The Heir

Too late, Morgan realized the trap speaking had sprung on her. Deaf and mute, she could not be questioned; she could not be held accountable for any particular knowledge or intelligence.

Val peered down at her as they approached the park. “Dev says A

“It’s complicated and not entirely my business to tell,” she said, speaking slowly. “This is part of the reason you must not tell anyone I can hear.”

“I do not like lying, Morgan. Particularly not to my brother, regarding people in his employ.”

“The earl hired me knowing I could not hear or speak,” Morgan pointed out. “He is not cheated when you keep this confidence for me. And if it comforts you to know it, I am not even going to tell A

“You think she would begrudge you your hearing?”

“No.” Morgan shook her head then gri

“That much I can understand,” Val said. “How long do you think it will take to convince yourself you are back among the hearing?”

“Oh, listen!” Morgan stopped, gri

The way she’d said his name, with wonder, and joy and gratitude, it lit the places inside him that had been going dark since his closest brother had died. The music rumbling through him when he watched her hearing the sound of childish laughter was not polite, graceful, or ornamental. It was great, bounding swoops and leaps of joy, and unstoppable, unending gratitude.

Brothers slowly wasted of terrible diseases; they died in asinine duels in provincial taverns; and sometimes, a gifted pianist’s hand hurt unbearably, but Morgan could also hear when the children laughed.

He sat beside her for a long time in the sunshine and fresh air, just listening to the park and the city and to life.

“Gentlemen.” Westhaven addressed his brothers as they ambled back from a morning ride. “I need your help.”

Val and Dev exchanged a look of quiet surprise.

“You have it,” Dev said.

“Anything you need,” Val added. “Anything. Anywhere, anytime.”

Westhaven busied himself fiddling with the reins of the rangy chestnut gelding Dev had put him on. He might have expected ribbing from his brothers or teasing or idle curiosity, but their unconditional response caught him off guard.

Dev smiled at him, a smile more tender than humorous. “We love you, and we know you are all that stands between us and His Grace. Say on.”

“Good to know one’s sentiments are reciprocated,” Westhaven said, eyeing the sky casually.

“I suspect whatever you need help with,” Val chimed in, “we are discussing it here because you do not want to be overheard at home?”

“Perceptive of you,” Westhaven said. “The matter at hand is Mrs. Seaton. She is not, as Dev has suggested, exactly what she appears to be. She tells me there is no spouse trying to hunt her down, nor is she wanted on criminal charges, but she is carrying some burden and will not enlighten me as to its nature. She claims the matter is confidential, and it necessitates her departure from my employ in the near future.”

Dev quirked an eyebrow. “We are to find out for you what plagues her and make it go away.”

“Not so fast.” Westhaven smiled at his darkest brother, the one most likely to solve a problem with his fists or his knife. “Before we go eavesdropping in doorways, I thought we might first combine our knowledge of the situation.”

When the brothers returned to the townhouse, they took their lemonade—cold tea for Val—into the library, and closed and locked the door. After about an hour’s discussion, they boiled down their objective knowledge to a few facts, most of those gleaned from the agency that had recommended her:

A

“He had to be one hell of a successful florist,” Dev observed. “Didn’t you say A

“She plays the piano, too,” Westhaven recalled. “That means more money, both to own the instrument and to afford the instruction.”

“I wonder,” Val said slowly, “if Morgan is not this sister A

“I suppose she could be.” Westhaven frowned. “They do not look particularly alike, but then neither do many sisters.”

“They have the same laugh,” Val said, surprising his brothers. “What? Morgan can laugh—she isn’t simple.”

“We know, but it’s an odd thing to notice,” Westhaven said, noting his youngest brother was more than a little defensive of the chambermaid. “You’re reminding me, though, A

Dev drew a finger around the rim of his glass. “We need to send someone north who can find us a very wealthy elderly florist, perhaps two years deceased, perhaps still extant, with three grandchildren, whose son died in a buggy accident that cost one grandchild her hearing. How many of those can there be?”

“Don’t rule out a title,” Val said quietly.

“A title?” Westhaven winced, hating to think he might have been cavorting with some duke’s daughter. That hit a little too close to home.

“A

“You mean”—Dev gri

“And so on.” Val nodded and waved a hand. “She said something like: You are no more a mincing fop than I am an earl’s granddaughter. I remembered it, because Her Grace is an earl’s granddaughter.”

“We can keep it in mind,” Westhaven said, “intuition being at least half of what we have to go on. Anything else?”

“Yes.” Dev rose from the sofa and stretched. “Suppose we find out who our housekeeper really is, find she’s suspected of some wrongdoing, put the accusations to rest, and so forth. Are we going to all this effort just to keep you in marzipan for the foreseeable future? There are easier ways to do that.”

Westhaven pushed away from his desk. “We are doing this because the duke will soon be asking the same questions, and his methods will not be discreet nor careful nor at all delicate.”

“And ours will be?” Val asked, coming to his feet, as well.

“Utterly. We must be, or there’s no point to the effort. If anybody finds out we are poking around in A

“Very well.” Dev scratched his ribs and nodded. “We find the elderly florist, et cetera, and do it without making a sound.”