have I.’’ Drew had never understood what about him prompted confidences. Lord knew he didn’t have any special wisdom to offer, nor any great warmth. Yet people told him things. Private things. Griefs and guilts and choices made or unmade, all the aching questions that can trouble a soul when the night is dark and lonely. This compulsion to confide, to confess, was alien to Drew. He couldn’t imagine willfully violating his own privacy that way. Yet often those who breached their privacy with him seemed to feel better for it afterward, the way one does after a splinter is removed or a bad tooth has been pulled.
And sometimes, afterward, they avoided him. Drew slipped on his cousin’s shirt and stepped out of his slacks—which were, as Lucas had noted, much the worse for wear.
His unwanted knack for eliciting confidences had been the one thing he could offer his aunt and uncle while their son was missing, and later, when they thought him dead. He wondered if they would be uncomfortable around him now, if they would avoid him. He told himself it didn’t matter. Or not very much, anyway, not as much as helping them had mattered. If he had helped. ‘‘Why do people answer questions I don’t ask?’’
Lucas, rummaging through the hangers, turned around holding out a pair of slacks—gray, clean, faultlessly pressed. ‘‘I guess it’s like dropping stones in some dark pit. There’s the assurance that any foolishness we let fall won’t come back at us. Lord knows nothing else does. Clams have nothing on you.’’
‘‘Hmm. Vanessa compared talking to me to howling at the moon or going to confession. Except, of course, that I don’t hand out penance.’’
Lucas’s mouth turned up wryly. ‘‘Sisters can be the very devil, can’t they? They know us too well and spare us very little. Here. These won’t be a perfect fit, but at least they won’t leave soot on the upholstery. Speaking of sisters, one of mine is upset with you.’’
‘‘Which one?’’ He stepped into the slacks, which were a trifle long—Lucas was six-two to Drew’s six-one—but were a major improvement otherwise.
‘‘Anna. Have you offended Julia and Christina lately, too?’’
‘‘Probably. I’d better go see your father now that I’m decent.’’ Before he collapsed. Fatigue was lapping at his defenses like a flood-swollen river. He started for the door.
Lucas fell into step beside him in the wide hall. The king and queen’s private suite occupied a separate wing that lay an achingly long distance away, from Drew’s current perspective.
‘‘So why is Anna mad at you?’’ Lucas asked as they crossed the picture gallery.
‘‘She didn’t care for the way I treated the last candidate she sent me.’’
‘‘Candidate? But what—no, she didn’t. Surely she didn’t decide to play matchmaker. Not with you. I know she was very successful with your brother—’’
‘‘It went to her head.’’ Briefly Drew’s expression softened. His brother Rafe had settled into marriage as if he were made for it—and perhaps he was. As long as his partner was Serena. ‘‘The last bit of bait Anna trolled across my path was a pretty blond bundle of innocence named Theresa. I gather I was supposed to have been struck by the contrast she made with my usual fare and collapsed, smitten, into matrimony. Or at least come down with a mild case of honorable intentions.’’
‘‘Ah. What did you do? Or maybe I don’t want to know.’’
‘‘Probably not.’’
Lucas held his tongue through the picture gallery and into the green sitting room. ‘‘I take it you aren’t feeling any overriding impulse to unburden yourself.’’
‘‘You sound very American. Another result of your trauma?’’
‘‘Dammit, Drew—was the girl an innocent? And just what did you do?’’
‘‘Nothing extensive, though I’m afraid the tour I offered her wasn’t exactly what your sister had in mind. Don’t worry,’’ he added drily. ‘‘I may have done more sightseeing than I should have, but I don’t tour virgins.’’
It was easy to see Lucas didn’t approve, but then, Sebastiani males were born with a hair-trigger impulse toward chivalry. ‘‘Was that really necessary?’’
‘‘It seemed so at the time. She wasn’t the one I was trying to discourage.’’
‘‘You wanted her to run crying to Anna so she’d stop matchmaking.’’
‘‘Yes.’’ He paused. ‘‘I suspect my mother had been encouraging her.’’
Lucas didn’t respond, a courtesy Drew appreciated. It was well-known within the family that Drew and his mother were, if not estranged, at least at odds. Her Grace did not approve of her son’s lifestyle. In time-honored female fashion, she considered that the cure lay in finding the right woman—kind, gentle, well-bred and as close to untouched as possible.
Drew often wondered how a woman as perceptive as his mother could read her own son so poorly. ‘‘You haven’t asked me about the bombing,’’ he observed.
‘‘No need for you to go over everything more than once. I think I should warn you—oh, hell, that’s presumptuous of me, isn’t it? You’ve been here.’’ Bitterness bit down on the last words. ‘‘I haven’t.’’
‘‘You’ve been here for the last three weeks.’’
‘‘But not for months before that. What that did to them…I’ve never seen age sit on my father the way it does now. It worries me. I’m trying to help, to take over some of the responsibilities—but dammit, why did he stay up to hear from you tonight? It’s past one o’clock. He might have trusted me to find out if there was anything urgent. Or even to act on it myself.’’
They’d reached the double doors that led to the king’s suite. Drew stopped. ‘‘It isn’t about you, you know. Marcus doesn’t lack confidence in your ability or your dedication, but letting go doesn’t come easily to a man accustomed to rule.’’
Lucas stared at him, grim and silent, then gave a quick bark of laughter. ‘‘God help me, you did it again. You’re like a bloody stage magician—no matter how closely I think I’m watching your hands, you still pull secrets out of my hat.’’ He slapped Lucas on the back harder than was necessary. ‘‘Go on, go in there and talk to my father before I tell you about the time I lost my virginity.’’
‘‘You told me that years ago. Not long after it happened, as I recall, though the disclosure was more along the lines of bragging than confessing. You were—’’
His cousin opened the door and shoved him through it.
When Drew passed through those doors again forty minutes later, he was alone. The suite reserved for the Harrington family lay in yet another wing. By the time he turned into the second-longest hall on his route, he was weaving, and after a while he realized he’d stopped moving altogether. Instead, he was leaning against one wall, staring at the paintings hanging on the other.
A Monet and one of Segatini’s rural scenes. He remembered them, but he couldn’t see them. It’s
