Page 39 of Hearts of Locke Hill

“We should get you a sash and placard. March you in front of city hall.”

“Enough.” Andrew slid his chair back and stood, a gleam in his eye. “Not a word of this to your sister or her friends.”

“Upon my honor.” Cy stood and signaled a footman, who went to ready their departure.

“And, Cy,” Andrew said.

“Yes?” He met his friend’s subdued gaze.

“I do hope with everything in me that your father recovers and the new property thrives. If there is anything I can do—anything at all—do not hesitate to ask.” He offered his hand, something gentlemen seldom did, unless extending the high honor of comradeship.

Cy took it, and they shook. “Thank you.” Cy paused. “Perhaps you could ask your sister to talk Miss Whittemore out of—”

“Not on your life.”

“No,” Cy murmured, taking his hat from the footman. “No, I suppose not.”

Y

8 and 12

“What do you mean, you don’t have a London house?” Violet popped a lemon drop into her mouth and offered him one from the white paper bag.

Cyril reached for one and studied the sugar dusted over the yellow candy. “Don’t be a snob.”

“I’m not. I’m only surprised.” She spoke around her candy, which he could see lodged in her cheek. “Oakleigh is grand and noisy and so busy. Where do your parents go when they grow tired of everyone?”

“Tired of everyone? Do you mean us? Their children?”

She nodded.

They sat on a bench on the edge of the Kinthwaite’s rose gardens while their mothers chose flowers for a coming event. A servant girl followed with a broad, shallow basket over her arm, clipping any selected blooms.

His mother turned and winked when she saw him. He grinned, that feeling of safety, shelter, and belonging warming his chest as it often did when observing his parents.

He turned back to Violet, with her gold hair in ringlets and a large white bow sitting askance on her head. Grateful he’d never have to wear a bow anywhere on his person, ever, he shrugged. “I don’t think they ever tire of us.”

Violet frowned. “Truly?”

He shrugged again. “Sometimes I think they’re glad it’s time for us to go to bed. But they always seem happy to see us when we wake.”

She considered that. “Perhaps that’s why you don’t need a London house. We have one, and I’m sure my parents go there when they grow tired of Daniel and me.”

“What makes you so sure?” He placed the lemon drop on his tongue, his mouth watering as the sugar dusting melted.

“Because we’ve never been.”

The simplicity of her answer gave him pause. “You’ve never been to your London house?”

“No. Mama says it is Papa’ssanctuary. I looked it up. It meansa place of refuge or safety. So I looked up whatrefugemeans, and it’s ashelter or protection from danger or distress. So then I looked updistress, anditsaid—”

“Pain or suffering of the mind?” he asked dryly.

She narrowed her gaze at him. “Yesss.” She drew out the word. She sighed, and her expression cleared of suspicion. “Anyhow, it’s not a secret. Mrs. Dale told me they grow tired of us and need escape. By definition, we give Papapain and suffering of the mind.”

She popped another lemon drop into her mouth and offered him another.

He shook his head, as he was still working on the first one. He could not imagine a servant telling him such a thing. If he heard someone telling his little brothers his parents had grown tired of them, he would tell his father, and that servant would besacked. “Every year, we go to Eventide—our house near the sea—and my parents leave a week early. Then we join them. It’s great fun. Perhaps that’s like an escape. Before we arrive, I mean. Maybe one day your parents will send for you and Daniel to join them.”