"Immediately, sir. And I'll set the fire in the morning room."
As they climbed the stairs, Fenella was fine-drawn with tension. He knew her mind wouldn't rest until she'd seen her son with her own two eyes.
Anthony carefully opened the door to the green bedroom, grateful it didn't creak like the front door. The curtains were closed, but he made out a heap of blankets and a tuft of fair hair. This must be Brandon. Carey was as swarthy as his uncle.
Fenella released a shuddering breath as she ventured a couple of steps inside, before retreating on soundless feet. She lingered in the doorway, her face luminous with love, and Anthony had to look away. It was like looking into her soul, and the experience was too heady for someone little more than a stranger.
Reluctance weighted her movements as she shut the door on her sleeping son. Anthony touched her arm in silent comfort, propriety be damned. Swift heat slammed him. Because inevitably, he wanted her. Even shouting at her, he'd wanted her.
He spent his life dealing in the world's finest goods. Silks. Porcelain. Glassware. Expensive trinkets to arouse the appetites of jaded rich men—and women. He'd early learned to appreciate quality.
Fenella Deerham was quality from head to toe.
"Wake him up and talk to him," he whispered. "I know you want to."
Her smile was wistful, and to his surprise she didn't break the contact. "Of course I want to. But he'll be exhausted."
Beautiful and unselfish. She really was a jewel.
And a lady, he reminded himself. Counted among the bluest bloods in the land. While Anthony Townsend's blood was as common as mud.
The world might say he looked too high in setting his sights on Sir Henry Deerham's widow. He wasn't so humble as to agree.
Thoughtfully he opened the next door along the corridor. Carey was a more restless sleeper than his friend. He'd kicked the blankets to the floor and he lay slantwise across the mattress, his white nightshirt tangled around his wiry body.
Grief pierced Anthony. Willi
am had been just such a wriggler. "He's so like his father."
Sympathy softened Fenella's expression. "Those echoes of a lost loved one are painful—and wonderful, aren't they?"
"You understand."
"Of course I do."
"Is Brandon like his father?"
"No, more like me, but occasional moments—expressions or gestures—turn him into Henry's spitting image."
When she mentioned her late husband, her voice held a special note. Anthony couldn't doubt that she'd loved the man she'd married. Nor had he missed the way she'd referred to her love for Henry Deerham in the present tense.
He was ashamed to admit that he wasn't nearly as unselfish as she was. Unworthy jealousy soured his gut.
Their whispered conversation had lasted too long. The long, lean boy in the bed, all arms and legs, stirred and made a sleepy sound of inquiry. "Uncle Tony?"
"Sorry to wake you, old son," he said. "Go back to sleep. It's still early."
Instead of obeying, Carey pushed himself up against the pillows and regarded Anthony warily from under a thick shock of black hair. "You're livid, aren't you?"
Fenella's eyes focused on Anthony in a silent plea for mercy. In truth, his anger had faded. With both lads safe, this adventure concluded happily.
And Carey's antics had cast Fenella Deerham in his path.
Which didn't mean his nephew would evade a stern lecture about responsibility. But not at the crack of dawn. And not when the dark eyes watching him so charily were such a reminder of William.
"I'm not pleased," he said drily. "But a month on bread and water will be punishment enough."
"Bread and…" The boy's thin face broke into an uneasy smile. "You're joking."