My parents had doted on my son from the first time I’d brought him to visit. This didn’t surprise me in the least, since Jamie was a happy boy with a sunny disposition who got along well with everyone.
Except for his cousin, Garrick.
Pamela’s older son was proving to be more Ashford than Trevalyan, having the sandy brown hair and amber eyes of his father, as well as a look to him I could only describe as sly, but perhaps that was merely how I perceived the boy. St John, on the other hand, was the spitting image of Pamela at that age, with chestnut curls and vivid green eyes, but as a child of five, who could tell how he’d turn out?
Jamie and I were riding in Hyde Park and chanced to come across Haynsworth and his sons one afternoon during the Christmas holidays.
“Haynsworth.” I greeted
