Heart of Light by Sarah A. Hoyt Page B

daily occupations. Their courtship had consisted of him visiting her home, of his talking to her. Not about estates and children, money and real life, but about poems and stories, delicate constructions of words, the foreign languages he loved. And asking her about India. Asking her so much about India that presently Emily feared he loved her only because part of her came from India.
    But she didn't want Peter Farewell to know any of this. He was a stranger and, at that, the most handsome stranger she'd ever met. Even if he had indeed been Nigel's friend in school, surely it would be improper for him to discern too much of his school fellow's marital felicity—or lack of it.
    Her eyes averted, color burning in her cheeks, Emily spoke softly. “Or rather, he helps Lord Oldhall administer them. I imagine he's a great comfort to his father. And he performs those magic feats that are necessary—healing animal illnesses and looking after the magical needs of his servants and renters. He provides them with needed light and healing for their children, and such.” Indeed, she did no more than repeat what her father had told her when he had investigated Nigel's background before giving his consent to their marriage. It was all she truly knew of the man.
    Farewell's eyebrows rose. For a moment he looked grave and somber, a man consumed with vast and weighty cares. “Yes,” he said, “I imagine he would be. Old Nigel was always very punctilious. The headmaster's pet and the example to us all.”
    Was that bitterness in his voice? Before Emily could decide, Farewell smiled. “And he was a caring boy, even then. If I had sixpence for every lame dog, every wretched cat that Nigel adopted and nursed, in direct contravention of the school's policy . . . He just couldn't bear to see any living thing killed or in pain.” And here it appeared as though Farewell's gaze skittered sideways away from something. It wasn't a physical movement, but a reflection of some internal change, as though he flinched from a thought triggered by the words he'd pronounced.
    He ate a mouthful of food, took his crystal goblet to his lips and frowned—not a true frown but a gathering of his dark eyebrows. Looking intently at Emily, he said, “There is only one thing I do not understand. Where did Carew go? Because he is the oldest son. Shouldn't he be—”
    “Carew disappeared some years back,” Emily said.
    “Disappeared?” Farewell raised his eyebrows. Voice and expression, together, mirrored shock.
    Emily blushed. “As I said. He disappeared during an . . . exploration trip in Africa.”
    “An exploration—?” Farewell's eyebrows rose even more, in shocked surprise. “Carew was exploring Africa? I always thought him a man of his comforts—a drawing room emperor, ready to lord it over everyone and everything, but not very adventurous.”
    Emily had met one or two women, in the course of her engagement, who'd told her she was unfortunate in marrying the much less desirable of the two brothers, and how much better off she would have been with Carew. They spoke of Carew as a handsome man, virile and full of strength. Emily thought that Carew would have been exactly the sort of man who went to Africa on a voyage of exploration and somehow got lost in the fever-inducing swamps or fell victim to a foul attack by ambushing natives.
    “I didn't know him. I didn't know Carew. I've known Mr. Nigel Oldhall for one year only, the space of his courting me.”
    “I beg your pardon,” Farewell said. He looked away from her. His lips, which were broad and sensuous-looking in a way not often found in an Englishman, formed words that he never actually pronounced. “I beg your pardon,” he repeated at last. “It is not in my scope, nor within my rights, to question your family or your associations with them. It is just that we knew Carew too well, Nigel and I. He was the kind of man that takes delight in . . . matches where he knows he'll win. A man who