps I should have told you,” his mother said. “But again, there’s that uncomfortable matter of discussing one’s lover with one’s son. At any rate, he came around in the end. He told me just last week, he’d decided to let you win. You were ready now, he said. He thought you and Isabel made a good team … something about lambs.”

Toby felt a pinch in his chest. So that was why the polls remained so close, and why Yorke had been in Town the other day. Toby had been right—the old man hadn’t been campaigning at all.

Just then, Jeremy entered the room, accompanied by Miss Osborne. Toby stood to greet them.

“Jem, Miss Osborne. Good of you to come.”

“We just received the news,” Jeremy said. “Lucy wanted to join us, but—”

“No, of course she couldn’t,” Toby replied. “Not with a week-old infant at home. How is little Thomas Henry Trescott, the fifth Viscount Warrington?”

“Living up to his aristocratic lineage,” Miss Osborne answered. “He has the whole house hold at his beck and call already.”

“I can’t claim to be surprised,” Toby said with a smile. He indicated chairs nearby and invited them to sit. “You’ll remember my mother.”

“Had Mr. Yorke no family?” Miss Osborne asked, scanning the room, presumably for black armbands or mourning gowns.

“No,” Toby replied. “No close family, at any rate. There are some cousins, I believe, but—”

“He had us. We’re his family,” Toby’s mother interrupted, beginning to cry anew. “Don’t make it sound as though he was alone.”

“No, of course he wasn’t.” Toby grasped her hand again. To Jeremy and Miss Osborne, he explained, “Our families have always been close. He and mother were … good friends.”

“We were lovers,” she said, impatiently wiping her tears. When the other three simply stared at her, she said to Toby, “I’m an old woman, and now he’s dead. It doesn’t matter who knows. We were lovers.”

And now Jeremy and Miss Osborne stared anywhere but at her. His mother’s outburst, however, would not be subdued. What ever dam she’d built to restrain her grief had cracked, and a tide of emotion flowed forth.

“You were right, Toby. I should have married him. He asked me, you know. So many times, but I always refused. And now”—her speech caught on a sob—“now I’ve no right to claim him. I’ve no right to wear mourning for him, no right to be buried next to him. No right to go upstairs and make certain his valet dresses him in his green striped waistcoat, not that horrid blue.”

“Mother, please don’t cry,” Toby said. “I… I’ll speak to his valet.”

Good Lord. Of all the lame attempts at comfort. His mother was falling to pieces before his eyes, and Toby hadn’t the slightest clue how to hold her together. Normally, this was his forte, making women feel better. Ladies crossed ballrooms, streets, even lines of propriety just to exchange a few words with him, because they all knew: a girl could always depend on Sir Toby Aldridge to put a smile on her face.

Suddenly, he’d lost the gift. Because now he knew: A girl shouldn’t depend on Sir Toby Aldridge for anything. Any trust his wife had in him had vanished the moment she saw him for his true self. His own mother had been keeping secrets from him for decades. He wanted to soothe her, make her feel better, but he didn’t know how anymore. It was a talent built on a cornerstone of arrogance, and this wretched day had knocked the foundation straight out from under him.

He spied Reginald entering the room. Behind him trailed Joss. Toby rose to his feet again, whispering, “Mother, Reginald is here.”

“Oh, let him know, too,” his mother said, wringing her handkerchief. “It doesn’t matter anymore. Yorke’s dead, and nothing matters anymore.” She broke into tears, listing sideways until her head came to rest on Miss Osborne’s shoulder.

The young woman’s eyes widened in alarm. “What do I do?” she asked Toby, gesturing discreetly toward the matron wetting her sleeve with tears.

Toby had no advice to offer her, only a helpless shrug. He’d never seen his mother in such a state. Ever.

Having picked his way through the crowd, Reginald finally reached Toby’s side. “Augusta sent a note to my offices. Yorke, gone. What a damned shame.” He cast a glance toward Toby’s mother. “Taking it hard, is she?”

“Apparently they were close,” said Toby.

“We were lovers,” his mother cried, pressing her face further into Miss Osborne’s shoulder. Raising his eyebrows, Reginald whistled quietly through his teeth. “Well.”

It was the greatest display of shock Toby had ever seen him make.

Miss Osborne raised a hand to the older woman’s shoulder and gave her an awkward pat.

“There, there.”

“Hullo, Joss.” Toby nodded at his brother-in-law, who stood a pace behind Reginald, looking every bit as uncomfortable as Toby felt.

“I’m sorry to intrude,” Joss replied. “I was at Mr. Tolliver’s offices when the notice arrived, and I thought to pay my respects.” He looked toward the women huddled on the divan. “I didn’t realize …”

“Don’t be sorry,” Toby said. “No one realized. It was good of you to come.”

His mother began to sob. Miss Osborne stiffened.

“Is that Montcrief at the door?” Jeremy asked hopefully. “I’ve been meaning to speak with him.”

“No,” Toby snapped, cutting off his friend’s path of retreat. Not that he could blame Jeremy for trying. He’d escape the scene, too, if he could. It was hell, sitting here, feeling the loss of his friend and his wife in one morning, watching the pillar of strength who’d supported his home, his family, his life, dissolving in abject grief. Knowing he could have—should have—