by Allison Lane
“This isn’t a visit.” Andrew changed tactics in the face of Peter’s antagonism. Years in the 95th had taught him to adapt to any situation.
“Why?” Slamming a drawer shut, Peter dropped his head into his hands as if it threatened to fall off. His bloodshot eyes and gravelly voice confirmed that he was suffering from last night’s debaucheries.
“Lord Seabrook was unable to conclude his interview last evening,” said Andrew. “A formality, of course, but necessary for his report on Sir Nigel’s accident. Since he has other commitments this morning, I offered to handle the matter.”
“What’s to report? A clutch-fisted tyrant took a header down the stairs. And long past time, if you ask me. He’d run the place into the ground and was near to losing what was left.” He gestured at the room. “Do you know what I found this morning? Three – three, damn him – mortgages. Shares in two more worthless ventures. And a house stripped of everything of value. Even the silver is gone. The man should have been shot years ago. I doubt a more worthless creature has ever lived.”
Andrew ignored the outburst, taking the seat Peter hadn’t offered. How interesting that Peter blamed the family poverty on investment losses. Sir Nigel had long blamed Peter’s gaming. Neither of them seemed capable of accepting responsibility.
Peter’s lack of remorse over Sir Nigel’s death was equally interesting. Most people at least pretended grief. It was a shocking breach of propriety to rejoice at a parent’s demise.
“No one has explained why Sir Nigel was up at that hour. The servants swear it is out of character. Simms reports that Sir Nigel never dressed himself in his life. So what was he doing on the stairs?”
“How should I know? I wasn’t here.”
“Did he say anything at dinner?”
“The usual complaints.”
“Such as?”
“I no longer listen.”
“Then how do you know what he said?”
Peter let out a long-suffering sigh that reminded Andrew sharply of his sister Laura. “He usually started the first course with a vow to cut off my paltry allowance unless I stayed home like a bedamned schoolboy. As if anyone could tolerate his company for long. He does little beyond rail at fate. If he’d had any sense, he would have admitted he had no head for business. The idiot believed every fool who promised him an instant fortune.”
And you don’t? But Andrew remained silent. Gamesters believed in their skill, so they always expected to win the next game. Apparently Sir Nigel had gambled in a different arena. “Did he have a specific complaint yesterday?” he asked.
“No. He moaned solely to justify locking me away.” He frowned. “Though now that I think of it, last night’s lecture lacked his usual fire, almost as if it sought to hide euphoria. He must have made a new investment. They always follow the same pattern – euphoria, then grandiose plans, followed by fury and despair when his money disappears. He’s been up and down that road several times recently. I no longer listen. There’s never any point.” Peter shook his head.
“What was the scheme?”
“I’ve no idea. The only papers I’ve found are shares in a housing square in Exeter that will probably never be built and shares in something called the Gray Gull – sounds like a tavern. But both are several months old – well past the euphoric stage.”
“Where are they?”
Peter pointed to a stack of papers.
Andrew skimmed them and smiled. Even idiots were occasionally lucky. “Your doubts about the square are well placed – if I’m reading the particulars correctly, it would impinge on the cathedral grounds. But the Gray Gull is a legitimate trading ship out of London. She always pays well. Barring storms, she should reach port next month.”
“Really?” Peter’s face lit up.
“Really. She’s owned by Lord Grayson – my sister’s husband.” If he’d had any money, he’d have bought shares himself, but his pay barely covered expenses and was always in arrears. “Maybe it was the Gray Gull he was referring to at dinner.”
“Not if it is still at sea. My impression is that he expected an immediate fortune. With his luck, he’ll probably lose more than the Gull pays.” He swept the investment papers onto the floor.
“You’ve no idea where the money was to come from?” asked Andrew calmly.
“I already told you I didn’t!” Another stack of paper hit the floor. “What difference does it make?”
“It might explain why he was up.”
“I don’t see how – not that it matters. He’s dead, thank God. Maybe I can salvage something from the wreckage. Or maybe not. Either way, I’m glad to be rid of him. If I had to guess what woke him, I’d say he was bilious. The fish tasted odd, though he stuffed himself as usual.” He shrugged. “The funeral will be in the morning.”
“You aren’t waiting for your family?”
“Why bother? Nobody liked him. His brother is in Yorkshire and couldn’t arrive for weeks.”
“What about Chloe?” The question popped out without thought.
“She hated him as much as I did. They had a vicious row just before she abandoned us. She’s been home only once since and hasn’t written in more than a year. I’ll notify her, but I’m planting the bastard in the morning.”
Andrew wondered what argument stood between Chloe and Peter. Was she another who had criticized his habits? It seemed likely. Chloe wasn’t one to pull her punches. And she hated irresponsibility.
The urge to fetch her battled his decision to avoid her. It was stupid – he was the last person she would ever want to see – yet she deserved a chance to attend the funeral, and no one else would give it to her.
Besides, he should say good-bye to Laura. She was his least favorite sibling, but India was a long way away. Even if he survived duty there, it would be years before he returned to England.
He’d last seen her two years before when both had been recovering from wounds. She’d had a rough time of it, meeting her first real competition in London’s drawing rooms. Beauty too often led to selfish arrogance, which had been doubly true for Laura. So she’d handled her Season badly. William swore she’d matured since then, learning humility from her injuries and responsibility from running her own household.
Andrew was glad. He’d been appalled to discover her problems, first because he hadn’t been home to help, and then because it tarnished the family image that had sustained him through so many horrors. Laura had been sweet as a child.
So William’s report was a relief. And now he would have a chance to see for himself.
He did wonder how Chloe managed to live with her. Chloe had never been subservient. As often as not, she’d been the leader in their childhood escapades. He ought to make sure she was all right – a duty he had ignored too long. Such cowardice was unworthy of a captain in His Majesty’s army.
“Write your note,” he ordered. “I’ll deliver it this afternoon. If she wants to pay her respects, I’ll drive her back. I’ve not seen my sister in years.”
“No loss.”
Andrew frowned, but Peter probably knew about Laura’s Season.
Peter straightened. “Do what you will. The burial will be at eight. I want that bastard out of my life as quickly as possible.” He pulled out a piece of stationery, his expression clearly dismissing the trip as a waste of time.
And maybe it was. But unless Chloe had changed beyond recognition, she would like to decide for herself.
Suppressing further memories, Andrew examined Sir Nigel’s library. Except for the desk, the room appeared the same as last night. The shelf that had once held valuable editions stood empty. Two twigs lay in the fireplace, fallen from a nest in the chimney. The night candle remained on the mantel. Wax—
Rising, he strolled toward the fireplace. Wax spattered the carpet near the hearth, as though someone had dropped a candle. A close look at the night candle revealed an indentation on one side. Was this why Sir Nigel had fled?
Yet dropping a candle that snuffe
d out on impact hardly constituted an emergency. And why would he set the candle on the mantel, then flee into the dark? A tinderbox sat only inches away.
It was more likely that Sir Nigel had dropped the candle before retiring. Sally would have removed the spilled wax if it had happened earlier. So it had nothing to do with his midnight foray.
But as he straightened, a drop of blood caught his eye. Then another, and another. The poker was smeared along one side. What had it struck, and when?
His list of questions was growing.
A brick protruded from the fireplace. Blood stained one corner. From Sir Nigel’s scraped fingertips?
Andrew pulled it out, but there was nothing behind it. Yet if Sir Nigel had used the poker to pry it loose, that might explain the bloodstains. Cut fingers bled freely.
“You have a loose brick here,” he said, watching Peter closely.
The boy shrugged. “There are probably dozens. The house is falling to bits.”
So either the brick meant nothing, or Peter knew nothing.
Abandoning the fireplace, Andrew prodded the pyramids of books, skimming the titles now that he had light to see. One pile dealt with mining. Had Sir Nigel thought that reopening the Cornish tin mines was feasible? He would have to ask William if rumors had recently suggested such a scheme. A second stack contained books on trade. Perhaps the Gray Gull venture had raised interest in the subject. The third included pamphlets on successful building developments and a book on Bath’s Royal Crescent.
Either the piles had been here for months – Sally would know – or Sir Nigel had bought shares before researching the feasibility of the operations – very much a cart-before-the-horse approach. Risky.
“Here,” said Peter, interrupting his thoughts. “I doubt she’ll come, but if you want to waste a day driving to Moorside, be my guest.”
“Thank you. See that her room is made up. I expect she’ll be here this evening.”
Unless she’d changed. Two years in service might have broken her. Companions were usually colorless creatures without a mind or will of their own. Was that what Chloe had come to?
He shivered as Kevin’s face scowled at him, appalled that his sister worked for his worst enemy.
* * * *
“Why should I go to Seabrook?” demanded Laura, stalking furiously from window to fireplace and back. Her stride lengthened until the narrow skirt of her morning gown threatened to split. “William only invited me so he could humiliate me in front of half the county.”
“You know that’s not true,” murmured Chloe. Laura’s petulance was becoming tedious. But provoking it was one way to control her. A good argument usually wore her out, leaving her docile for days.
She stifled a sigh, wishing that William had consulted her before issuing this invitation. A house party offered too many opportunities for disaster. While visiting Seabrook a year earlier, Laura had attacked Miss Truitt’s reputation, nearly destroying it. This time Miss Truitt would be back, along with the Rockhursts and Graysons.
But William was a simple man who did not understand deliberate cruelty. So he had convinced himself that Laura’s heedless words had arisen from pique fueled by misinformation. After coercing an apology from her, he considered the matter closed.
Chloe knew better. The attack on Martha Truitt had been deliberate. Laura lacked a conscience, and her thoughts were utterly selfish.
So Chloe must thwart any new plots. First she would argue Laura into exhaustion. After arriving, judicious compliments, a sympathetic ear, and constant vigilance should carry them through the five days of the house party.
And perhaps the other guests could convince Laura that her life was not over. Once Laura discovered that no one cared about her scars, she would relax and enjoy herself.
But first Chloe had to provoke that argument. “Lord Seabrook cares deeply for you,” she said firmly. “He wants you to share his happiness when he announces his betrothal.”
“Then he is mad. I refuse to welcome that mealymouthed—”
The knocker interrupted.
“I am not at home to callers,” Laura snapped, choosing a chair in the darkest corner of the sitting room. “Send them away.”
Chloe sighed, but headed for the door. At least it wouldn’t be Mrs. Tubbs on a Sunday morning.
“Mr. Rose!” Their neighbor stood outside. “Is something wrong?”
“Not at all, Miss Fields,” he assured her. “But I promised Mrs. Monroe a cheese when my son next had business in Cheddar.” He hefted a package.
“Of course. She’s in the kitchen.” Mr. Rose could have sent it with a servant, but Chloe suspected the widower was sweet on Mrs. Monroe. This was the third errand he’d found to Moorside in the past month.
She escorted him to the door, then returned to the sitting room. “It was only Mr. Rose looking for Mrs. Monroe. He shan’t bother you.”
“Why would he want Mrs. Monroe?” demanded Laura, resuming her pacing.
“His son just returned from Cheddar. We will have cheese with dinner.” Chloe picked up her needlework. “Forget him. Mrs. Monroe will see him out.”
“I know that!” snapped Laura. “Don’t treat me like a fool. It’s William I’m concerned about. How can he invite the rag-mannered offspring of a merchant into the family? Father must be turning in his grave to see the title sink so low.”
“Miss Truitt’s manners are faultless.”
“She is a vulgar nobody!” Laura glared.
“While it’s true that her father is a grain merchant, she has connections to a dozen great houses.”
“None of whom recognize her. The nearest must be three generations removed.”
“Untrue. Lord Ware is Mrs. Truitt’s first cousin, and he approves.”
“Then why did he decline to participate in the house party?”
“Last year’s carriage accident confined him to bed.” Chloe changed threads. “Don’t you recall the story? It happened a month before we visited Seabrook.”
Laura ignored the explanation, as expected. She cared nothing about Martha Truitt’s breeding. Nor did she care about William’s use or abuse of his title. Her real complaint was that the merchant’s daughter had made a love match with a lord while Laura had not managed even an arranged marriage.
“William ought to wed a viscount’s daughter, or an earl’s,” said Laura, ducking into the corner as Mrs. Monroe led Mr. Rose to the door. “He is sadly lacking in consequence, but should at least respect his title.”
“He doesn’t know any earl’s daughters and cannot afford a London Season. Besides, he loves Miss Truitt.”
“Loves her dowry, you mean.”
“No, I don’t, though I’m sure her dowry is welcome.” Chloe again changed threads. “And even if the dowry is his primary goal, one cannot fault him. The world has changed since our grandparents’ day. Estates no longer support lords in style, so they need other sources of income. Lady Jersey’s fortune comes from her grandfather’s banking interests, and she is one of the Marriage Mart’s leaders. Lord Grayson’s fortune derives from shipping. He is heir to an earldom as well as wed to your sister.”
“Don’t mention her again,” snapped Laura. “How can I share a roof with her after she betrayed me? Stealing my fiancé! Destroying my beauty!” She touched her scars. “And then she had the audacity to gloat about my misfortune to everyone in town.”
“Don’t exaggerate,” murmured Chloe. “Lord Grayson was not your fiancé. You had not even been introduced.”
Laura ignored her. “William plans to humiliate me. He hates me. Why else did he banish me to this godforsaken place? Keeping me out of sight lets him fawn over Grayson. He prefers wealth to his own flesh and blood!”
“That’s not true.” Chloe set aside her needlework, delighted that Laura was bent on self-pity and heavy dramatics today. That would make provoking the necessary argument easier. “Stop imagining trouble, and stop twisting the truth. You told me yourself that you had to beg for months b
efore William would let you leave Seabrook.”
“Why do I bother talking when you never listen?” Laura wailed, throwing herself fully into the role of innocent victim. “I begged him to let me stay home, calling on family feeling and propriety and even duty. But he refused. He couldn’t stand the sight of me, staring at the carpet whenever I came near. It was infuriating to watch him stumble over introductions. He stopped allowing his friends in the house so they wouldn’t see me. He even kept my own callers away. Does he think my wits were damaged as well as my face?”
“Of course not. Your wits are as fine as ever. People still love you.”
“You lie!” Laura broke into noisy sobs, interspersed with a long list of slights suffered and insults endured. In her mind, everyone was so jealous of her beauty that they schemed against her. And now that her beauty was marred, they schemed even harder.
Chloe let her rant. Laura had always defined herself by her beauty, setting herself so high that she ignored the rules that governed lesser beings, demanding adulation and expecting instant fulfillment of her wishes. Since accident and scandal had cut her off from society, she didn’t know how to live. One of William’s fears was that Laura would fall prey to a scoundrel, for she was susceptible to anyone pretending adoration, and she had no male protection at Moorside.
Fortunately, callers were rare. Aside from Mr. Rose and the vicar, Laura’s only male visitor in two years had been a solicitor representing Mr. Turner, the man who had shot her. After taking a position as secretary to a government official, Turner had pledged half his income for ten years to a trust he had established for Laura.
Chloe thought his action surprisingly honorable, though Laura disagreed. The moment the solicitor had left, she’d exploded in rage. How could anyone expect a few paltry guineas to atone for destroying her life? She had been the toast of London, the Season’s diamond, the most courted lady in history. Dukes, marquesses, and even princes had flocked to demand her hand in marriage. Now she was a pariah, shunned by friends and family alike.
More exaggeration.
Chloe resumed her needlework. Laura’s rant demonstrated her three worst problems – she had never been content with what she had, never saw the world as it was, and always blamed her problems on others.