He inserted the pins into a hole in the lock. “My siblings and I had an understanding—if one of us learned something, he or she would teach it to the others. Mick taught us all about the nobility, peerage, titles, rank, how to address the nobs, how to drink tea around them.” His fingers stilled; he twisted around slightly, glanced up at her, and winked. “I could drink tea in your parlor with the Queen present, and she wouldn’t know I’d begun my life in the gutter.”

He returned his attention to his task. “As I told you, Gillie was about posh talk and knowing your liquors. Finn, the thief, was a young lad when he embarked on that career. Our mum got wind of it and took nearly an inch of flesh off his backside with her switch, so he became a horse slaughterer. He taught us about all the various equines. The different types, how to ride them, care for them. Then Beast . . . well.” He looked back up at her and grinned. “You’d be surprised by the things I know.”

A click echoed around them. He removed the lock, slipped it into his pocket, and pulled the chain through the bars on the gate, setting it aside. He pushed himself to his feet, tucked her pins inside his jacket, and she mourned the fact that they were ruined to such an extent he couldn’t tuck them back into her hair, not that she wanted the pins so much as she wanted his fingers skimming over the strands. “You have another sister. I saw her at Lady Aslyn’s wedding, although I didn’t get a chance to speak with her.”

“Fancy.”

“What did she teach you?”

“That children are irritating little buggers. I was fourteen when she was born. Not a lot she could teach me by the time she was old enough to provide lessons.” He took the lamp from her and offered his arm, which she gladly took. “Do you know where we’re going?”

“Yes.” Lushing brought her after he purchased the plots, so she would know where they would be laid to rest. “Once we enter, we turn right at the first pathway.”

“He seems to have prepared for things. Did he know he was going to die?” he asked as he escorted her into the cemetery.

“No. He took a chill in the winter. It worsened into this horrible gurgling cough.” Influenza morphing into pneumonia, the physician had told her. Until eventually he hadn’t been able to draw in air.

“I’m surprised he’s buried in a public cemetery rather than at his estate. There’s a mausoleum there, surely.”