“It’s okay. "And the will?" he said, with forced calmness. In the hall below she could hear his firm voice giving quick commands to the servants. It clicked and the bookshelf was once more intact. He put it carefully aside, resolved to defer the attempt till night. “Don’t be an ass, Ferringhall,” he said tersely. And now I find, when it is too late, that I might have deserved you—that I am as well born as Thames Darrell. The teacher droned on and on about the mournful funerary love of Romeo and Juliet, a tale she had long since tired of. It did seem in so many ways exactly what Ramage said it was—the sensible thing to do. It was a boy baby cooing in swaddling clothes, a baby who had just been born to the butcher's servant across the alley, the maid Isobella who trailed behind, beaming. “Your father is dead too, I believe,” he continued, “and your mother.
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