Free Deliciously Wicked by Robyn DeHart Page B

give us some conversation and that will make the work move by swiftly.” She smiled at him. “It’s a simple question, Gareth.”
    â€œWithout a simple answer,” he said.
    She frowned. “Do you have parents?”
    â€œOf course. Everyone has parents. People don’t simply appear.”
    â€œI meant, are they still living?”
    â€œMy mother is.”
    â€œWhere is she?”
    â€œIreland.”
    â€œWhat about brothers and sisters?
    He shrugged. “A handful.” She had such patience, and showed no sign of irritation at his terse replies. So he would answer her questions, but he would not offer her more than that.
    â€œA handful? Is that large?” she asked.
    He shrugged. “I suppose. There are five of us.”
    â€œI always wanted a sister or brother. But it was not to be.”
    â€œAnd your father never remarried?” he found himself asking. He probably shouldn’t, but he wanted to distract her from inquiring more about his family.
    â€œOh no, never even considered it. He loved my mother far too much. Losing her nearly killed him. They had a great love,” she said.
    A great love. He had once believed that his parents had such a love. It hadn’t taken him long to learn the truth, though. It was a shallow love built on conditions and it hadn’t survived. He didn’t think his father had ever been unfaithful, at least not with another woman, but his vices had nonetheless taken him away from his family. His mother’s love hadn’t endured, and she’d left his father when he’d needed her most.
    â€œDo you miss Ireland?” she asked.
    â€œSometimes.”
    â€œAre your siblings still there as well, or only your mother?”
    â€œThey’re all still there. Fiona and Maggie are both married with children of their own. But the two youngest still live with my mother. Aileen is sixteen and Liam is thirteen.”
    â€œWhy, then, did you come all the way to London?”
    He hesitated for a moment over his response. The answer to that question was something he’d been unable to make even his own family understand. This young woman, with her tailored dresses and her fiery hair and her sweet nature, how could she possibly understandhow he’d been driven to prove himself? To prove to everyone that he could live in this city. That he could live here and not succumb to the very things that destroyed his father. Or perhaps he needed only to prove those things to himself.
    â€œTo see if it was all I remembered it to be,” he said.
    â€œYou have been here before?” she asked, clearly surprised.
    â€œI was born here,” he answered. He knew he was giving her more clues, but he felt compelled to answer her questions. Chances of her recognizing the Mandeville name were slim; she would have been a small child by the time his father died. By then his parents’ activity in Society had diminished a great deal, his mother had been desperate to remove herself from the rumor mill. “I lived here until I was twelve. Enough about my family. They are not interesting.” He’d already said far more than he ever intended.
    She wanted to ask more; he could feel her questions in the air. But she asked none of them. Silently she went back to work.
    Born in London? Meg was still reeling from that admission and she wanted to press him more, but she knew he’d given her more than he was accustomed to. She eyed him cautiously. He was busy pressing a print of three kittens sitting in a basket to the lid of the box he was working on.
    He’d been rather reluctant to share with her, but he’d given her more than she had expected. Perhaps if she changed the subject he’d forget he’d been so open with her.
    â€œI have three dear friends who might as well be mysisters,” she said abruptly. Now was as good a time as any to tell him that the Ladies’ Amateur Sleuth Society had taken on