Page 108 of In With a Chance

“You know, the very first time I saw your father,” Lady Pernrith was saying in a low, secretive voice, “he—”

“Edie!”

“Oh, we’ve heard this one,” said Gwen crossly.

“And we definitely don’t want to hear it again.” Michael shuddered, suggesting there was a very interesting story behind that remark. “Come on, tell us about some of Pa’s misadventures.”

“Oh, your father is a very conscientious man and would never do anything that could even at a stretch be described as an adventure,” said the former viscountess primly, stabbing her embroidery carefully with a needle.

Ernest stifled a grin as he saw the disappointment on Gwen’s face.

“Oh.”

A moment of silence, of stillness, then—

“Except for this one time.” Lady Pernrith grinned as her children whooped with delight. “When he and your Uncle George…”

Ernest had intended to listen, obviously he had, but his mind had once again meandered to the letter that he was still clasping in his hands.

It had been written in haste. It had been written in fear. And it had been written a long time ago.

“He hadn’t expected your Uncle William would realize that something was amiss, and so he—”

“Ernest?”

Ernest blinked.

Gwen was no longer listening to her mother’s story and had instead taken his hand in hers. She squeezed it, her brow furrowed, and said quietly, “Let’s go for a walk.”

The two of them rose without much comment, though Michael waggled his eyebrows most suggestively. If Ernest had had anything to throw, he would certainly have done so. As it was, he was forced to leave the drawing room without specifying that he was not doing so to secretly ravish Gwen.

At least, he probably wasn’t. Was he?

When the door closed behind them and they were alone in the hall, Gwen said quietly, “The letter. What’s in it? It’s upset you somehow, hasn’t it?”

Ernest cleared his throat and looked down at the letter but was unable to say anything. How could he explain such a thing when he was still struggling to understand it himself?

“Come on,” said Gwen briskly. She stepped away but swiftly returned, thrusting his greatcoat in his hands and smiling. “You always think better when you walk. Let’s go outside.”

There had been a howling gale all last night, which would certainly have kept Ernest up if he hadn’t crept into Gwen’s bedchamber and kept her up instead, and the streets of London were covered with the last of the autumn leaves. Puddles still remained even after luncheon, and though a few people had ventured out into the damp day, the streets were blessedly empty.

And she was right. He always did think better when he walked.

“This letter was sent to me by the Frasemere family solicitor,” Ernest said quietly. It was still held in his hand, and he glanced down at it as they walked slowly along the pavement.

…give my Lord Frasemere the power to choose…

“Who is it from?” Gwen asked curiously as they turned a corner and onto a street with a garden in the center of the square. “Where are we going, by the way?”

Ernest’s attention slipped down to the letter. The letter held an address. An address he had never known before but was now of the utmost importance. “A few streets over. Not far.”

“This letter is important, isn’t it?” Gwen stated quietly, not needing to ask the question. “Who wrote it?”

“It’s… It’s from Lady Frasemere,” said Ernest quietly.

As though she knew in that moment precisely what he needed, she slipped her hand into the crook of his arm. “Your mother?”

Perhaps that would have made the most sense, but as it turned out…