Page 87 of The Trouble with True Love

“Nonsense. How else will you be ensured a steady income?”

“How, indeed.” He folded his arms, bracing himself. “What’s your news? But I think I can guess,” he added, noting the little smile that curved his mother’s lips. “A new man, I assume?”

She heaved a dreamy sigh and pressed a hand to her bosom, confirming his theory. “And what a man he is, too. Handsome, charming, quite rich.”

“Naturally. Am I entitled to know who he is?”

“Of course! Our affair is not a secret, and even if it were, I’d tell you, for you can always keep a secret.”

He thought of the night he’d spilled secrets to Clara about his parents, himself, and how he spent his money. She was, he realized, the only person in his life who could loosen his tongue. “Not always, Mama. But carry on. Who is this new man of yours?”

“It’s Lord Newcombe. We met at Cannes in January, then again at Zurich in July, and now...” She paused, one that was clearly supposed to be dramatic. “I’m in love!”

“What a surprise.”

The ironic inflection of his voice seemed lost on his mother. “It was to me! Newcombe’s ten years younger than I am.”

“Newcombe?” He repeated the name, frowning a little as he began to appreciate who they were talking about. “You mean Baron Newcombe?”

“The very same.”

“You realize he’s married?”

She laughed. “So am I. What does that matter?”

“To you, it probably doesn’t.”

That dry comment earned him an unhappy sigh. “Really, Rex, I love you, but there are times when you remind me so much of your father.”

He made a sound of derision. “I’m nothing like Papa.”

“Not in looks, perhaps. And you’re much more charming than he ever was. But you do have some of his qualities. Impatience, stubbornness, cynicism, and a rather tiresome way of putting a damper on the loveliest things.”

“Things like true love?”

“Exactly! Do you know, Newcombe’s taking me around the world on his yacht? He wanted to depart straight from Calais, but I insisted on coming up to London to see you before I go. Isn’t it wonderful?” she added, clasping her hands together as if she’d just been blessed by heaven. “I shan’t have any living expenses for months!”

He sighed, knowing that when those months had passed, Mama would be here again, and he’d be drying her tears and handing over whatever cash he could spare. He thought of his father, and he thanked God that his mother was mistaken in his character, for the last thing he ever wanted to be was a brokenhearted wreck of a man who, despite years of rejection, still loved one—and only one—woman.

“Just be careful, Mama,” he said.

“Oh, don’t be silly, darling.” She smiled and rose on her toes to kiss his cheek. “I always land on my feet.”

A cough sounded behind them, and both he and his mother turned around to find Whistler standing in the doorway, a silver salver resting atop his fingertips, an unmistakable admiration for the countess in his eyes. “Forgive me, your ladyship,” he said, bowing, then turned to Rex. “The afternoon post, sir.”

He caught a nuance of significance in the butler’s last words, and when he shot Whistler a sharp, inquiring look, he was rewarded with a slight nod of confirmation.

At last. Relief flooded through him, and though he wanted to dash across the room and tear the letter open right then and there, he refrained, for he did not want his mother here when he read the news from Clara.

“Just put it there, would you, Whistler?” he said, working to keep his tone indifferent. Then, as the other man crossed the room to deposit his letters on the writing desk beneath the window, he turned to his mother. “I fear I must send you off, Mama, for I have an engagement and have to change.”

“Of course. I need to be toddling along anyway, for as I said, Newcombe’s awaiting me at Dover.Au revoir, my darling son.” She cupped his cheeks. “If you want this girl, don’t give up.” With that bit of rather ironic advice, she kissed him and departed, following Whistler out the door.

Rex walked to his desk, took up the letter that reposed on the top of the pile, and turned it over. There was no name on the back, but there was a return direction. No. 12 Belford Row, Holborn.

Rex swallowed hard, bracing himself, and sat down at his desk. He moved to tear the letter open with his usual impatience, but then, he changed his mind and retrieved a letter opener from the desk instead, using it to slit the envelope neatly across. Drawing a deep, shaky breath, he pulled out the single sheet of notepaper, broke the seal, and unfolded it.

Lord Galbraith,

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