As he certainly must be now. Adrian pressed a gloved hand to his forehead, seeing in his mind’s eye only that strange, dark smile on Phillip’s lips. “Marvelous,” his cousin had drawled, and grabbing Tina’s wrist, pulled her along with him as he quit the room, presumably to wait for dawn.
Would that it had ended there, Adrian thought miserably. But no. Dawn had come all too quickly, and incredibly, Phillip had not changed his mind. Nor had he sobered any.
Standing in that field, Adrian had felt like he was the lead actor in some sort of bad dream. Everyone in their party had come out, along with their valets. Their cheerful laughter indicated that they, too, thought the so-called duel was far more entertaining than it was dangerous. But disbelief and fear had muted Adrian, and only Arthur and Julian had seemed as fearful as he was as they desperately tried to reason with Phillip. But the man was unrelenting, his determination bordering on macabre. So Adrian had gritted his teeth, swallowed his pride, and had selected a dueling pistol, frowning darkly at Fitzhugh when he had laughingly offered his new pistol before carefully stuffing it into his holster. He then had taken the requisite twenty paces, silently cursing Phillip and vowing to beat his cousin within an inch of his sorry life for putting him through this. Then, when the mark had been called, he had fired into the air, deloping.
Would that it had ended there. But Phillip, damn him, had chuckled nastily, and weaving unsteadily, raised his pistol and fired.
Something died in Adrian at that moment. Phillip had actually fired upon him, and he had turned away in disgust, striding toward the tree stump where he had left his gun, his only thought to be gone from Dunwoody and Phillip.
Arthur’s fierce cry had raised the hackles on his neck. Adrian jerked around to see Fitzhugh on his rump and Phillip pointing that fancy pistol at him. At his back. He had no time to think; he dove for his gun as a bullet whizzed over his head. It was blind instinct, the sort of mindless reaction one draws upon when attacked. Somehow his hand had landed on the pistol. Somehow he had cocked it as he rolled onto his back, and somehow he had fired it with deadly aim before Phillip could fire again.
Adrian yanked Thunder to a dead stop and pressed his knuckles against the burn in his eyes. The vision of Phillip, knocked from his feet by the force of the bullet, would haunt him all his days. But … but had Phillip actually fired on him? Or had he purposely shot over his head? Had Phillip actually cocked the pistol to fire again, or had he just convinced himself of it? Adrian tried to remind himself that he had had no choice—Phillip would have killed him. He kept telling himself that, desperate to believe it, but he could not erase the image of Phillip’s eyes. Jesus, his eyes.
He suddenly spurred Thunder again, pushing him into a gallop in a vain attempt to escape the burning in his soul. His heart, dear God, his heart was positively bursting with the ache of having lost one so dear to him. He had not felt so empty since his mother died almost twenty years ago. No, that was not quite accurate. He had not felt since his mother’s death. Archie had seen to that.
Archie, as he disparagingly thought of his father, was Archibald Spence, the Marquis of Kealing—tyrant, misogynist, and coward. To the country set and the ton he was a shining example of what a peer of the realm should aspire to be. No one outside their little family, save a few longtime servants, knew of the vile contempt he had heaped on Adrian’s mother, Lady Evelyn Kealing, and on him, his oldest son and heir, day after miserable day.
Adrian’s earliest childhood memory was of him and his younger brother, Benedict, cowering in the nursery as words like whore and slut filtered up to them through the chimney shared with the green drawing room below. The verbal abuse was a constant barrage it seemed, and was sometimes backed with Archie’s fist. On those occasions, the young fool that he had been, Adrian had tried to fight for her, only to be beaten and called every invective that came to his father’s demented mind. Those were the days he had begun to teach himself not to feel. Feel nothing, feel nothing, feel nothing.
There was never a reason for the abuse, no particular incident or misdeed that Adrian could recall. Archie simply despised him, had despised him from the moment of his birth, apparently, and Adrian had sought his refuge in the quiet solitude of the hills and streams and valleys of Kealing Park.
But his mother was trapped and she died a broken woman when Adrian was only twelve. Archie turned the full brunt of his abuse on him then, but as Adrian grew older Archie could not affect him with his words and fists as he once had been able to do. So he had taken to banishing him from the Park for one infraction or another. The first time had been for fighting on Phillip’s behalf. On that particular occasion he had not allowed Adrian to come home during the Christmas season, and the boy had spent the holidays at Eton with the dormitory housekeeper. He had been all of thirteen years old.
The last time had been five years ago when Adrian had refused to invest in his father’s newly acquired coal mine. He abhorred the conditions in the mines, particularly when owners like Archie enjoyed obscene profits at the expense of the children who labored there. But Archie complained that his profits were not as great as those of other mines of similar size and demanded that Adrian supply him with an infusion of cash. When Adrian refused, Archie had angrily banished him from the Park.
And Adrian, of course, had responded as he always did—by enlarging his holdings again. It was the one thing he could do that Archie couldn’t. Since he had come of age he had invested wisely by joining ventures he knew to be sound. He bought a majority holding in a Boston shipyard, and as a result he now enjoyed a reputation for building the fastest and sturdiest clippers that skimmed the Atlantic between England and America. His partnership with Arthur in the manufacture of iron was earning beyond his wildest expectations. Everything he owned was of far greater value and earned much higher profits than anything Archie did—because Adrian spent almost every waking hour making sure of it.
But for all that, it was Kealing Park he really wanted.
Gathering his cloak around him, Adrian stared blindly at the road in front of him. For reasons that he did not fully understand, Kealing Park had become precious to him. It was the last thing he had, the last thread to distant feelings of love and comfort he had experienced in his mother’s arms, or the freedom he had known as a lad roaming the backwoods and valleys. When his grandfather had died five years ago with no surviving heirs save his two grandsons, Adrian had inherited the title Earl of Albright and the earl’s seat, the estate of Longbridge. Yet it did nothing to appease his desire for the Park. Adrian had been to Longbridge only a handful of times—it held no sentimental value for him and, being a few hours east of the Park, was not on any of the thoroughfares he typically used to travel about the country. No, it was Kealing Park he wanted, and one day he would have it, in spite of Archie’s complete disdain.
As Thunder loped easily along the road, Adrian sighed thoughtfully. Though his father had never been very clear in his reasons for his contempt, he had heard enough through the years to deduce the truth. Actually, it was so bloody obvious—the horrible things Archie had said to his mother, the disgust he showed his heir at every turn, the absolute adoration of Benedict, Adrian’s weak-willed younger brother. Adrian had never asked another living soul, but he knew he was an illegitimate child. It was a secret that would die with him, because to tell it would be to free Archie to give everything that was rightfully his to Benedict.
Legally, Archie could leave his many personal holdings to Benedict if he so desired, and Lord knew he threatened it enough. Kealing Park, the coal mines, the house in London and chateau in France—none of it was part of the Marquis of Kealing’s original entail. There was nothing left to Archie’s title but an old, crumbling manor on the southern edge of the Park—everything else, Archie and his father had acquired. Nonetheless, there was no law in the land that would prevent the title of marquis and its entail from passing to Adrian, and that was killing Archie.
Adrian was more than happy to let it
. Unless Archie was prepared to announce to the world that his wife had cuckolded him and his firstborn was a bastard he had been forced to raise as his own, his only recourse was to find fault with Adrian and disown him. There was no other way to give Benedict everything as Archie was so obviously desperate to do, but the scoundrel had no valid grounds to do it short of scandal. As Archie was loath to sully his own name, it meant one day Kealing Park would pass to Adrian.
And it would be his great pleasure to allow his father to go to his grave unable to complete the one thing in life he truly wanted—Adrian’s demise and Ben’s ascendancy to the Spence throne.
Unfortunately, although Kealing Park was blissfully free of Archie, Adrian found no comfort for his ravaged heart or refuge from the guilt that was eating him alive. Even worse, Benedict was not in London with Archie as Adrian had thought, but at the Park, hovering about. Every place Adrian sought solace, Benedict appeared, anxious and fretful and trying far too hard to befriend him. Three days at the Park quickly turned into three days of agony.
“Ah! There you are!”
Speak of the devil. Adrian glanced from the corner of his eye as Benedict strode into the library. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”
“Have you?” Adrian asked indifferently, and pushed aside the letter to Phillip’s family that he had been trying to write for two hours. Actually, he had been trying to write it since Dunwoody.
Benedict paused halfway across the room and nervously clasped his hands in front of him. “Father has finally returned from London. He requests an audience in the study.”
An audience with Archie. Bloody hell, that was the last thing Adrian needed today. There was nothing he detested more than interviews with his father, and this one had to do with Phillip, that much he was certain. The news had reached London the day after Phillip’s death almost ten days ago. Well, he would be on his way to London as soon as they could ready his chaise. “He’s returned, has he? What does he want?” he muttered impassively.
“Why, I can’t say that I know, really!” his brother said, a little too quickly. “No doubt he means to see if you are well.”
Adrian gave him a lazy, knowing smile. Benedict was good at some things, but lying was not one of them. “When did he arrive?”
Benedict’s eyes darted to the sideboard. “Um, an hour or two ago. What, did Brian forget to bring round some whiskey? I told him to fill the decanters.”
“Oh, but he has.” Adrian drawled as he lazily shoved to his feet. “I’ve been draining it as quickly as he fills it.” Ignoring Benedict’s startled look, he began walking toward the door.
“Adrian!” Benedict suddenly blurted. “I … I suppose you’ll be leaving soon?”
Adrian paused to slice a disinterested glance across his tight-lipped younger brother. “I don’t know, Ben … am I going somewhere? Perhaps I’ve been banished again?”
Benedict flushed. “I wouldn’t know. I just … I just assumed you would be going. You always do.”
He would be going all right, and the sooner the better. He turned away.
“Are you to London? Pardon, but would it be a terrible imposition if I should come too?” Benedict asked quickly.
Sometimes Ben sounded like a child. Frowning, Adrian glanced impatiently at him. “Your father owns a very expensive house in London. Why don’t you just go if you like?”
“I didn’t mean to imply … I rather thought … I’ve some business there, and as we never seem to encounter one another, I thought it would be easier to travel together.”
A distant memory of a little boy running after him flitted across Adrian’s mind. Then, his brother’s near idolatry of him had amused him. He might have even cared for the lad. But Benedict had shown no particular affection for many years now—with the promise of Kealing Park dangling in front of him, he had succumbed to his father’s machinations. And Adrian long ago had lost whatever feeling he might once have had for his brother.
Benedict apparently sensed his hesitation, because he quickly crossed the room to Adrian. “There was a time when you welcomed my tagging along. I thought it might be entertaining, that’s all.”
Hardly. But as it was with most tilings, Adrian could not have cared less if Benedict accompanied him to London or not. “Whatever suits you,” he remarked unemotionally, and walked out the door before Benedict could say more.
Fortunately, Archie was not a coy fellow. The moment Adrian entered the study, he shot out of his seat, holding a crumpled paper in one hand. “Murderer! I should have known it would come to this! Gambling and whoring were never enough for you, were they?” he bellowed.
Well, they were off to a fine start, as usual. “Please, Father, you mustn’t fawn over me,” Adrian said dryly as Benedict timidly slipped past him and hurried to the window.
“God’s blood, Albright, don’t belittle me! You are a murderer!”
Years of practiced indifference had made Adrian a master at masking all emotion, and he leaned casually against the door with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, coolly observing his father. “As usual, you have your facts a bit backward. I did not murder him; he tried to murder me. If you have cause to question that fact, you might speak with the justice in Pemberheath.”
Archie scowled deeply. “That’s just like you, to make light of something so reprehensible! God knows how you could possibly disparage the death of my cousin’s son! Have you no conscience?”
God, did he? He had not seen his cousin in fifteen years—as was so bloody typical of him, Archie hated Phillip’s father because of some vague falling out over money.
“You are no son of mine, do you hear me? I will not have a murderer in my house!” Archie shouted angrily. “I have done it this time, you worthless—”
“Father!” Benedict cried. “Please!”
“Ah, Ben, he was just getting started,” Adrian said, smiling. “Go on, Father … you were saying?”
Archie’s flaccid face turned red. He growled and raised the crumpled paper he held. “Do you see this? I have done it, you worthless cur! You don’t deserve the title of earl, much less marquis! I may not be able to keep you from my title, but by God, I can keep you from my fortune! This,” he shouted, waving the paper, “says it all! I have done what I should have done long ago and disinherited you at last! It belongs to Benedict now, all of it! Kealing Park, the house in London, the chateau in France! It is all his now!”
Behind him, Benedict shamefully bowed his head. Adrian chuckled derisively—the little rat had known it all along. “Well, Ben, I suppose you will want to visit your own house in London now,” he drawled, and smiled at the twitch in Benedict’s shoulders.
“Everything is a jest to you, isn’t it?” Archie hissed. “You have mocked me for the last time, do you understand? You disgust me! A bad seed from the start, you were! That shameless mother of yours—”
A cold chill shot down Adrian’s back and he pushed away from the door. “Leave her out of it, Father.”
“Why should I? That whore had this coming!”
Adrian lunged across the room before Archie could react and grabbed his father’s neckcloth, twisting it as he glared down at him. “Not another word against her, or I shall give you true cause to call me murderer,” he breathed.
His father’s eyes bulged with fear, and disgusted, Adrian shoved him away. Gaping fearfully, Archie quickly grabbed his neck. “My God, are you insane?” Oh yes, he was. With a nonchalant shrug, Adrian started for the door. “You have dishonored me from the moment you were born! I have been exceedingly generous to you, and for what? So that you could drag my good name through the mud? So that you could kill my cousin’s son? You are a blight on this house, Albright!” Archie roared as Adrian walked to the door. “I am ashamed to call you son, you reckless heathen! May God have mercy upon your soul!”
Too late for that, Adrian thought wryly and paused to glance over his shoulder, Benedict had not lifted his head. Not a word of protest or indignation passed his
quivering lips as he cowered behind Archie and the piece of paper that gave him everything that was rightfully Adrian’s. His expression bland, Adrian slid a cool, unaffected gaze to his father. Archie’s jowls were purple with rage, and for one bizarre moment, Adrian was reminded of a turkey. “Be careful, Father,” he said, smiling. “You have finally achieved what you have sought for thirty-two years. You wouldn’t want to spoil it with a heart seizure,” he said flippantly, and casually strolled out the door.
Three
MR. PEARLE PRIDED himself on being a solicitor with a heart. Having served Kealing and the neighboring villages for nigh on twenty-five years, he could count among his clientele such noteworthy personages as Lords Kealing and Carmichael and Baron Huffington—exactly three more nobles on his rolls than his chief competitor, Mr. Farnsworth of Newhall, could claim. His success was due, he thought proudly as he marched down Kealing’s main thoroughfare, to his penchant for learning things about his clients that made them unique. For caring about them.
Pausing in front of the apothecary’s shop, Mr. Pearle checked the alignment of his neckcloth in the reflection of the front windows. He spotted Mrs. Rasworthy inside, rapped lightly on the window, and waved. She was one of his best clients, he thought as she frowned back at him, because he had taken the time to learn about her. He knew, for example, that she was a rather avid fan of the country horse races held twice yearly at Barstone. So avid a fan, in fact, that she had lost much of what her father had settled on her. This he knew about Mrs. Rasworthy, but Mr. Rasworthy did not.
With a cheerful smile, he continued his march down the street, musing that Mrs. Rasworthy was one of many who appreciated his skills—which far surpassed those of Mr. Farnsworth—as well as his impeccable discretion. The effort he put into learning about his clients enabled him to help them if the need arose. Such as the fact that Mr. Tinsley had an ailment that prevented him from fathering children. Or that Lord Huffington was descended from mental imbalance on his mother’s side. There were so many small details, that he had, several years ago, taken to chronicling them in a series of leatherbound journals he kept safely hidden in his offices. Appropriately titled Pearles of Wisdom, his journal contained twenty-five years of interesting tidbits about practically everyone in Kealing, Newhall, and Fairlington.
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