“You could say I grew up in a school. I lived in an orphanage.”

Oliver turned on his side, his eyes alight with interest—and sympathy. “You mean you do not know who your family is?”

Gareth nodded.

Oliver’s brown wrinkled with concern. “But you had friends there, didn’t you?”

Gareth could see that was important to the boy. “I did. Mr. McElroy was my best friend, and still is.”

Relief rolled off the boy in waves and Gareth marveled at his capacity for empathy.

“I like Mr. McElroy. He showed me how to carve a conker into a dog.”

Gareth looked up at the sky. “Yes, Mr. McElroy is very good with a knife.” An image of Dec’s hands covered in blood flashed through his mind and Gareth closed his eyes.

“All of my cousins have gone away to school. I’m the only one who hasn’t.” He paused and Gareth turned back toward him.

“What school?” Gareth asked, although he could guess.

“Everyone but Julian goes to Eton. He goes to Harrow.”

“Oh, why is that?”

“His mama is the duke’s daughter and she married the Earl of Synott and he went to Harrow.”

As Oliver went on to describe his other cousins Gareth considered the boys august connections. Serena Lombard might work for her living, but she clearly did not have to. Venetia, for all her wisdom, had not assessed the situation correctly, in his opinion. A woman like Mrs. Lombard would never consent to marry an awkward, inarticulate bastard from a London orphanage. And that is what he was, a bastard. At least that’s what Herbert Jensen, the man who’d run the orphanage as well as half a dozen less savory operations, had told him.

“You might have a skill, boy, but you’re still a bastard and don’t you forget it.” How many times had Jensen said that same thing to him? All the way up to the night Dec and Gareth finally told him they would no longer do his bidding—bastards or not.

The sound of a growling stomach pulled him back from the abyss and he turned to find Oliver blushing furiously. “I guess I’m hungry.”

“Me too. Shall we head back?”

“But we haven’t caught any fish.”

“I’m sure Cook will feed us even so.”

They dressed, the sun-warmed clothes feeling good on his cold, clammy skin. Chalmers would no doubt wonder what the hell he’d been up to, he thought, looking down at his mud-caked boots and grass-stained buckskins.

“Do you want to go back a different way? I can show you the old mine.”

“If you wish.” Gareth slung his cravat around his neck but made no effort to tie it.

Oliver led him up the river and away from the proposed lake. Gareth had a general idea of his property boundaries and believed they could continue in this direction for some time before they’d be in danger of trespassing on his nearest neighbor, the squire who’d sold him the acreage.