Flynn closed his eyes, resting his head against the chair’s padding. “I wish I knew whether Mother was in Town.”
“She’s not.” Yancy offered that morsel.
Flynn opened one eye. “How do you know?”
Yancy tossed back his drink. His gaze flashed to Sethwick’s for a brief moment.
“I made inquiries after . . .” He paused. A pained expression flitted across his face and tightened his mouth. He rubbed his brow.
Flynn swallowed and shut his eyes against the moisture pooling in them. “Thank you.”
Should he leave for Lambridge tonight? Or would the morrow be better? It would give Mother, Grandmamma, and Franny another day without heartache. Father’s solicitor must be consulted as well.
Before or after Flynn traveled to Lambridge?
Before, since he wouldn’t leave his family once he’d broken the ghastly news. Not that he intended to tell the women the truth.
No doubt an inquiry of some sort would be required.
Where was Father’s body?
Fierce pain stabbed behind his eyes. Lord, he felt as if his head would explode.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. Managing the gossip would be a colossal undertaking. The scandalmongers would have fodder enough to last them until next Season and beyond.
“Why? Why did Father come to London? Why did he go to White’s after all this time? Blister it. What happened?”
Flynn slumped forward, his elbows on his knees. “Yancy, you were there. Did you see or hear anything?”
Harcourt turned and stared hard at Yancy.
Sethwick, too, settled his troubled eyes upon the earl.
Flynn turned to observe Faulkehurst.
His eyebrows were drawn into a sharp vee.
What did they know?
“Well?” Flynn drummed his fingertips together.
Yancy poured a generous dram of whisky into his glass. After taking a healthy quaff, he slowly nodded.
“Luxmoore . . . Flynn.”
His face grim, Yancy sighed. Setting his glass aside, he raked a hand through his hair.
“Your father went to White’s in search of you. He encountered Waterford, and the duke persuaded the marquis to join him for a meal and drink. ‘For old time’s sake,’ His Grace claimed. At first Bretheridge declined, saying he had pressing news for you.”
Yancy hesitated. “He appeared done in, Luxmoore.”
“Yes, he did,” Harcourt concurred. “I barely glimpsed him as Faulkenhurst and I left, but the marquis looked exhausted. Or ill.”
“Ill?” Flynn scowled at the cheerful flames. Had Father been ailing?
“What’s this about Waterford? Father hasn’t spoken to him in seventeen years.”
Realization slammed into him with the intensity of a frenzied bull. Flynn’s attention leapt to Yancy. “A drink? My God, Father wouldn’t have been that stupid. He hasn’t touched a drop of alcohol since—”
“I’m afraid it gets worse.” Yancy hung his head for a moment. He raised his gaze to meet Flynn’s.
The remorse there took Flynn aback. He narrowed his eyes and forced his stiff lips to move. “I presume you’re going to explain how?”
Father shot himself. It couldn’t possibly get worse.
Flynn needed to smash something, and at this moment, the urge to plant Yancy a facer overwhelmed him. Yancy knew Father’s history with Waterford, his longtime drinking chum. Damn the duke to the seventh layer of hell. Yancy also knew why Franny would never walk again.
After Waterford and Father spent an afternoon drinking themselves practically under the table at White’s, on his way home through Hyde Park, he’d come upon Nurse taking the air with Franny.
Only six at the time, she’d begged their father to take her on the saddle before him. Despite Nurse’s protests, Father hauled Franny onto his lap.
True, it wasn’t Father’s fault three dogs chasing a terrified cat came tearing along the path at that precise moment. Still, had he not been ape-drunk, Caesar wouldn’t have bolted when the yowling tabby ran beneath him. Father would have remained in his saddle, sparing Franny the tumble that broke her back.
“Waterford plied the marquis with drink.”
Yancy’s voice yanked Flynn to the present.
“He challenged your father to a game of piquet. I joined them, hoping to talk some sense into Bretheridge,” Yancy explained. “He’d been dipping rather deep and was far in his cups by then. A sizable sum was at stake, and Bretheridge was well into it.”
Flynn’s mind raced. Most of his monies were invested in his Caribbean sugar plantations, though he did have several thousand pounds on deposit in Ringwood and Hampshire’s Bank. “Sizeable? How much?”
Yancy hesitated, an uneasy glint in his eyes. “In excess of one hundred thousand pounds.”
Harcourt whistled, and Sethwick slapped his hand on his thigh with a muttered, “Merde.”
“Holy hell, and you were a part of that?” Flynn glared at Yancy.
Yes, he absolutely did want to pummel the earl. And Waterford. And anyone else who’d been present yet made no effort to intervene. How many more men’s lives would be destroyed after being seduced into wagering away their very existence? He counted seven in the past year alone.
Now eight.
“No.” Yancy raked a hand through his hair. “I didn’t play. You know piquet is between two players. I did insist the marquis was foxed. I told Waterford it appeared your father was ill as well, and that it was beyond the pale for the duke to continue to play.”
Yancy took a short swallow of whisky. “Though, at that point, your father was ahead.”
“I don’t understand.” Flynn scrubbed a hand across his eyes.
“Your father refused to toss in his cards, Luxmoore. He thought winning might help temper the news he had for you. He was positive he’d beaten the duke.” Yancy heaved a gusty sigh. “In fact, I was certain he had too. But Waterford, the devil take it, suddenly began scoring points. A lot of them, almost as if he held enchanted cards.”
“And you watched this transpire?” Flynn pressed two fingers to his pounding forehead. “And did nothing?”
“What was I supposed to do?” Yancy lurched to his feet and jerked his hand toward the door. “Grab Bretheridge by the ear and haul him from the place like a lad in short pants instead of a grown man? For God’s sake, Luxmoore, be reasonable!”
“Precisely how much did he lose?” Flynn clenched his hands until his nails cut into his palms. The horseflesh and prize cattle could be sold, and if he must, some of the unentailed properties. There was a fortune in silver, art, and jewels too.
“It’s not only how much, Luxmoore, but what.” Yancy swung a desperate glance at Sethwick and Harcourt.
Dual scowls marred their foreheads.
What had Yancy told them that he’d yet to reveal to Flynn? An odd foreboding filled him, yet he remained calm.
Something had been set in motion tonight. Something he’d no control over, but nevertheless would thrust him, tumbling and churning like wintertime rapids, along an unknown, predestined path. All he could do was hold on and pray he would emerge, if not unscathed, at least somewhat intact.
Flynn stood, unable to sit an instant longer. He crossed to stare out the French windows facing the street. The guests were leaving. Had Miss Farnsworth departed already? His lips quirked in irony. He wouldn’t be entering into a betrothal anytime soon. He was in mourning.
“Well? What else did he wager?” he tossed over his shoulder, flinching at the rancor in his voice.
“Everything not entailed, Luxmoore. Everything. Including the spittoons and chamber pots.” Yancy flopped onto the sofa, and buried his face in his hands. He was silent for several uncomfortable momen
ts.
Lifting his head, his eyes brimmed with sorrow. He drew in a ragged breath. “When your father at last comprehended what he’d done, he called for his carriage, then signed the vowel. Despite his drunken state, he courteously bid Waterford a good evening and after bowing, took his leave. I confronted His Grace and insisted he cancel the wager.”
Deep charcoal-colored drapes framed the window. Flynn brushed the smooth velvet with his fingertips. “Which he refused to do.”
Waterford would, the greedy sod.
Yancy slammed his fist on the sofa’s arm. “The bloody cur tucked the vowel into his pocket. He had the unmitigated gall to say, ‘You know Bretheridge’s honor won’t permit me to. A man has nothing if he doesn’t have his honor.’”
“What a load of fustian rubbish, coming from his ilk,” Sethwick said, his voice scarcely more than a raspy growl.
Harcourt had wandered to stand before the study’s double doors, as if guarding against unwelcome intruders.
Yancy pressed his fingers to his eyes. “The shot sounded moments after your father left White’s. He was in his carriage.”
Father never traveled unarmed.
Flynn stared at Yancy. What did one say after that?
Fury like none Flynn had ever known surged through his veins, heating his blood, scorching his mind.
Blistering rage, that’s what this feeling is.
Though illogical and unfair and unlike him, he did blame Yancy. Yes, the earl should have hauled Father out by his ear, accursed wagers be hanged.
Sethwick unfolded his tall frame from his chair. The thick Turkish carpet muffled his steps as he approached. He stood before Flynn, compassion in his eyes. He touched Flynn’s forearm.
“Luxmoore.” Sethwick cast a glance toward Yancy staring glumly at the fire’s dying embers. “Your father came to London to tell you that your mother suffered apoplexy.”
Chapter 4
Cheshire, England, Late June 1818
Huddled over a porcelain chamber pot, Angelina pushed a damp curl off her forehead and waited for the wave of nausea to pass. She held her breath, hopeful. Her stomach seemed to be settling. Finally.
Another strand slid forward, dangling near her nose. Bothersome hair. Why couldn’t she have Mama or the twins’ smooth tresses?
Murphy, the maid Aunt Camille assigned to Angelina, clucked and fussed, no condemnation in her round, brown eyes. Steadying her, Murphy pressed a cool, damp cloth into Angelina’s hand.
“Here, Mrs. Thorne, wipe your face. You’ll feel much better.”
Mrs. Thorne.
Angelina still hadn’t become accustomed to the name Uncle Ambrose invented.
“Thank you.” She swallowed against the bile burning her throat. How many more weeks did she have to endure this? Shouldn’t her morning malaise be finished by now?
She didn’t have the wherewithal to be embarrassed any longer. The entire household realized she was increasing, although they thought her newly widowed. Their constant pitying glances and efforts to ease her discomfort while endearing, were wholly discomfiting.
Angelina lived a colossal lie. The truth would out in a matter of time.
Unmarried and with child. Just the one time and . . .
The pain of betrayal lanced sharply, almost doubling her over. She squeezed her eyes shut and gritted her teeth against the onslaught.
Curse you, Charles . . . Pierre.
He asked her to wait for him and swore he’d come for her. What, and bring his wife along for companionship? He should be horsewhipped.
But, she bore guilt too. Guilt for being too blasted trusting.
Stupid, green girl.
“Please sit before you swoon.” Murphy urged Angelina to an armchair. “You’re white as me da’s prize sow.”
Her lips twitched as she smoothed her hands over her nearly flat stomach. She would be the size of a sow in a few short months. At present, only the slightest bump hinted at her condition. The mound wasn’t noticeable beneath her nightgown or her black empire gowns.
Gratefully sinking into the overstuffed chair, she tucked her bare feet beneath her bottom. The balcony door stood open allowing the fresh morning air to cool the chamber. It wouldn’t stay cool for long.
A curious pigeon stood beyond the threshold cocking its dappled head back and forth. The bird peered into the chamber with black button eyes. Every now and again, it cooed softly.
The breeze ruffling the lace panels that shaded the beveled windows carried the scents of honeysuckle and jasmine into the chamber.
If today proved anything like the past two weeks, this afternoon would be intolerable. Nature seemed intent on making up for last year’s complete lack of summer with unusual warmth this year.
After hearing Aunt Camille’s complaints about the trials of a late summer delivery, Angelina thanked God her babe wouldn’t make an appearance until sometime near Yuletide.
The same time of year I met—
No, she wouldn’t think of him. Another rule to add to her list.
No wasting thoughts on worthless deceivers.
She purposefully redirected her attention to a more pleasing subject. She enjoyed getting to know her cousins, Pembrose, two months her junior, and Felicia, a charming girl of eleven. Aunt Camille had relinquished hope of having another child and doted on Felicia.
Shutting her eyes, Angelina propped her head against the back of her chair. She found the English countryside utterly delightful and yearned to walk the shady path visible from her balcony. The trial led to a stream burbling beside an unkempt orchard. The water begged her to wade in its refreshing depths.
She and her sisters had often walked in the shallow creek meandering through Endicott Hall’s five acres. Usually, Angelina only donned slippers when visitors came to call, preferring bare feet inside the house. It drove Mama to near distraction, particularly since Angelina was forever misplacing her slippers.
However, Aunt Camille didn’t want Angelina engaging in such vigorous physical activity in such a delicate condition, so the stream and path were forbidden.
Pshaw. What twaddle.
Opening her eyes, Angelina surveyed the well-appointed room. The bedchamber, in pale shades of blue and green with a hint of peach, was the epitome of femininity. Several canvases and painted plates adorned the walls. Each portrayed kittens engaged in some form of mischief or other.
Aunt Camille had a penchant for cats. She owned three flat-faced, oversized white beasts that spent their days lounging in the sun or draped upon whatever piece of furniture had taken their current fancy.
One corner of Angelina’s chamber held a cozy sewing niche. She spent hours nestled in the window seat stitching and embroidering garments and blankets for the babe.
Oh, how she hoped she carried a girl.
Not that she wouldn’t adore a son. But for a boy to be raised without a father’s influence seemed unjust. And having had no brothers, or a father interested in anything other than his books and prayers, she wasn’t altogether certain what a boy required outside of a decent education and a mother’s love.
But a daughter, God willing, she could do well by, even if the infant’s father was an unconscionable pig.
“Drink this, Mrs. Thorne. It will ease your queasiness.” Murphy offered a steaming cup of tea. “Would you care for some dry toast?”
Angelina shook her head. “Just tea, thank you.”
She raised the cup and sniffed the fragrant mint tea. “Murphy, I do wish it were acceptable for you to call me Angelina or Lina. I cannot bear being addressed as Mrs. Thorne.”
True enough. Each time she heard the name, it grated along her already fragile nerves, taunting her with the falsehood.
“Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly.” Murphy ducked her head.
Alarm written on her plain face, she clutched her starched apron. “His Grace is most strict about such things. I’d lose my position.”
Triumph and Treasure (Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series Book 1) Page 4