Oliver closed the chest, rather proud that his instincts about the boy’s honesty were sound. He’d made the right decision to befriend the child. Elizabeth’s son might be young, but he had a good heart and could be trusted.
Racks of guns and boxes containing dueling pistols lined another wall. There was enough to furnish a small uprising and Oliver wouldn’t be surprised if they had been used for that purpose before. George stopped before them but didn’t touch. “My father died from a ball in the leg,” he said, breaking the hushed silence with his abrupt confession.
A poacher’s shot if Oliver recalled correctly. William Turner’s death would have been slow and painful, a terrible experience for the young boy to witness. “I’m sorry. You must miss him.”
George shrugged. “I suppose. Everybody dies.”
The toneless statement was so at odds with the boy’s usual mode of speaking that Oliver suspected the words mimicked the sentiments of another man. He drew nearer and set his hand to the boy’s shoulder. “George, there is no shame in missing the people who are no longer with us. From all I’ve heard, your father loved you very much.”
A shudder went through George. “He never did anything with me. Not like you do. He was always too busy to go fishing or to talk to me.”
Ah, so that explains why Elizabeth was wary of his influence on the boy. William Turner had not shared the same interests as his son. No wonder being accepted and included by him and his brothers must have worried her. “You and I have much in common, but you must remember I do not have the responsibilities of a family to claim my time and attention. Should I have been married with a wife and children to care for, perhaps we would not have spent so much time together. I like to hope we’ve become good friends.”
George brightened at his words. “I’d like to be your friend.”
“Good.” Oliver gestured about them. “Then I suggest you continue your examination of the room. We cannot stay long, for fear of you being missed. This place cannot be discovered. Such a thing would be disastrous to my plans.”
George, however, remained where he was. “I’ve never seen men so angry. Your brothers, I mean, not the ladies.”
Oliver rolled his eyes and laughed. “Family. I could use a little peace from them at the moment.”
George laughed along with him and resumed his exploration. Oliver followed behind, picking up things that caught his eye before he returned them to their former place. Tarnished silver, the flicker of a gem under layers of dust, and a hundred other odd trinkets littered long trestle tables strewn about the room. He peered at a foot-square box under one. The half-hidden carving seemed familiar, so he dragged it toward him and wiped the dust away.
A bunch of rosemary sprigs, tied with a white ribbon, appeared.
Oliver wrenched the lid open, ignoring the hinge’s shriek of protest. Inside lay a gentleman’s silver pocket watch, an opal ring, and a small jade brooch on a black velvet cushion. He picked the pieces up and laid them on the flat of his hand. Time had dulled their shine, but Oliver recognized them instantly. There was a portrait of his parents wearing all three hanging in his father’s study at Harrowdale, a room he’d made his own when he was young. These pieces had belonged to his parents once, but Rosemary had been given the brooch on her last birthday before they were separated. She’d always worn it with pride.
He covered his mouth. The obvious conclusion that Rosemary was dead choked him. She would never have willingly parted with her most treasured possession. If she were alive, she would still have it with her.
“Mr. Randall, are you all right?
Oliver looked up and blinked through his blurred vision.
George touched his shoulder. “Why are you crying, sir?”
“Am I?” He touched his face and wiped away the wetness coating his cheek. His fingers curled around the piece in his hand and the pin pricked him. He winced and opened his palm to show George what he’d found. “My father’s pocket watch. My mother’s ring.” He swallowed past the lump in his throat. “My sister’s brooch. They are indeed dead.”
George remained quiet as Oliver stood, grief and anger coursing through him. There was no one else. Rosemary was no more. All that remained was himself, Leopold, and Tobias. The urge to find his brothers and confess everything he’d withheld stirred. He’d not intended to tell them of this room’s location or how to access it, but if he showed them the brooch he might have no choice. He shoved the items into his pocket. “I need to think. Excuse me.”
He moved away to the far side of the chamber and picked up a perfectly polished crystal orb. He turned the globe over in his hand as he sifted through possibilities. Assumptions often led to incorrect conclusions. The presence of the brooch with his mother’s ring proved only that his sister had been with their parents on the day they died. It could have been left on a fallen shawl that was trapped in the carriage wreckage with them. Or in the flight to get help, Rose could have dropped it and one of the duke’s henchmen had found it and brought it back to the duke.
Oliver shook his head. Either way, his discovery today made no real difference. The presence of the jewelry only confirmed what they already knew. His parents were dead and Rosemary was far beyond their reach.
He removed the items from his pocket and held them tightly in his hand one last time. He wouldn’t risk upsetting his brothers any further. Not when he was to depart tomorrow. He retraced his steps to the box and placed the items inside, brushing his fingers over them once. As he shut the lid, he sent a prayer of contrition to his parents. He hadn’t grieved them enough. They had done as much for him as was within their means and his inquisitiveness had gotten them killed, and possibly Rosemary, too.
He vowed that from this moment on he would not embroil himself in other people’s secrets. He would mind his own damn business and get on with his life. To do otherwise would only cause problems. He crossed to where George stood, peering at a map set behind dirty glass. “Come along, lad. It’s getting late.”
“Yes, sir.” George hurried for the stairs, but stopped before he’d ascended. His expression when he turned was full of questions. “When will the young duke be old enough to learn about this place?”
Oliver extinguished the lanterns as he came, considering the future task with a sense of dread. It would be many years before he could be relieved of his burden. His future was still tied to this place by a tenuous thread. “When he reaches his majority will be soon enough.”
George frowned. “What happens if something were to befall you before he’s old enough to be told of this place? Will you leave a note behind?”
“Notes can be dangerous in the wrong hands.” He picked up the lantern they’d brought with them and studied George. Had he made a mistake in confiding in the boy? Had he shared the burden of this knowledge with someone too young to bear it? As he stared, his heart could not believe what his mind suggested. He did not want to tell anyone else. He leaned down to the boy’s level so they were eye to eye. “If anything were to happen to me, I suppose I’d have to rely on my young friend to pass the discovery along to the duke at the appropriate time.”
George smiled brightly. “I’d like that. But how will I know what befalls you, if anything? Will you write to me in America and tell me about your travels? I should like very much to hear of your discoveries.”
“I’d like that as well.” Pain returned to his chest as he smiled down at the boy who might have been his son had he chosen another path for his life. Now he understood. The pain was one of regret. “I’d like to hear how you and your mother settle into your new life.”