“A straightforward statement is best, son,” Ash said. “When you stand up in the House to face down your opposition, you must be clear, concise, and unafraid.”
Lewis’s face grew redder. Ash conceded that facing a horde of pigheaded peers shouting in the House of Lords might be easier than telling one’s own father what was on one’s mind.
“Your timetables,” Lewis said quickly. Lily and Evie remained behind him, their eyes round.
“Timetables?” Ash’s mouth tightened, and another dart of pain lanced his heart. Why did they look so afraid of him? He’d thought he and his children rubbed along tolerably well, a damn sight better than Ash had done with his own father.
“Yes, sir.” Lewis looked miserable. “You like them too much, we have decided.”
Ash blinked. “It is not a case of liking or disliking, son. One must be punctual and reliable. That is how one gains trust and respect. Honor.”
“Yes, sir.” Lewis swallowed, but his jaw firmed with determination. “But, we have concluded that …”
“Mama never followed them,” Lily burst out. “Least, that’s what Evie and Lewis say.”
Lily didn’t remember her mother, Olivia having succumbed to fever the year Lily was born. Ash, ill with the same fever, had raged that he’d not been able to save her, but he’d forced himself to recover, to not succumb to despair, for the sake of the three facing him now.
Olivia had been gentle-voiced but laughing and spontaneous. She’d never been capable of keeping to the clock, and Ash had never minded.
But arbitrariness was no way to overcome grief, to raise children, to get on with life without falling to pieces.
“Lily,” Evie hissed. “That’s not what you’re supposed to say.”
Lily stepped out from behind Lewis, but she remained close to her brother. “Lewis ain’t telling it right. He says you are too—what is that word?” She turned back to her siblings, her braid of dark hair sliding on her shoulder.
“Rigid,” Evie supplied, while Lewis tried and failed to glare them both to silence. “Unyielding.”
Ash switched his gaze to Lewis. “I see.”
Was he unyielding? Ash had no idea. The haze he lived in didn’t let him notice much but what was directly in front of him.
“Sorry, sir,” Lewis said.
“No.” Ash straightened to his full height. “Do not apologize. Gentlemen ought to be able to point out each other’s faults in order to improve them. In what way am I too rigid, your lordship?”
Lewis hesitated, then went on as though steeling himself to finish, come what may. “You look at your watch too often. As though worried you will miss your next appointment.”
“Because I have many appointments,” Ash answered, trying to sound reasonable. “A duke and a cabinet minister has much to do. You will learn this when you begin your public life.”
“But when you are at home? With us?”
The chink in the armor widened once more. Adherence to schedule was how Ash had climbed back from illness and sorrow and made his life meaningful again. It was how he’d taken care of his children.
He forced his tone to remain gentle. “There is nothing wrong with following a timetable, Lewis. Eating and sleeping regularly is the way to good health.”
“If you say so, sir.”
Lily slipped her hand into Lewis’s. As though finding courage in her brother’s touch, she lifted her chin.
“Lewis says you won’t unbend until you get married,” she said. “If we have a new mama, you won’t worry so much about not staying with us one second longer than you must.”
The words came out rapidly and defiantly as Evie and Lewis gazed at Lily in horror.
Ash stared at them, stunned. Did they believe he was more interested in his schedule than his own children? Had he made them believe so?
And they thought the way to relax him was to find him a wife? Amusement seeped through Ash’s shock and mortification, and he let it take over. He would assess their claims and see that he did better in future, perhaps changing his schedule to see them earlier in the evening and for a bit longer.
“Very admirable for you to worry about me,” he said. “But entirely unnecessary. My life admittedly runs like clockwork, but this makes me happy. Now, to bed, the three of you. Mr. Crusoe awaits.”
He thought that would be the end of it. Nanny had patiently let the children speak, and now Ash expected her to take over and continue the routine.
Instead, Lewis stepped forward. “We have taken the liberty of drawing up qualities we believe will make the best wife for you. Sir.”
Lewis held out a folded sheet of foolscap, sealed with wax, and addressed in his son’s large and painfully neat hand to His Grace of Ashford, Berkeley Square, Mayfair.
Ash stared down at the paper, trying to keep his anger at bay. The anger was not directed toward Lewis, but at himself. What had Ash done to make his children believe he needed saving? By marriage?
He would have to nip this idea in the bud. Ash took the letter politely and slid it into his pocket.
“Very well. Now, enough. To bed.” He sent a stern look to Nanny, who came to life.
“Your father is correct, your lordship, Lady Evie, Lady Lily. In your beds now. Make haste.”
Lewis and Evie complied, but Lily hesitated, her blue-gray eyes troubled. “You’ll read it, won’t you, Papa? It took us ever so long to write.”
“I give you my word,” Ash said to her solemnly. He’d look at what they’d written—Ash never lied to his children.
To his relief, they at last went obediently to their cots. As Nanny tucked them in, Ash read another chapter in the continuing adventures of the castaway, and then left them.
It was a little after nine of the clock—the ritual had taken ten minutes longer than usual—when Ash shut himself into the library, ready to go over his notes on treaties and other business of the ministry until one in the morning. After that, he would retire. He would rise again at half past seven, wash and be shaved, dress, eat his breakfast, and walk back to St. James’s.
He removed the children’s letter from his pocket and set it on his desk near his other correspondence. He would read it, as he promised, but not now. There was much work to do.
When the clock struck eleven, Edwards opened the door. “The Honorable Mr. Lovell, Your Grace.”
Guy Lovell, second son to the Marquess of Keeling, breezed in with his usual verve. Distant cousin to Ash’s late wife, the two men had become close friends during the Peninsular War and had remained close through Ash’s marriage and Olivia’s death.
“Not here to disturb you—just after a restorative.” Guy helped himself to brandy from a side table as Edwards retreated.
Guy was Ash’s opposite in many ways—profligate where Ash was frugal, spending his evenings in clubs gambling for high stakes and downing bottles of port while Ash sipped strong coffee and pored over papers regarding the future of Great Britain. At one time, Ash had been as fun-loving as Guy, until responsibility had swept away the man-about-town he’d been.
Guy settled himself into a chair and swung his feet over its arm as he imbibed the brandy. He let out a quiet “Ah,” of satisfaction, but said nothing more. Guy had learned not to speak while Ash was working, and Ash didn’t mind Guy’s silent company.
Sometimes not so silent. “What’s this?” Guy asked abruptly. “Precious missive from the king?”
Ash glanced up as Guy came off his chair and swept a paper from the ground, pushed aside by Ash’s work. The seal had broken, and Ash saw with alarm that Guy held the letter his son had given him.
Ash rose as nonchalantly as he could and reached for it. “The children. Bit of nonsense.”
Guy spun away from him, an interested gaze on the words. “Item one: She must be tall so she does not have to stand on her tiptoes to kiss you. What the devil, Ash?”