He took out his phone, hoping that Diana had sent him a photograph. The images she sent thus far were his lifeline. Though Matthew had been furious to discover from them that his wife was in London rather than Sept-Tours, there had been moments over the past weeks when the glimpses into her life there were all that kept him sane.
“Hello, Matthew.” To his surprise, Fernando sat on the wide front steps of Marcus’s house, waiting for him. Chris Roberts was perched nearby.
“Diana?” It was part howl, part accusation, and entirely terrifying. Behind Fernando the door opened.
“Fernando? Chris?” Marcus looked startled. “What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for Matthew,” Fernando replied.
“Come inside. All of you.” Marcus beckoned them forward. “Miss Davenport is watching.” His neighbors were old, idle, and nosy.
Matthew, however, was beyond the reach of reason. He’d been nearly there several times, but the unexpected sight of Fernando and Chris had sent him over. Now that Marcus knew that his father had blood rage, he understood why Matthew always went away—alone—to recover when he got into this state.
“Who is with her?” Matthew’s voice was like a musket firing: first a raspy sound of warning, then a loud report.
“Ysabeau, I expect.” Marcus said. “Phoebe. And Sarah. And of course Gallowglass.”
“Don’t forget Leonard,” Jack said, appearing behind Marcus. “He’s my best friend, Matthew.
Leonard would never let anything happen to Diana.”
“You see, Matthew? Diana is just fine.” Marcus had already heard from Ransome that Matthew had come from Royal Street, having achieved his goal of family solidarity. Marcus couldn’t imagine what had put Matthew in such a foul mood, given his success.
Matthew’s arm moved quickly and with enough power to pulverize a human’s bones. Instead of choosing a soft target, however, he smashed his hand into one of the white Ionic pillars supporting the upper gallery of the house. Jack put a restraining hand on his other arm.
“If this keeps up, I’m going to have to move back to the Marigny,” Marcus said mildly, eyeing a cannonball-size depression near the front door.
“Let me go,” Matthew said. Jack’s hand dropped to his side, and Matthew shot up the steps and stalked down the long hall to the back of the house. A door slammed in the distance.
“Well, that went better than I expected.” Fernando stood.
“He’s been worse since my mo—” Jack bit his lip and avoided Marcus’s gaze.
“You must be Jack,” Fernando said. He bowed, as though Jack were royalty and not a penniless orphan with a deadly disease. “It is an honor to meet you. Madame your mother speaks of you often, and with great pride.”
“She’s not my mother,” Jack said, lightning quick. “It was a mistake.”
“That was no mistake,” Fernando said. “Blood may speak loudly, but I always prefer the tales told by the heart.”
“Did you say ‘madame’？” Marcus’s lungs felt tight, and his voice sounded strange. He hadn’t let himself hope that Fernando would do such a selfless thing, and yet . . .
“Yes, milord.” Fernando bowed again.
“Why is he bowing to you?” Jack whispered to Marcus. “And who is ‘milord’？”
“Marcus is ‘milord,’ because he is one of Matthew’s children,” Fernando explained. “And I bow to you both, because that is how family members who are not of the blood treat those who are—with respect and gratitude.”
“Thank God. You’ve joined us.” The air left Marcus’s lungs in a whoosh of relief.