But apparently she once had. If his father’s resentful ramblings were any indication, Augusta Cavendish had adored her middle son, John. She had always bemoaned the fact that he had not been born the heir, and when Thomas’s father had unexpectedly inherited, she had made it abundantly clear that he was a weak substitute. John would have been a better duke, and if not him, then Charles, who, as the eldest, had been groomed for the spot. When he had perished, Reginald, born third, had been left alone with a bitter mother and a wife he did not like or respect. He had always felt that he had been forced to marry beneath him because no one thought he’d inherit, and he saw no reason not to make this opinion clear and loud.

For all that Reginald Cavendish and his mother appeared to detest one another, they were in truth remarkably alike. Neither one of them liked anyone, and certainly not Thomas, ducal heir or not.

“It’s a pity we can’t choose our families,” Thomas murmured.

His grandmother looked at him sharply. He had not spoken loudly enough for her to make out his words, but his tone would have been clear enough to interpret.

“Leave me alone,” she said.

“What happened to you this evening?” Because this made no sense. Yes, perhaps she’d been accosted by highwaymen, and perhaps she’d even had a gun pointed at her chest. But Augusta Cavendish was no frail flower. She’d be spitting nails when they laid her in her grave, of that he had no doubt.

Her lips parted and a vengeful gleam sparked in her eyes, but in the end she held her tongue. Her back straightened and her jaw tightened, and finally she said, “Leave.”

He shrugged. If she did not wish to allow him to play the dutiful grandson, then he considered himself absolved of the responsibility. “I heard they did not get your emeralds,” he said, heading for the door.

“Of course not,” she snapped.

He smiled. Mostly because she could not see it. “It was not well done of you,” he said, turning to face her when he reached the door. “Foisting them upon Miss Eversleigh.”

She scoffed at that, not dignifying his comment with a reply. He hadn’t expected her to; Augusta Cavendish would never have valued her companion over her emeralds.

“Sleep well, dear grandmother,” Thomas called out, stepping into the corridor. Then he popped his head back into the doorway, just far enough to deliver a parting shot. “Or if you can’t manage that, be silent about it. I’d ask for invisibility, but you keep insisting you’re not a witch.”

“You are an unnatural grandson,” she hissed.

Thomas shrugged, deciding to allow her the last word. She’d had a difficult night. And he was tired.

And besides that, he didn’t really care.

Chapter 4