“Grandmamma, you’ve risen early today.” He kissed her papery cheek.
She smelled of roses and lemon, had done so for as long as he remembered. She’d encouraged his love of botany and often made intelligent and useful suggestions regarding the new species of roses he created in the conservatory.
A senseless luxury. He couldn’t justify spending time or funds on rose breeding any longer.
After patting each dog on the head, and receiving welcoming licks in return, Grandmamma leaned back with a hearty sigh. The chair engulfed her fragile frame.
“I’m sorry, my dear boy, I don’t mean to intrude. I couldn’t help overhear your conversation with Mr. Fleming.”
She shifted more firmly into the cushion. Her feet didn’t quite reach the carpet.
Funny, Flynn had never noticed that before.
“I came to ask if Eunice might come for a few weeks,” Grandmamma touched the mourning brooch at her throat. It held a lock of Father’s hair. “She wrote and asked for an invitation. Your father’s death has been difficult for her.”
And you too, dear one.
Although she braved a smile, anguish glistened in her eyes.
Overcome, she’d collapsed when he told her of Father’s death. Thank God, she’d only swooned. Given her delicate constitution and advanced age, Flynn had feared her fit of vapors more at the time.
He nodded, shooing the dogs away. “Of course, Aunt Eunice may come. Do extend an invitation, and ask her to stay as long as she wishes.”
Once his aged aunt settled in, Flynn would wager she’d stay on. Widowed and childless, Father’s elder sister had hinted she’d like to reside at Lambridge Manse for quite some time.
“You’re troubled.” A statement of fact, not a question. Grandmamma peered at him expectantly. “And did I hear mention of selling assets?”
Her eyesight might be fading, her pretty blue-gray eyes slightly cloudy and unfocused, but his grandmother’s hearing and her mind remained as sharp as ever. She wasn’t going to let the issue with Fleming go.
Flynn fixed his focus on the carpet and crossed his Hessian-clad feet, rubbing his nape again. Egads, had rocks taken up residence there?
He’d never been able to lie to his grandmother. She detected his deceit and had taught him as a child to come clean and confess the truth rather than weave a web of lies.
You will be a marquis someday, Flynn, and you must sow honor. Put away falsehoods and always speak the truth, my boy.
Flynn sighed and rested his hip upon the edge of his desk. “I’m obligated to sell some properties to meet an unexpected debt that has arisen.”
“Ah, I see.”
She cocked her silver-haired head to the side and studied him with intelligent eyes. She reminded him of an inquisitive mouse. Her gnarled hands gripped the engraved cane’s top, and she leaned forward a jot.
What did she actually see?
The lines of fatigue and worry lining his face? The despair and concern that no doubt showed in his eyes? Or that he kept something from her?
She’d enough on her frail shoulders without fretting about him.
He forced his lips into a semblance of a smile.
“All will be well, Grandmamma, I promise you.” He lifted a blue-veined hand. Kissing the back of it, he gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. “We have each other, you, Mother, Franny and me. And soon, Aunt Eunice will join us. That’s what matters at present.”
Her eyes misted. “Yes, I take great comfort in knowing that.”
Although if he didn’t find a way to extricate himself from the yoke he’d been pressed into, their circumstances would dive south faster than a bird after an insect. They might find themselves stacked atop one another like biscuits in a tin living in his decrepit hunting cottage a stone’s toss on the other side of Scotland’s border.
How could he deign to move a woman two and eighty, an invalid, and a cripple to a three-room hovel?
Moll and Lasses pushed their snouts between his hand and Grandmamma’s.
She chuckled, rubbing their silky heads. “The girls feel ignored, don’t you, darlings? Of course he meant to include you.”
“I beg your pardon, my lord.” Chatterton entered the study holding a silver salver. A white calling card stood out starkly upon it. “His Grace, the Duke of Waterford, wishes to know if you are at home.”
Flynn’s gut dropped to his booted feet. The time for reckoning was at hand.
It’s too damn soon. I need more time.
And a plan.
Clamping his teeth together until a muscle jumped in his jaw, he prayed for strength. There was nothing for it. He must receive the duke. Flynn couldn’t very well say he wasn’t at home with Grandmamma eyeing him.
“How nice.” She turned toward the door. “I’ve not seen His Grace in a good number of years. I’ve missed his eloquent company.”
By deliberate design, Grandmamma. Trust me, dear lady, he is far from eloquent these days.
“Chatterton, please show him to the study.” Flynn would be hung before he’d order tea or refreshments for the sot.
Calling this early in the day was outside the bounds. He didn’t want Waterford feeling welcome or lingering a second longer than necessary. Had Grandmamma not been present and sure to ask questions he wasn’t prepared to answer, Flynn would have directed Chatterton to claim visitors weren’t being received.
And never would be when that vulture came calling.
“At once, my lord.” Dipping his head, Chatterton slipped from the room as silently as he arrived.
“Grandmamma, the duke and I have business to discuss, which I’m sure you’d find tiresome.” Flynn reached for her hand.
She chuckled again.
“Trying to get rid of me are you, my boy?” Placing her hand in his, she struggled to stand. “Very well. I’ll greet him on my way out.”
Flynn grasped her elbow, meaning to help her from the room.
She waved his hand away. “Go on with you. When you have a moment, your mother and sister want a word.”
He arched a brow. His mother and sister were awake this early as well?
“Don’t look at me like that.” Humor danced in her eyes. “Like you, we have much on our minds. Now, give me a kiss,” she pointed to her cheek, “and I’ll be on my way.”
After placing a dutiful peck on her wrinkled face, he sought the chair behind the mammoth desk. Better to put something between the duke and him. Flynn wasn’t certain he could keep from popping Waterford on the nose.
Or, calling the duke out.
A notion Flynn had seriously entertained until common sense prevailed. More like planted him a facer. He couldn’t risk an injury. Not with so many others dependent on him.
Waterford was a dab hand at pistols, although Flynn’s sword skills exceeded the duke’s. That His Grace never handled a blade well was common enough knowledge. However, Flynn didn’t doubt Waterford’s weapon of choice would be guns.
As unconscionable as the churl was, he wouldn’t hesitate to call in the gaming debt even if Flynn was wounded or killed.
Where would that leave his family?
Destitute.
No, better to keep a tight rein on his temper and tongue, something he found deucedly thorny to do of late. Truth be known, something he struggled with for the first time in his life. His anger lashed against good sense at present.
He didn’t possess a foul temper, finding life more enjoyable as a pleasant, amiable chap. Those days were forever behind him, curse Waterford’s black heart.
And blast Father for choosing the coward’s way.
Moments after Grandmamma scuffed from the room, Flynn heard her offer the duke a congenial greeting.
If she knew the truth, she would
soundly whack the bounder on his nob with her cane. And then kick him in the bum after he hit the floor.
The image brought a faint arc to Flynn’s lips.
“Your Grace.” Chatterton indicated the duke should enter. “Shall I request a tray from Mrs. Plum?”
Flynn closed the Lambridge ledger. He stacked the record atop the others. “No, His Grace won’t be staying long.”
“Very good, my lord.” With a glower of contempt directed at the rear of Waterford’s head, Chatterton backed out, not quite closing the double doors behind him.
Ah, so the staff was aware of the change in Flynn’s circumstances. No surprise there. It would have been easier to drain the River Thames than hide the truth from the servants. Almost as protective of the women as he, his loyal retainers wouldn’t breathe a word to Mother or the others.
Since coming into his majority and becoming a regular attendee at haut ton assemblies, Flynn couldn’t recall speaking more than a handful of words to Waterford. The man’s unmatched arrogance and condescending mien were off-putting.
Flynn shifted his attention to the duke and took his measure.
Thinning auburn hair topped His Grace’s head, and he’d developed a distinct paunch. Excess drink tended to do that. Bags cradled his watery, bloodshot eyes, and fine red veins laced his bulbous nose. Recognizing him as the handsome man once Father’s closest friend, proved difficult.
Had Father ever told Waterford why he severed his friendship? The duke must have an inkling. News of Franny’s tragedy had circulated amongst the upper salons.
Confidence in his step, the duke strode into the study. The cocksure set of his head and shoulders suggested he thought he had Flynn at a disadvantage.
And he bloody well did, God rot the pompous cull.
Moll and Lasses, their hackles raised, circled the duke, sniffing the air and growling low in their throats.
Waterford froze and eyed the spaniels, his dislike tangible. He raised his foot as if to deliver a kick. “Call off your dogs.”
“If you value your legs, I wouldn’t do that.” Flynn flicked a wrist at the study entrance where a good-sized Dalmatian stood issuing a throaty growl.
His Grace uttered a filthy oath. “Call them off.”
“Lie down.” Flynn pointed to the sofa.
Tails between their legs, Moll and Lasses skulked to the couch. Their distrustful scrutiny never left Waterford. Intermittent rumbles echoed in their chests.
Smart creatures.
He would love to let them have a go at the duke. Waterford proved so foul, they’d likely collapse and die after the first nip.
Waiting to rise until the duke stood directly before the desk, Flynn strode to the entrance and nudged Sir Freckleton—Franny’s choice of a name—out the door.
“A mite early for a social call, Waterford.”
“We both know it’s nothing of the sort.”
The duke settled himself into a chair. Crossing his bony legs at the knee, he drummed a beringed hand on the time-worn arm. “Aren’t you going to offer me a drink, Luxmoore? I could do with a dram or two of that fine Scotch your father always kept on hand.”
“I’m the Marquis of Bretheridge now, as you well know, and I don’t condone spirits before noon.”
Flynn resumed his seat and folded his fingers atop the desk, lest he wrap them around the duke’s neck. “Besides, other than for medicinal purposes, there is no alcohol in the house.”
“Pity.” Waterford reached inside his moss-green coat and withdrew a piece of neatly folded paper. He placed it on the desk, edging the vowel toward Flynn.
“I’m sure you know what this is.”
Flynn flicked a disinterested glance at the marker. “Indeed.”
“I’ve come to discuss the terms of collection.” The duke tensely eyed the dogs. “Could you have those beasts removed?”
They lifted their heads and growled in unison.
On pain of death.
If the spaniels’ presence gave Flynn the slightest advantage against the smug pissant lounging across from him, he’d seize it. “I’m in a position to pay a portion of the debt. I shall need additional time to acquire—”
“Don’t waste your breath. I know you cannot possibly pay the blunt.” The duke waved his hand dismissively, and a triumphant gleam entered his eyes. “Besides, that’s the least of it. There are the properties and other assets to discuss.”
With his greedy green-eyed stare and distended belly, he reminded Flynn of a giant, gloating toad.
“My father’s been dead mere weeks. It has taken that long to determine his effects as well as what’s entailed.”
Taking a calming breath, Flynn narrowed his eyes and brushed his fingers along a ledger’s edge. “You may not be aware, but Mother’s recovering from apoplexy. I’ve kept the details of Father’s wager and his death from her. I’ll not have her, my grandmother, or my sister further traumatized.”
The wrath thrumming through his blood made maintaining his composure a monumental feat. He now understood why some men were driven to murder.
“I suppose you contrived some drivel about a robbery or something equally unimaginative to explain his death.” The duke pursed his lips in contempt.
In fact, Flynn had. He pressed into his chair, the urge to hurdle the desk and pummel Waterford so intense, it staggered him. He’d never considered himself a violent man.
That changed when Father put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger.
Flynn forced a calm facade. “You were my father’s closest confident for two decades. Though it may come as a surprise, he continued to hold you in high regard, as does Mother, still.”
That took the wind out of his ducal self’s sails. He visibly sagged, his jaw falling open. After an awkward moment, Waterford snapped his mouth shut with an audible click. His features hardened, and His Grace’s haughtiness returned full on. “Be that as it may, there’s the matter at hand.”
He stabbed the vowel with a gnarled finger.
Flynn focused on the paper before meeting the duke’s cold eyes.
“I need more time.” He clenched and unclenched his hands several times beneath the desk’s kneehole. God help him, he was on the verge of losing control.
“Mother won’t survive another attack. It would kill her if she learned the truth. Surely there must be a smattering of compassion buried beneath the man you have become.”
Flynn doubted the truthfulness of his statement. The duke acquired his reputation because of his ruthlessness, not tenderheartedness. He’d earned his notoriety as a merciless fiend.
“Indeed. I‘ve a most, ah, magnanimous solution.” Waterford smiled widely and relaxed against the chair. He re-crossed his legs, his other knobby knee now on display.
“I’m hoping you’ll be amendable to the proposition I have for you.” He pointed to the vowel again. “If you agree, I’ll cancel the entire debt. Burn it as you watch.”
Despite slight foreboding, Flynn straightened at once, his interest piqued.
“Thought that’d get your attention.” The duke chuckled snidely.
“What could you possibly propose that would be worth forgiving a debt of such magnitude?” Flynn’s mind raced. Perhaps God had heard his prayers after all. Was there a way possible to save everything?
“It’s quite simple.” A smug grin contorted Waterford’s face. “All you have to do is marry my niece.”
Flynn gaped. Was the man addled? Had too much drink pickled his brain? Had some sort of disease rendered the duke unhinged?
“You’re not serious.” Flynn found his tongue at last, his voice a harsh growl.
Moll and Lasses perked up. They stood on the sofa, swinging their wary gazes from him to Waterford.
The duke didn’t resp
ond. His smile deepening, he tilted his head arrogantly.
The mantel clocked ticked a steady rhythm.
Flynn’s pulse didn’t. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe.
“I’m in mourning, for God’s sake. Even if I wanted to get leg-shackled to some chit I’ve never met—which I don’t-I cannot. Propriety forbids it.”
Triumph and Treasure (Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series Book 1) Page 6