A Lady of Persuasion (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #3)

“No,” Toby replied. “No close family, at any rate. There are some cousins, I believe, but—”

“He had us. We’re his family,” Toby’s mother interrupted, beginning to cry anew. “Don’t make it sound as though he was alone.”

“No, of course he wasn’t.” Toby grasped her hand again. To Jeremy and Miss Osborne, he explained, “Our families have always been close. He and mother were … good friends.”

“We were lovers,” she said, impatiently wiping her tears. When the other three simply stared at her, she said to Toby, “I’m an old woman, and now he’s dead. It doesn’t matter who knows. We were lovers.”

And now Jeremy and Miss Osborne stared anywhere but at her. His mother’s outburst, however, would not be subdued. What ever dam she’d built to restrain her grief had cracked, and a tide of emotion flowed forth.

“You were right, Toby. I should have married him. He asked me, you know. So many times, but I always refused. And now”—her speech caught on a sob—“now I’ve no right to claim him. I’ve no right to wear mourning for him, no right to be buried next to him. No right to go upstairs and make certain his valet dresses him in his green striped waistcoat, not that horrid blue.”

“Mother, please don’t cry,” Toby said. “I… I’ll speak to his valet.”

Good Lord. Of all the lame attempts at comfort. His mother was falling to pieces before his eyes, and Toby hadn’t the slightest clue how to hold her together. Normally, this was his forte, making women feel better. Ladies crossed ballrooms, streets, even lines of propriety just to exchange a few words with him, because they all knew: a girl could always depend on Sir Toby Aldridge to put a smile on her face.

Suddenly, he’d lost the gift. Because now he knew: A girl shouldn’t depend on Sir Toby Aldridge for anything. Any trust his wife had in him had vanished the moment she saw him for his true self. His own mother had been keeping secrets from him for decades. He wanted to soothe her, make her feel better, but he didn’t know how anymore. It was a talent built on a cornerstone of arrogance, and this wretched day had knocked the foundation straight out from under him.

He spied Reginald entering the room. Behind him trailed Joss. Toby rose to his feet again, whispering, “Mother, Reginald is here.”

“Oh, let him know, too,” his mother said, wringing her handkerchief. “It doesn’t matter anymore. Yorke’s dead, and nothing matters anymore.” She broke into tears, listing sideways until her head came to rest on Miss Osborne’s shoulder.

The young woman’s eyes widened in alarm. “What do I do?” she asked Toby, gesturing discreetly toward the matron wetting her sleeve with tears.

Toby had no advice to offer her, only a helpless shrug. He’d never seen his mother in such a state. Ever.

Having picked his way through the crowd, Reginald finally reached Toby’s side. “Augusta sent a note to my offices. Yorke, gone. What a damned shame.” He cast a glance toward Toby’s mother. “Taking it hard, is she?”

“Apparently they were close,” said Toby.

“We were lovers,” his mother cried, pressing her face further into Miss Osborne’s shoulder. Raising his eyebrows, Reginald whistled quietly through his teeth. “Well.”

It was the greatest display of shock Toby had ever seen him make.

Miss Osborne raised a hand to the older woman’s shoulder and gave her an awkward pat.

“There, there.”

“Hullo, Joss.” Toby nodded at his brother-in-law, who stood a pace behind Reginald, looking every bit as uncomfortable as Toby felt.

“I’m sorry to intrude,” Joss replied. “I was at Mr. Tolliver’s offices when the notice arrived, and I thought to pay my respects.” He looked toward the women huddled on the divan. “I didn’t realize …”

“Don’t be sorry,” Toby said. “No one realized. It was good of you to come.”

His mother began to sob. Miss Osborne stiffened.

“Is that Montcrief at the door?” Jeremy asked hopefully. “I’ve been meaning to speak with him.”

“No,” Toby snapped, cutting off his friend’s path of retreat. Not that he could blame Jeremy for trying. He’d escape the scene, too, if he could. It was hell, sitting here, feeling the loss of his friend and his wife in one morning, watching the pillar of strength who’d supported his home, his family, his life, dissolving in abject grief. Knowing he could have—should have—

prevented it all. In all his life as a pampered child, a directionless youth, a pleasure-seeking gentleman of leisure—Toby had never felt so utterly worthless.

“I don’t even know how he died,” his mother cried, her words muffled by the fabric of Miss Osborne’s sleeve. Reginald offered her a fresh handkerchief, which she accepted blindly.

“They say some kind of apoplexy, but the doctor won’t talk to me. Was it painful? Did he suffer? I can’t bear it, the thought of him dying here alone, in his bed …” She sobbed again.