Fear swept across Royce’s pale, thin face. “I don’t know.”

He pressed the boy. “I think you do. You’d best tell me the truth.”

The boy’s attention lowered to the floor, and he clenched his fists. “I want my papa.”

With a sigh, Stephen gentled his tone. “I was sorry to hear about your father.” He reached out to the boy, but Royce bolted for the door.

Stephen caught him before he could flee. The child’s shoulders trembled, and he broke into sobs. “I want Papa.” Tears ran down his cheeks, and Royce fought to free himself.

It was useless. He should have known better than to demand answers from a child. A flare of guilt prickled at him.

“What have you done?” The door flew open, and Emily swept into the room. As soon as she saw Royce, she bent down and gathered him into her arms. “You’ve made him cry.”

Like a furious mother lioness, she released the full force of her wrath. “He’s only a boy.”

“I asked him a few questions,” Stephen admitted. He felt sheepish, for the idea had not been a good one.

Emily mustered a smile for Royce. “Go and see Lizbeth. She has a slice of cake waiting for you.”

The promise of cake was all that was needed to send the child dashing from the room. When Royce had gone, Emily unleashed her fury. “What did you say to him? Why was he crying?”

There was true fear in her eyes, not just anger. “I only asked him a few questions.” He took a step closer, watching her tremble. “What are you so afraid of, Emily?”

“He doesn’t know his father is dead.”

“Why not?”

A deep weariness edged her expression. The rage grew calm as she gathered her composure. “It’s my fault. I couldn’t bear to hurt him. He lost his mother when his sister was born. And now his father.”

Stephen took her wrist, feeling her pulse quicken. Her hands were warm, and he smelled the light fragrance of vanilla near her nape. Like the sugar biscuits, he realized. And he found himself wanting to draw nearer. “Hiding the truth won’t make it go away.”

“And sometimes no one will believe the truth when it is spoken.” She held his scrutiny, jerking her hand away. “Go to London. I’m certain you’ll find the answers you seek there if you stay long enough.”

Her icy demeanor had returned. With her honey-gold hair tucked neatly into black netting, her face scrubbed clean, she appeared a paragon of virtue. She had changed her dress into an older gown, a dull black bombazine. Its hemline was frayed, and it had been remade more than once.