As she extricated Victoria’s fist, Emily strengthened her resolve. Though her marriage was in shambles, she had her family. She would keep her brother’s children safe, for she had sworn it upon Daniel’s grave. Now she had to gather up the shreds of her marriage and decide what to do next.

“Aunt Emily?” Royce stopped playing and drew his knees up to his chest. “Has Papa come for us yet?”

“No, sweeting. Not yet.” Like the worst sort of coward, she hadn’t yet told Royce that his father was never coming back. How could she destroy her nephew’s safe world of hope? Royce would learn the truth soon enough.

She pulled Royce into an embrace with her free arm, holding both children fiercely. “I love you both. You know that.”

Royce squirmed. “I know. Can I play?”

Emily released him. The seven-year-old waged imaginary wars against the helpless tin soldiers, shouting in triumph when one soldier defeated an enemy.

She sat down in a rocking chair, holding the baby. Victoria wailed, her eyelids drooping with exhaustion. Emily patted the baby’s back, wishing she could join the child in a fit of howling. She almost didn’t see the shadow of the earl hovering at the doorway.

“What are you doing here?” She stood, clutching the baby as though Victoria were a shield. “You’re bleeding. You shouldn’t be out of bed.”

His frigid gaze stared back at her. “This is my house, I believe.” Tight lines edged his mouth, revealing unspoken pain. His dark brown hair was rumpled beneath the bandage wrapped across his temple. He leaned against the door frame, thinner than when she’d last seen him, but he did not betray even a fraction of weakness. A rough stubble upon his cheeks gave him a feral appearance, not at all the polished earl she’d expected him to be.

And suddenly, she wondered if she knew him at all. Not a trace remained of the boy she’d idolized as a girl. Gone was his lazy smile and the way he had once teased her. His eyes were a cold-hearted grey, unfeeling and callous. Even in his wounded state he threatened her.

Emily took a step back, almost knocking over the rocking chair. “Your head took quite a blow. You’re not ready to be up and about.”

“That would be convenient for you, wouldn’t it? If I were to stumble and bleed to death.”

She kept her composure at his harsh words. “Quite. But your blood would stain the carpet. There’s no reason to trouble the servants.”

“I pay the servants.”

“And your fortune would continue to do so after you are dead.”

Why, oh, why did spiteful words keep slipping from her mouth? She wasn’t usually such a harpy, but arguing made it easier to conceal her fear. He could make them leave.