“He might not have much recollection, but Jeremiah has no doubt talked with him at length about their mother, so Joshua thinks he recalls everything his brother does. It must have been very difficult.”

“It was… hot.”

Likely stifling in a sick room, stinking horrendously, humiliating for the patient and trying for the family. And this had gone on for weeks. Of course the children had a recollection of it.

With his back to her, Ethan went on speaking. “She… apologized. In one of her lucid intervals, she apologized for her…” Alice was sure he hadn’t meant to say that, but to her surprise, he finished his thought softly. “For her betrayals.”

Gracious heavens. Betrayals—plural. That could not be good.

“May I offer you the library?” he asked, facing her, his expression once again that of a solicitous host. “It will be cooler, and you’ll have everything you need to tend to your letters. I’ve done most of my writing for the day, which leaves me the accounting, for which I do not need the desk.”

The change in topic was a relief, probably for them both. “Cooler sounds lovely. I’ve been in this bed long enough, but I hardly think it will serve to have me in my nightgown below stairs in broad daylight.”

He pushed away from the window. “This is my house, and if I permit it, then nobody will say anything to it. I am not an earl, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

Mr. Grey was more arrogant than any earl. Alice had met a few and was in fact related to one. “The gossips will say whatever they please,” she retorted, “though not to your face, and maybe not to mine. If you’d give me a few minutes, I’ll be right along.”

“As you wish.” He turned to go then rounded on her. “You are not to pin your hair up in some frightful concoction designed to aggravate a lingering headache.”

She accepted this edict, because Clara had tidied her braid very nicely, and because Mr. Grey liked to have the last word. Alice regarded his retreat, noting that he walked like the lions she’d seen in the Royal Menagerie, slinky, silent, and graceful, but somehow menacing in their very elegance. She did not doubt Ethan Grey was capable of sending an enemy to his final reward, and as big as he was, it would be quickly done.

And what kind of thoughts were those? Alice eased from the bed and crossed to her wardrobe. Maybe the boys weren’t the only ones preoccupied with death, but as to that, it was good to know the anniversary of their mother’s death was approaching.

A capable governess kept her eye on such things, for they caused havoc when ignored. She slipped into the most comfortable of her old summer dresses, a short-sleeved, high-waisted muslin faded with age, and put her feet into a pair of comfortable house slippers.

Alice made her way to the library, composing a letter to her sister Avis in her head. She was halfway to the desk when she realized she wasn’t alone. Ethan Grey sat on the couch, his papers and an abacus spread out on the low table.

Alice stopped abruptly and felt her balance weave. “I did not know we would be sharing the room.”

“It’s a large room.” His lips were moving soundlessly as he ran his finger down a column on a page. “A moment, if you please.” He scratched something on the page then got to his feet.

“Ciphering appeals to me,” he said with a slight smile. “There is one right answer, and when things balance out, one has a sense of satisfaction about one’s work. The pen, ink, and paper are in here.” He opened a drawer on the desk, coming near enough that Alice got a whiff of cedar. “The sand is in here, and wax and seal are here. I’ve rung for tea, but with lemon and honey, because you’re probably ready for a change from the mint.”

“Thank you. That was considerate of you.”

“It was not.” He set a penknife on the desk. “I was thirsty, but I am not intentionally rude.”

Her smile widened to a grin.

“Well, not all the time,” he amended, his lips quirking up. “I’ll leave you to your correspondence.” He was back at his figuring, while Alice mused that he was intentionally rude, frequently, but acts of consideration and kindness, those he seemed to produce only with a struggle.

But produce them, he did. Alice settled at the desk and bent to her task, but she recalled the sensation of Mr. Grey’s large hand on her nape, his body supporting hers while he rearranged the pillows, his voice low and soothing as he did what was needed to ease Alice’s discomfort. He wasn’t a flirt like Nick—thank God—but he knew his way around a female body, and for the first time, Alice wondered what sort of man he’d be in intimate circumstances.

She let her gaze wander over his broad shoulders where he hunched like a golden raptor with his ledgers. He was muttering again. From time to time he’d pounce with his pen on an inaccuracy, talking to the figures under his breath as if they were some sort of sparring partner.

“Got you, you…”

“You don’t belong in expenditures, and you know it.”

He was down to shirt and waistcoat, in deference to the heat, and he’d dispensed with his neckcloth. The tanned skin at his throat fascinated Alice. She’d had her face against that skin, felt the heat of it. She’d inhaled the clean scent of him and felt the urge to remain in his embrace, her face hidden against him, her body slack and safe in his arms.

“Don’t know what to tell them?” he asked.

He was on his feet, leaning back against an arm of the sofa, regarding Alice with amusement.

“It’s repetitive,” Alice said. “My sister still lives in the North, at the family seat.” Though how Avis tolerated such proximity to the Collins estate was a mystery. “Both my brothers are from home, so one must write the same news twice, at least, if not three times. And then I need to write a simpler version of things for Priscilla, and a not-so-simple version for Leah Haddonfield and Reese Belmont.”

“All those people are to know the illustrious doings of my boys’ governess. I am impressed.”

“You are not,” she said mildly, stifling the urge to yawn. The library really was very pleasant, with a ceiling of at least twelve feet, clerestory windows over the French doors, and shade trees beyond the windows all contributing to a cool, airy feel.

“Have some lemonade,” he said, pouring her a glass. “You’ve been scratching away for more than an hour, and I propose a recess on the terrace.”

“A fine idea.” Alice rose, held steady for a moment, then preceded him through the French doors to the shady terrace. “How do you suppose Waterloo is proceeding?”

“The Corsican has probably been routed halfway to Kent by now, several times.”

“And covered with mud,” Alice added, letting him seat her at a wrought-iron table among boxes of flowering lilies. “Your house is very pretty, Mr. Grey. Is that your late wife’s influence?”

He studied his drink. “Barbara wasn’t the domestic sort. Lady Warne—Nick’s grandmother—pointed out to me after Barbara’s death that I was always happier in the country. I began to take more of an interest in Tydings after that, but anybody can order the gardener to plant a few flowers.”

“Not everybody does,” Alice rejoined, declining to point out that it was far more than a few. Roses ringed the terrace in thriving abundance, their fragrance blending with the breeze. A rainbow of beds of cutting flowers spread across the back lawns. “What had you muttering and threatening away the afternoon?”

The question was a bit beyond the bounds of what a governess might ask her employer, but then, this employer had kissed the governess. True, it had been a rhetorical kiss, a point made in the interest of some sort of debate, but it left Alice more conversational latitude than she might have assumed otherwise.

“I was working on the accounts.” His smile was sheepish. “I get fierce when the numbers aren’t as they should be. What of you? Have you completed your letters?”