Page 31 of Taken to the Grave
“You’re asking questions about your father’s murder in a way that’s going to get you hurt,” Hugh said.
“I can take care of myself. I ain’t a weak little baby.”
Hugh pulled back, surprised by the force of the response. “I never said you were.”
Sir scuffed his feet, his hands buried in his pockets.
“What is this about, Sir?”
He was silent for several moments. Hugh began to think he was being stubborn.
“I heard him, the last time I was home visiting my mum and sisters.” Sir scrubbed his nose again. Hunched his shoulders. “He said he was doing something important, but he couldn’t say what, because I was just a baby. He was always calling me a weak baby.”
Repugnance for Harlan Givens and the way he’d treated his own flesh and blood was no new feeling for Hugh. But what was new, was what Sir had just revealed. Givens had been doing something important? Lucy Givens had said something similarabout her husband the other morning. That he’d had a few other jobs, but he couldn’t tell her about them lest she speak of it to others. He’d been acting strange and twitchy, she’d said.
“You aren’t weak,” Hugh said. “You are, however, angry, and anger can lead people to take unnecessary risks.”
Sir glimpsed up from the pavement. “Like how you knocked that guard for six?”
Hugh groaned. “Yes. I should have expected to meet with a pistol when I threw open that door. But I was angry, you see. So, we are all culpable, adult and children alike.”
His disdainful grimace returned. “I ain’t a child.”
“You’re acting more like a child than you are a man. Running off like that, with no word. You’re in my care?—"
“Well then, I’ll leave it!” His squeaky voice returned and bounced off the exterior of the building next to them. “Gonna need to soon enough anyhow.”
“What are you talking about?”
He anticipated him saying something about becoming the man of the house, now that his father was dead. That his mother and sisters would need him. Hugh had already started thinking of how to respond to that and what he could offer, when Sir bowled him over.
“You’re marrying the duchess, aren’t you? Already got the ring and the license. Already got a new place picked out, too. She won’t want me around once you’re leg shackled to her.”
Hugh’s next breath stuttered, and his heart squeezed. He’d had no idea his plans to marry Audrey had fazed Sir, let alone worried him. It had been selfish not to think of it. Blending their lives would not be without its many bumps and changes, but Basil and Sir were part and parcel to Hugh, just as Greer and Carrigan were to Audrey.
He cleared his throat. “Shows how much you know.”
With Sir, the method of delivery mattered. He responded to challenges better than anything else.
Now, he crossed his arms and squinted up at Hugh. “I know plenty.”
“Then you are aware the dowager duchess has asked which room is to be yours at 37 Berkeley Square?”
She’d done no such thing, but it wasn’t a risky lie. Audrey would balk at Sir not coming with them to their new home.
Sir perked up. “She likes it?”
Hugh had taken Sir with him when his steward, a musty old man who’d been one of his father’s, then Barty’s, remaining staff, had shown it to him. As they’d toured the rooms, Sir had shrugged as if unimpressed.
“She does,” Hugh replied.
“And she wants me to hang around?” His tone had changed from petulant and skeptical, to hopeful.
“We both do.” Hugh held up a finger. “But if you ever run away like that again, you’ll have to share a room with Basil so he can keep an eagle eye on you.”
Sir choked on a half laugh, half groan. The tension between them eased as Thornton returned with their coats, hats, and gloves.
“I suppose there are other gaming hells in London,” he said, tossing Hugh his belongings. “Mind you, none that I will ever take you to.”
