"Maybe," Anthony said. "You'll find out at breakfast."
"You're a good sport, Uncle Tony. Papa always said so."
"Well, let's hope your father was right."
The lad yawned widely. "Papa was always right."
"You've given quite a few people a fright. Not least me. I was worried that you ran away because you hated having me as your guardian." It was a difficult admission to make, but the thought had tormented him from the first.
Carey shot him a direct look. "Of course I don't hate you being my guardian. I hate…I hate that my parents aren't here, but I like you, Uncle Tony. And you've been devilish kind to me."
He had to clear a lump of emotion from his throat before he spoke. "I hate that your parents aren't here, too."
"Because you have to look after me?"
Apparently he wasn't alone in needing reassurance. "No, because I miss them."
"I do, too." Now he wasn't awaiting the wrath of God—or at least his uncle—Carey turned his drowsy attention to Fenella. "Cor, Brand didn't exaggerate about his mother being a looker. The miniature doesn't do her justice."
She laughed. "Why, thank you," she said unsteadily. "I think."
"Mind your manners—and your language, young man. You're still on thin ice, remember?"
"Yes, Uncle Tony," Carey said in a subdued voice, but mischief glittered in his eyes. "Good night."
"Good morning," he corrected. "And we'll see you later."
As Anthony pulled the door shut behind them, there was a drowsy murmur from the bed. "Thank you, Uncle Tony. I knew you'd turn up sweet when we came to the sharp end."
"Brat," he said, and Carey chuckled sleepily in response.
"You said he was afraid of you," Fenella said as they started down the corridor.
"I thought he was," Anthony said in a wondering voice. "I've got not much more than a peep out of him since his parents died."
"Perhaps you weren't at ease with him either. And you both had to deal with a terrible tragedy."
"I didn't know what to do with myself, let alone how to comfort a grieving child." He cleared his throat. "Carey should have been on the yacht, too, but he broke his arm the day before, climbing out of a cherry tree."
"And you worried about his lack of spirit."
"He's been a perfect angel the last few months. I should have realized that spelled trouble. This escapade is the first sign that he's still got the old imp inside him."
To his surprise—and pleasure—she slipped her hand through his arm. There was the usual jolt of male response, but with something sweeter and deeper flowing under it. Difficult to recall that he'd only met her last night. They talked like old friends.
"Perhaps he's coming to terms with losing his parents. I hate it when people talk about getting over a loss—you never do." Her voice was sad. "But life goes on regardless."
"You needed so much courage to carry on."
Her smile was self-deprecating. "I wasn't brave at all. I've hidden behind my widow's weeds since Waterloo. But early this year, two dear friends got sick of my moping and hauled me out of hibernation. We made a pact to be the dashing widows."
"The dashing widows? I like it. And I reckon you do yourself an injustice. Only the dashingest widow would take off into the night with a loudmouthed stranger."
She laughed as they descended the steps. He recognized that he was losing his head over this lovely—and dashing—widow.
"Put like that, I sound quite outrée, don't I? And I soon recognized that your bark was worse than your bite. At least when it came to me. It was patently clear that you were mad with worry."
"Carey's lucky he wasn't at your house. I wouldn't have been nearly so calm."