Page 4 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
“I’ve already cut his allowance,” I said.
“How did he take it?”
“Pretended not to care. But I saw the crack.”
“I’ve heard things,” she added after a pause. “From acquaintances who are worried about him. He’s keeping odd company, visiting questionable establishments in dangerous parts of London. I believe he’s in over his head.”
That chilled me. “When did you last see Phillip?”
“A week ago.” Her voice hitched. “At his lodgings. He was drunk.” Her lip curled with distaste.
Just then, Milford returned with the tea tray. The quiet clink of china momentarily pushed the shock of her statement aside. Once he left, I poured for her, then for myself.
She accepted her tea with a quiet murmur of thanks, but her thoughts were far from the porcelain cup.
“He reminds me so much of your father,” she said after a pause, voice barely above a whisper. “The same charm. The same self-destructive streak. I used to think it would pass. That youth was to blame. But Phillip . . .” She shook her head. “He’s slipping through my fingers, and I can’t catch hold.”
“You’re not alone in this,” I said, gently.
She looked at me then—truly looked—her eyes filled with a complex sorrow I hadn’t seen in years. “You were never meant to carry so much, Warwick. Not as young as you were.”
“I’m no longer a child, Mother.”
“No,” she said softly. “But you were. When your father died. When Phillip started acting out. When Nicholas still needed raising. You stepped into a role I never asked of you. And you bore it without complaint.”
I looked away, unable—unwilling—to face the truth in her voice.
She placed her cup down on the tray with delicate precision. “Promise me something.”
I glanced at her, wary. “What?”
“When the time comes—and itwillcome—don’t let loyalty blind you. If Phillip falls beyond saving, you must protect yourself. And Nicholas. And the name your father left behind.”
I froze.
The name your father left behind.
That name had been a curse. A shackle. A weight I’d carried since I was old enough to understand the screams coming from Mother’s room.
She didn’t know what I had done. Not really. Not the full extent of it.
She knew some of it, of course. How I’d burst into her room that night, eighteen and shaking with rage, and wrested the strap from my father’s hand. How I had turned it against him, struck him again and again until his face was bloodied, his ribs bruised, his reign of terror broken.
How, two days later, my father had taken my favorite stallion from the stables—Storm, whom I had truly loved—and galloped into the night.
We found him the next day, broken on the rocks. Storm broken as well.
I had saved us.
But I had never stopped wondering what, exactly, I had destroyed in the process.
She stood slowly, her silks rustling softly.
Then she crossed the room and pressed a kiss to my brow—rare, uninvited, and unexpectedly welcome.
A ripple of laughter rose outside the window, breaking the tension.
My mother glanced toward the sound, a small smile flickering at the corners of her mouth. “Children’s laughter,” she said softly. “Such a joyful sound.”
