London. She would have to take the children to London. The earl could protect all of them. The thought made her uncomfortable, for she hated relying on anyone but herself. But they were less likely to be harmed if she stayed close to Whitmore.

Her bruised heart ached at the thought of being near him, entangled in a marriage that was never meant to be.

Worse was her reaction to his touch. Though he had done nothing more than hold her, it had evoked memories she’d tried to forget. Her body warmed at the thought. Skin to skin, his flesh joining with hers.

No. She refused to lower her defenses. Not when he could break her heart again. Resisting his advances would be easy enough if she closed her eyes and remembered every wrong deed he’d committed.

Emily gritted her teeth at the thought of journeying several days in a coach. Royce would think it was a grand adventure while Victoria would wail the entire trip. A sickening knot formed in her stomach. Of course, she could take the train to London, but she had no money for the fare. Not to mention, the very idea terrified her. She didn’t like moving at such speeds.

She went inside and found Royce curled up on the staircase, his mouth pursed as he struggled to read a book of fairy tales he had brought from home. When he saw her, he smiled. “There you are. Will you read to me, Aunt Emily?”

She wanted to say, “Of course,” and ruffle his hair. Instead, she shook her head. “Not now. I need to tell you something important. We’re going to London.”

“To find Papa?”

She shook her head, steeling her courage. The time had come to admit the truth. Why did she have to do this? Why did she have to tell him that another parent had died? It was bad enough when his mother had died in childbirth. To tell him that his father was gone quite simply broke her heart.

She knelt down. Royce eyed her with suspicion. “You’re going away.”

“No. That isn’t what I’ve come to say.” She paused, trying to find the right way to tell him. There weren’t any words gentle enough to say what needed to be said.

“Royce, your father is not coming back.” She took his hands in hers.

He bobbed his head. “Yes, he is. Papa promised me. He always keeps his promises.”

“He can’t keep this one, Royce.” The pain in her heart cracked and a tear escaped. “He died, sweeting.”

Royce’s face never changed. It was as though she hadn’t spoken at all. He never breathed, never moved.

“No. I don’t believe you.” He pulled his hands away and picked up a tin soldier that had fallen on the braided rug. Making a shooting noise, he pretended the soldier had killed an imaginary enemy.