With a grimace, Sheridan set down his glass. “That’s just it. I think he did that, too.”
“For God’s sake—”
“Let me finish, blast it!”
Jumping to his feet, Sheridan went to stand behind the desk, its scarred mahogany surface reminding Grey that his half brother had inherited a huge estate with what sounded like a mountain of debt. That’s what they should be discussing, not this mad idea that Maurice had been murdered.
But Sheridan didn’t seem to care about anything else. “Uncle Armie died in an accident that also took place late at night. He was found with a broken neck early in the morning near his precious ‘ruins.’ Those at the tavern in town said he’d been drinking there the night before and had headed home late. It was the same route he always took and his horse stood grazing nearby. So we assume he somehow tumbled from his horse. It was only a few months ago. Don’t you think those two ‘accidents’ occurred awfully close together?”
That was a bit odd, Grey had to admit. Still . . . “Coincidences do happen.” After draining the rest of his brandy, he stood and walked over to pour himself more. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you once tell me that whenever he rode into town he got foxed?”
Just as Grey would have to do to endure this exercise in daft theories. He downed some brandy.
Sheridan shot him a black look. “Yes, Uncle Armie was often drunker than an Etonian after matriculation. But he’d been drinking and riding that road—at night, alone—for twenty years or more. Yet he’d never before fallen off his horse. And even you must admit it wouldn’t take much to unseat a drunk man and break his neck.”
“So what are you saying?” Grey roamed the study restlessly. “According to you, Wolfe killed your uncle out of resentment for how the family had treated him. Did Maurice also treat him badly?”
“No, of course not.”
“Then your suspicions make no sense. Why now? Your uncle Armie treated Wolfe badly for years, so what brought this on?”
“Perhaps Joshua got tired of serving the family like, well, a bloody servant. Perhaps he’d had enough of Uncle Armie’s excesses, which were driving the estate into the ground. He figured he could gain the dukedom for himself.”
God, but the man had lost his mind. “To do that, he’d also have to kill you and Heywood.”
“Exactly.” Sheridan crossed his arms over his chest. “That’s what worries me.”
Grey gestured to him with his brandy glass. “What worries me is the possibility that you’ve gone mad.”
Sheridan rounded the desk. “You haven’t seen how Joshua’s behaving. He hasn’t once come over here to pay his respects to Mother. And he didn’t pay his respects to Father after Uncle Armie died, either.”
“Perhaps he doesn’t particularly enjoy the company of others,” Grey muttered. Especially in such situations.
He thought back to his uncle Eustace’s death, and how little he’d wanted to be involved in the arrangements. Grey had been damned glad to see the arse in the grave, where he could no longer torment anyone, could no longer lock a child in a room without food for days to force him to sign—
Grey pushed away the dark memories. “People grieve differently.” Particularly when they loath and despise the deceased. “Have you talked to Wolfe about this?”
“No,” Sheridan said, a bit sheepishly. “I need evidence. I can’t . . . pursue my suspicions without it.”
“Exactly.” Grey stared his brother down.
“Come now, Grey. Two deaths, so close together? Don’t you find that odd?”
When Sheridan set his shoulders, the way he’d done as a boy when he was being stubborn, Grey wished he could pound some sense into him. “And what does Wolfe’s sister think of all this? Is Bea complicit in this scheme?”
Sheridan muttered a curse. “Don’t be absurd. Of course she’s not complicit. Bea would never countenance murder. She’s the kindest, most compassionate woman I know.”
“We are talking about the same woman, right? Because the Miss Wolfe I met wasn’t kind.”
Sheridan scowled. “What exactly occurred between you and Bea while you were alone together?”
“She put me in my place after I . . . um . . . behaved like a pompous arse.”
One corner of Sheridan’s lips quirked up. “Fancy that—you behaving like a pompous arse.”
“At least I’m not seeing murderers at every turn. And if you’re so convinced someone murdered Maurice, why didn’t you call the constable to investigate his death?”
“I told you. I have no proof. Just my suspicions.”
Grey lifted his eyes heavenward. “Which, forgive me, sound daft.”
“You might think differently once you’ve met Joshua.” Sheridan shoved his hands in his pockets. “He’s difficult. Angry. Changed, by all accounts, after his experiences in the war. I wouldn’t put anything past him, including killing four people to gain the dukedom.”
“Well, I’ll have to trust you on that,” he said dryly, “since I didn’t even know of his existence—or his sister’s—until today.”
Sheridan rubbed the back of his neck. “I should have introduced both of them to you when you visited here before. But we had so little time with you that we wanted to keep you to ourselves. And honestly, that was before Mother decided to take Bea on as one of her projects.”
“Oh, God.”
Mother was famous for her projects. She liked “helping” young people. Even as a boy, Grey remembered strange youths trooping in and out of their home while Mother tried to figure out how to improve their future prospects.
As if she hadn’t had her hands full with her own children. Well, except for the one she sent away. “So what exactly is she trying to do for Miss Wolfe?”
Sheridan shrugged. “Bea has never had a come-out. Grandmother was too sickly to accomplish it, and Uncle Armie too lax. I think the idea was that Bea would eventually become a companion to Uncle Armie’s wife, but by the time Bea was the right age, his wife was dead. It’s not as if he could have brought her out without asking some female relation to do so.”
“And why didn’t he?”
“God, who knows? He wasn’t a nice man, from what I understand. And money was short, so . . .”
“So Miss Wolfe and her prospects got shoved to the side.”
“Exactly.” Sheridan stared down into his glass. “One more reason for Joshua to hate us.”
“Why ‘us’? Obviously you have no desire to hold her back.”
A faint smile crossed his lips. “True.”
Something about that smile irked him. “You’re not interested in her, are you? Romantically, I mean.”
“What? No! Don’t be an arse. She’s my cousin!”
“Cousins marry in our circles all the time.”
His brother went on the defensive. “Are you interested in Vanessa ‘romantically’?”
Vanessa? Grey scowled at his brother. “She’s Miss Pryde to you, and no, I’m not. She’s like a sister to me.”
“I feel the same about Bea. We see her as part of the family. That’s why Mother is determined to bring her out herself. Even if Bea is a bit . . . shall we say . . . long in the tooth.”
“How old is she?”
“Twenty-six.”
“She looks younger.” Still, Grey didn’t mind her being closer to his age than he’d initially thought, a reaction he refused to examine too closely.
“Nonetheless,” Sheridan said, “she’s firmly on the shelf.”
“What a ridiculous notion. As if a woman were a knick-knack to be put away.”
Sheridan gaped at him. “I’m surprised you feel that way.”
“Don’t you?”
“Of course, but . . . I just thought . . . that is . . .”
“You believe all the nonsense they publish about me in the gossip rags.” He hadn’t meant to say the resentful words, but he couldn’t help it. “You should know me better by now. You’re my brother, for God’s sake.”
“A fact which you often conveniently forget.”
Grey dragged in a heavy breath. “I don’t forget it. I just . . .” No, he wouldn’t go into that. It wasn’t Sheridan’s fault that Uncle Eustace had been a greedy bastard. “So Mother means to bring Miss Wolfe out. You know she can’t do it while they’re in mourning.”
“Of course not. But that’s one reason she wants to work on preparing her now. They have all this time at the estate when they can’t do anything social.” Pain flashed over Sheridan’s face. “And Mother needs something to keep her mind off losing Father.”
“What she needs is time alone to grieve.”
Sheridan grimaced. “I’ve told her that, but you know Mother. She does better when she has something to occupy her time. And she might need a whole year to prepare Bea, who hasn’t the slightest idea of how to act in social situations. She’s a bit of a hoyden, you know. She roams the estate with the hunting dogs and helps Joshua with his accounts, but she rarely attends the local assemblies. Not that it’s her fault. She gets invited, but there’s no one to take her, and of course, she can’t go alone.”
“Why doesn’t her damned brother take her?”
“You’ll have to ask her. But the upshot of it is she barely knows how to dance, has no idea about the many rules of high society, and would rather train a retriever to fetch than embroider a scarf. Mother has her work cut out for her.”
“Miss Wolfe seems to have handled the funeral arrangements well enough.”
Sheridan snorted. “That’s because she’s already attended five other funerals in her lifetime, three of which she had a hand in managing. She does know funerals, our Bea.”
Poor woman. That sounded dreadful. “No wonder she and Mother get along so well.” Grey mused a moment. “So I assume Mother intends for her to be presented at court.”
“Probably. You’d know better than I what’s involved in bringing a woman out. I gather Bea has to go through a round of social events. Since Gwyn hasn’t had a come-out in England either, Mother plans for them to have their debuts together.”
“Makes sense.” Grey cocked his head. “How does Gwyn feel about sharing hers with someone not actually related to her?”
“She’s relieved to have the company, believe it or not. She’d never admit it, but she’s nervous about going into English society. Things weren’t the same in Prussia.”
“I can only imagine. And I mean that literally, since I was never old enough in Berlin to go into society.” When Sheridan shot him an odd look, he pressed on. “How does Wolfe feel about his sister being championed by our mother?”
“I don’t know. He’s slippery as an eel, that one. He’s never around when I go to call on him. Bea keeps saying she’ll bring him over, but then that always falls through for some reason.” Sheridan drained his glass, then set it on the desk. “That’s why I need your help.”
Grey tensed. “To do what?”
“Find out what Joshua’s been up to, where he goes all the time.” Sheridan thrust out his jaw. “Get the evidence I need to prove—or disprove—he was involved in the two deaths. See if you can uncover the truth.”
God help him. “Are you asking me to spy on the major?”
“Pretty much.”
“Why me?”
Sheridan shrugged. “He doesn’t know you, for one thing.”
“But it wouldn’t take long for him to find out who I am. The minute I start sniffing around, asking questions of people, word will get back to him, and he’ll make it his business to learn my identity. If you’re trying to keep this secret from him, that’s not how to do it.”
“So what the devil do you suggest? Between helping with Mother’s ‘project’ and trying to get the estate affairs in order, I barely have time to breathe, much less spy on Joshua.”
“Ah, but you’d be better at the spying than I,” Grey said, “since you could disguise it as getting comfortable with the running of your estate. And the owner asking questions in town about his employees won’t seem nearly as odd as some relation of yours doing it.” He set down his empty glass. “I can help you with the estate. I can help Mother with preparing Miss Wolfe and Gwyn for a debut. As you said, I know what such things entail. So I’d be better at it, since I’ve actually been to a few coming-out events. I was very much present at Vanessa’s, for example.”
“So you’re the one responsible for your cousin’s impudent manner and sharp tongue, are you?” Sheridan asked.
“Are you responsible for Gwyn’s?”
Sheridan glared at him.
“That’s what I thought,” Grey said calmly. “The point is I don’t mind working with you on estate finances and management, and I don’t mind giving the young ladies pointers on societal expectations. I don’t even mind finding out what I can from Miss Wolfe for you, while helping her prepare for her debut. But I won’t spy on her brother. You’ll have to tackle that yourself.”
Sheridan set his shoulders. “I don’t think it’s a good idea that you help prepare Bea for her debut. You have a reputation with young women, and she’s in a vulnerable situation.”
“My reputation is precisely why I should be the one to caution the ladies. I know what men in society expect. And how they should be thwarted. Whereas you—”
“—have barely been to a ball, I know.” Sheridan blew out an exasperated breath. “You do have a point.”
“Anyway, I’m not giving you a choice. If you want my help, it’s going to be in an area where I have expertise.”
Honestly, involvement in such a project might make this visit with his family more bearable. Mother wasn’t the only one needing something to keep her mind off Maurice’s passing.
“So, are we agreed on the division of labor?” Grey asked.
A muscle worked in Sheridan’s jaw. But after a moment’s hesitation, he nodded.
Then Sheridan went to refill their glasses. “We should seal our bargain with a toast.” He returned to hand Grey his glass. “You know, I begin to be glad you’ll be helping me with estate matters. Clearly, you’re a shrewd negotiator.”
“Not for nothing have I tripled my dukedom’s income in the past thirteen years.”
“Well, if you can help me do that, too, I’d be most grateful.” His brother paused to gaze out the window at the dusk graying his land. “But somehow I fear that the Armitage legacy has fallen too far for that.”
“You’d be surprised what a bit of judicious investment and wise management can do to one’s properties.”
“We’ll see.” With a forced smile, Sheridan raised his glass. “To spying!”
“And to debuts,” Grey added.
Before they could drink any, the door opened and Thorn sauntered in.
With his chestnut hair and clear blue eyes, Thorn looked more like Mother than either Grey or Sheridan. But the resemblance stopped there. Thorn was far more of a rebel than Mother had ever been.
Thorn took in the scene, then went over to pour himself a glass. “What are we drinking to?” he drawled.
Grey exchanged a glance with Sheridan and said, “To brothers.”
“I’ll drink to that.” Thorn paused. “I forgot, I’m supposed to be corralling everyone for dinner.”
“Surely that can wait long enough for you to have a glass,” Sheridan said.
“True. And I can use a drink after today.” Thorn joined them as they toasted each other. Then he tossed back his brandy in one long gulp.
“Damn it, man, pace yourself,” Sheridan said.
Grey laughed. “You probably don’t realize this, but Thorn can drink all of us under the table. Eh, Thorn?”
The man winked. “I do my best. Now, bottoms up, lads. If we arrive late to dinner, Mother will blame me, and I refuse to be demoted from my position as favored son.”
That devolved into the usual jocular discussion of who was Mother’s favorite, a game Grey rarely enjoyed, since he was decidedly not. But he played along until the brandy in their glasses was g
one, at which time they headed off to dinner.
“Wait,” Grey asked Thorn, “who will sit vigil while we’re dining?”
“One of the servants.” Thorn’s expression turned grim. “But I’m sure he won’t be there long. Mother has been loath to leave Father’s side today. She’s determined to be in that bloody room until the funeral procession.”
Thorn’s reference to Maurice as “Father” jarred Grey, though it was no different from how Thorn usually referred to their stepfather. Thorn and Gwyn’s father had died shortly before they were born, so Maurice had been the only father the twins had ever known, too.
“But now that you’re here, Grey,” Thorn went on, “you can coax Mother into attempting to get some sleep tonight.”
“Given that you’re the favorite,” Grey joked, hollowly, “she’s more likely to listen to you.”
Thorn laughed outright. “How do you think I became the favorite? By indulging her whims. Whereas she sees you as the personification of her first husband, who, from what I gather, ordered her about all the time. So she’ll listen when you order her about.”
That made him want to howl. Because he didn’t want to be that man. But it was too late to change anyone’s perception of him, so he’d play the role as usual.
After all, someone had to take charge of his unruly family. It might as well be him.
Chapter Five
Dinner at Armitage Hall was more informal than it had been under Uncle Armie. Not that Beatrice had dined here that often when he was in charge. Even when she and her brother had been invited, Joshua had refused to attend, and she hadn’t been about to have any tête-à-têtes with Uncle Armie.
But dining with Aunt Lydia’s family reminded her of the time years ago when her grandparents had both been alive and she’d lived at the hall, after Papa’s death. At ten, she’d been too young to live alone, especially with Joshua in the Royal Marines abroad. So she had lived here with her grandparents.
For a child, the dining room had been a magical place of glittering chandeliers, gleaming silver, and snowy tablecloths. Every time Grandmama had brought her down from the nursery to practice her dinner etiquette, she’d felt like a princess sitting at this table.
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