“Indeed,” he agreed. “But why?”
Quin groaned. “I was hoping you’d know the answer to that.”
Lord Bircham exhaled slowly, then ran a hand down his face, staring ahead but his gaze unfocused. “It’s difficult to grasp, you understand.”
Quin nodded.
“Why would my father…”
“You said it yourself. Generations have held the title…” Quin answered gently. “Imagine trying to resign yourself to the fact that it ends with you.”
Lord Bircham closed his eyes. “He wasn’t one to admit defeat or failure.” He opened his eyes. “So he found a way around it.”
“It would seem.”
“But why would my…his wife, my aunt—Good Lord, what a bloody mess this is.” Bircham gave a humorless snigger. “What a cocked-up bloody disaster this is. Damn.”
“I’m not sure. Maybe she wasn’t one to admit failure either?” Quin answered the lingering implied question.
Lord Bircham was shaking his head. “I’m sure so many things will make more sense now, though I’ll admit I had no suspicions.”
He let out a slow snort, his focus on the floor as he shook his head slowly, then paused, and did it again as if carrying on a conversation in his mind. “Would you be so kind as to allow me some time to think? I understand that this has implications for you and Lady Catherine. But I don’t think that I’m currently much help.”
Quin nodded. “Of course. I understand. Please call upon me when you’ve had some time to think.”
“I will,” Lord Bircham said automatically, then rose and departed.
Quin stood when the gentleman started to leave, then sank back into his chair with relief that the hardest part was over. Pity welled up within him for the man—pity he knew would be unwelcome but was present nonetheless. He couldn’t imagine believing one thing for an entire life and then being told it was a lie.
Lies were the very devil.
Quin wiped his hand down his face, then gripping his chin, he reclined back in his seat, thinking.
Looking at the clock, he realized that Catherine would be at Cambridge by this time, viewing his home, settling into her room. It was acute torture to have her there without him. At least she wasn’t alone. Morgan would watch over her like a guardian angel, and hopefully this would all be behind them soon so he could take her to Cambridge himself, show her what he loved about the place he called home, and have the privacy such a place afforded.
His body burned with the need for it; his heart ached as well. He turned to the clock once more and did a quick calculation before rising from his desk and striding to the door.
Doctors’ Commons would close at three, and it was almost two. If he traveled there directly, he could procure a special license and have it on hand.
He’d dealt with people’s pity after his brother died. He’d dealt with expectations and responsibilities that he wasn’t prepared for. He’d dealt with falling in love and fighting his own heart’s voice. He could bloody well deal with people’s gossip for a few months. A fierce determination lifted his lips as he called for his gelding to be saddled. In short order, he was making his way down the street.
One day at a time, he was getting closer.
To healing.
To growing.
And to calling Catherine his own.
Thirty-six
You philosophers are lucky men. You write on paper, and paper is patient. Unfortunate Empress that I am, I write on the susceptible skins of living beings.
—Catherine the Great
Catherine jumped as Joan placed a hand on her knee.
“All will be well,” Joan said softly.