Crimson flooded the blackguard’s face. “What concern is it of yours? You waived your claim to any of the items when you granted permission to sell them.”
“Hell’s teeth! What choice did I have? You would have left me to rot in Paris.”
Sampson shrugged as if confirming that was exactly what he would have done if Marcus hadn’t bent to his wishes. Well, never again. Marcus flicked the document in his sire’s direction, and it fluttered to the floor. He would take Adele to one of the other properties, even though he held no affinity for any other home beyond Crossing Rivers.
“To the devil with you,” Marcus snarled. “I was in no position to protect the estate months ago. Now, I will fight you. I will protect my heir’s inheritance.”
“Very well.” Sampson bent to retrieve the paper from the floor. When he straightened, malevolence gleamed in his eyes. “You will never reside at Crossing Rivers. I will see it burned to the ground first.”
Marcus’s chest clenched. Sampson was a reprobate gambler, liar, and a cheat. Would he truly destroy something Marcus loved to spite him? Their gazes locked over the desk; Sampson’s eyes were as hard as steel and glacial. In that moment, Marcus believed the man would do anything to get what he wanted—even risk innocent lives and leave their servants without a home and income.
He cursed under his breath. “Give me the blasted paper.” Hastily, he scribbled his name to the document and threw the quill on the desk. “May you rot in hell.”
He stormed from the study, intent on never setting eyes on his sire again. His mother was still in the foyer awaiting her carriage, catching him by surprise, and earning his anger. “And you”—he jabbed a finger in her direction—“you are no better than he is. When will you stop running and take a stand against him?”
Her hand fluttered to her chest. “I—I do not understand. What has happened?”
“He is draining the coffers while you turn a blind eye.”
“Pfft! You’ve always exaggerated his faults. He never could do right by you in your eyes.”
Marcus’s jaw dropped. Exaggerate? How could she pretend ignorance to what everyone else knew about her husband? He was a Lothario, spendthrift, and deplorable man who indulged his appetites at the expense of his heirs’ future.
The butler quietly brought Marcus’s hat forward before making himself scarce. Marcus intended to do the same.
“Goodnight, Mother.” He shoved the hat on his head and attempted to sweep past her, but she grabbed his arm.
“Please Marcus, I do not wish to part with cross words between us. Whatever your father has led you to believe, there is no cause to fret. The estate is protected. Your grandfather’s will made provisions.”
“He found a way to circumvent grandfather’s good intentions. Do you think Sampson came to Paris to retrieve me out of the goodness of his heart? He refused to secure my release from prison unless I allowed him to sell the family heirlooms.”
Color drained from her face. “Everything?”
“A third, but he is not finished. He is holding Crossing Rivers for ransom.”
“Oh, my.” She gulped. “Wh-what did he say? Surely, he has a good reason for his decision.”
“He is a selfish blackguard. What other reason could he have?”
“Marcus, he is your father and deserves your respect.”
“He has never been a father to me.” Marcus shook his head in disbelief. “God’s blood. I am wasting my breath.”
As he stalked toward the door, she said in a rush, “Lady Adele seems like a lovely young woman. I would like to become better acquainted with her. Perhaps I should host a dinner party to celebrate your betrothal.”
For as long as he could recall, his mother had been excusing Sampson’s transgressions and asking Marcus to do the same. He couldn’t engage in the folly anymore. Sampson didn’t want his forgiveness, and Marcus refused to give it.
“Good night, Mother.”
“Please, wait.” She grabbed his forearm, her blue eyes pleading with him to listen. “Your trust is still safe, is it not? He knows nothing about it.”
Marcus’s maternal grandfather had created a secret trust in Marcus’s name before his death to protect him from Sampson. With the guidance of his mother’s gentleman friend, Marcus had made wise investments over the years and increased his fortune. Clearly, his mother did not understand. He was not angry because he was destitute. He was furious that his father had no qualms about leaving him nothing.
“It is safe,” he said.
His mother exhaled and smiled. “Splendid. Then might I suggest you use this secret to your advantage?”
“How?”
“I do not know exactly, but I have faith that you will discover a way.”
Her words seemed like nonsense at first, but as his carriage bumped over the cobbled streets carrying him to his bachelor quarters, he mulled over the possibilities of how he might use his fortune to best his father. And when he finally crawled into bed around midnight, he knew how he was going to save Crossing Rivers.
Twelve
“Milady, might I have a word?”
Adele—who had been entertaining Jefferson, Leo, and her stepmother while Harry changed into appropriate attire for her betrothal dinner—asked their guests to please excuse her and exited the drawing room with the butler. Much to her displeasure, her stepmother had received a dinner invitation along with Adele’s younger brothers, and Millicent had been a little too happy to accept.
Ever since Marcus and Adele had announced their intentions to her family two Sundays past, Millicent had been hinting to Harry that she could make herself available to manage the household in Adele’s absence. There had been no polite way to exclude her stepmother from the dinner tonight, but Adele had enough to worry about without adding Millicent to the mix.
Marcus and Harry were still at odds, although they had managed to be in the same room on a few occasions these last two weeks without coming to blows. Adele considered this progress. Tonight’s dinner might be their last opportunity to make peace before the wedding.
Adele closed the drawing room door behind her and urged the butler to move with her out of hearing range. “Why do you need to speak with me?”
Mr. Quinton cleared his throat. “I have a message from His Grace, milady. He regrets that he will be unable to accompany you to the Fletchers’ dinner party this evening but wishes you to attend without him.”
“Did he supply a reason?”
“I am afraid not, milady.”
“I see.” Blast! She had sensed hesitancy from Harry earlier, but she hadn’t expected him to renege on his promise to attend the dinner. How could Marcus’s parents interpret his absence as anything other than an insult? This did not bode well for smoothing over the rift between her brother and fiancé. Adele clamped her lips together and tried to calm her breathing.
“Thank you, Quinton. That will be all.”
As the butler made a quick, yet dignified escape, Adele headed for the stairs. If Harry thought he was going to avoid a quarrel by sending a servant to convey his regrets, he was mistaken. She needed him to clear the air with Marcus and offer a sincere apology before she and Marcus began their new life together. Harry could consider it a wedding gift.
When she entered his chambers, Harry was slumped in a chair with one of their mother’s needlepoint pillows behind his back. His untied cravat hung loose around his neck, his jacket was missing, and his feet were clad in stockings only. His state of undress didn’t disturb her nearly as much as his clammy skin.
With her hands on her hips, she was prepared to scold him properly. “Harry, you are ill again, and you would have sent me away without a word.”
He lifted his dull-eyed gaze and smiled weakly. “It is your betrothal dinner. I wanted you to enjoy yourself free of any worries.”
“Millicent will be attending.” She wrinkled her nose, teasing him. “If you truly wished for my enjoyment, you would lock her in your wardrobe until our v
ows have been spoken.”
“And subject myself to her temper? I politely decline, thank you.” His attempt to engage in banter was sweet, but it seemed to drain him.
She approached the washstand and retrieved a cloth from the neat stack on the marble top to wet it. She spoke while she wrung out the water to avoid eye contact and appear casual. “Perhaps we should seek a second opinion from a different doctor. For my peace of mind, of course.”
He sighed, and she anticipated his usual argument. “Maybe tomorrow morning.”
She whirled toward him in surprise. He had been so adamantly opposed to seeing a doctor before that his softening stance caused a tremulous swoop in her belly. “Are you certain you wish to wait?” She carried the cloth to him and urged him to place it across his forehead.
He leaned his head against the high seatback and closed his eyes. “I only want to sleep now. Do you forgive me for missing your celebration?”
“You needn’t ask for my forgiveness.” She knelt at his side and took his hand. It was cold and damp, causing another trill of anxiety to pass through her. “I do not like leaving when you are ill.”
His grip was still strong and a glimmer of fierceness flickered in his dark eyes. “I’ve caused enough problems between you and your fiancé. You will go to the dinner and not give me another thought.”
“But—”
“Go, Adele.”
Her shoulders sank with resignation. She had been eager about becoming better acquainted with the Fletchers earlier, but now she was torn between keeping her commitment and staying with her brother.
“Please go,” he murmured, his voice lacking the forcefulness he’d shown seconds ago. He gestured to the teapot and cup on the side table next to him. “This has been helping, I think. I will finish my cup and call my valet to ready me for bed.”
Harry had been sipping ginger tea any time he had an upset stomach, and she was glad to hear he felt better, even if he didn’t look it. When Adele had spoken to the cook about serving less roast beef, the older woman suggested ginger tea might help Harry’s nausea. Apparently, Millicent had been very ill while carrying Jefferson and Leo, and the drink had settled her stomach.
Adele released her brother’s hand and stood. “Very well. I will leave you, but only if you promise to allow me to send for the doctor in the morning. This sickness has been going on too long.”
“I promise.”
Somewhat mollified, she kissed his sallow cheek. “Have you eaten anything since breakfast?”
He shook his head. “Everything tastes odd lately.”
“I will ask Cook to make you a restorative broth. Try to drink some before retiring to bed.”
“If you insist.”
She bade him a goodnight and made her way to the kitchen to order the broth. Jefferson, Leo, and Millicent were waiting for her in the foyer. Before leaving for the Fletcher’s dinner, she pulled the butler aside to request he locate and send for a different doctor first thing in the morning—sooner if Harry’s condition worsened. Mr. Quinton reassured her the duke would be well looked after while she was out, then accompanied her and her family to the carriage to oversee their departure.
“What a shame Harry cannot join us,” Millicent said as the carriage lurched away from the house. “I hope his condition is not serious.”
Her giddy smile did nothing to convince Adele of her sincerity, but she didn’t wish to argue nor did she want Millicent’s advice on how to tend to Harry. Adele’s strategy for the evening was to focus on Marcus and his family and forget her stepmother was in the same room. It wasn’t until they arrived at the Fletcher’s home that she saw what a challenge it would be to ignore Millicent.
When they entered the empty drawing room, Millicent’s face screwed up like she smelled soured milk. “Has everyone arrived?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Marcus’s mother said. “An intimate family gathering will allow us time to become better acquainted, I believe.”
“I see.” Millicent’s haughty tone and manner earned her chiding looks from her sons. In the carriage, she’d been chattering about how she hadn’t been to a proper dinner party in weeks. Apparently, a party with less than thirty guests did not qualify as a proper party.
Marcus’s father took her hand, placed a kiss on her glove, and complimented her on her gown. “May I request the honor of escorting you to dinner, Your Grace?”
Millicent giggled like a girl when he offered his arm and commented on how gracious a host he was as they strolled toward the dining room. Marcus detained Adele while his mother and Adele’s brothers followed Mr. Fletcher and Millicent to dinner.
“I am sorry about my stepmother,” she murmured.
“No more sorry than I am about Sampson.” His gaze narrowed. “Where is your brother? You wanted us to speak after dinner and make peace. His absence suggests he has no interest in making amends.”
“That is not true. Harry deeply regrets his actions in Paris and wishes he could attend this evening.”
He scoffed. “It is always you expressing your brother’s regret on his behalf. I wonder if you are capable of seeing his true nature, or perhaps you are blind because you do not want to see.”
He crooked his elbow to escort her to dinner as if they were not in the middle of a conversation. She gaped at his arm then at the man himself.
“Shall we?” His voice was tight and thin.
“No,” she uttered before taking a fortifying breath. “No, we shall not.”
The muscles in his jaw bulged like he was grinding his teeth, but she refused to join the others to celebrate their betrothal, pretending the entire time everything was blissful between them. She crossed her arms to reinforce that she was going nowhere until she had her say.
“Harry had every intention of being here tonight, but he is unwell.”
“Is he?” Suspicion sharpened Marcus’s gaze. “Are you certain he isn’t suffering the after-effects of too much drink?”
Ire flared in her chest; heat flushed her face. Her brother had wronged him, it was true, but he wasn’t the beast Marcus made him out to be. She ticked off Harry’s symptoms on her fingers. “Cramps. Poor appetite. Gauntness. Fatigue. These are not symptoms of overindulgence.”
Marcus shoulders lost their rigidness and his expression softened marginally. “Has he seen a doctor?”
“Dr. Furlong examined him, but I have no confidence in the man.”
“For good reason,” Marcus said. “He is a quack.”
His unfavorable opinion of Dr. Furlong matched her own and smoothed her ruffled feathers a little. She was likely being too sensitive. Worry tended to affect her that way.
“I fear Harry’s condition might be serious,” she admitted in a soft voice. Despite her resolve to stand strong, her eyes misted. “He has grown thin and pale. You would hardly recognize him.” Her handsome, robust brother was becoming a shell of his former self, and she didn’t know how to help him.
Marcus frowned. “We have been together nearly every day for the past two weeks. Why didn’t you mention anything sooner?”
“Talking about Harry upsets you, so I have kept my concerns to myself. But I am spent, Marcus. I do not know if I can continue like this, weighing every word before I speak and defending him against your suspicions.”
He sighed. “Come here.”
She held fast. The answers to their differences did not lie in embraces and passionate kisses. These only distracted them from their troubles for a short time. No matter how many sweet words he whispered or how tender his caresses, Marcus held anger in his heart for her brother. How long would it be before it seeped into his veins and poisoned him against her, too?
Marcus held out his hand. “Please, Adele. Come to me.”
Perhaps it was the slight tremor of his voice or the uncertainty in his fathomless blue eyes, but she answered his call. Closing the distance between them, she went straight into his arms and sank against his firm chest. He exhaled, melting into her as if th
ey were one. She laid her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes as his hands made slow passes up and down her back. Maybe there were no answers in his arms, but there was strength and solace. He kissed the top of her head. She tingled where his lips touched her.
“I never meant to make you feel as if you must keep secrets from me, my love,” he murmured. “Tomorrow I will request our family doctor call on your brother. Dr. Portier is competent and thorough. All will be well, I promise.”
“Thank you,” she whispered, snuggling into him. “I am sorry for being surly. I cannot stop worrying about him.”
He tipped her chin to look into her eyes. “Do you want to go to him now? I will make our excuses and see you home.”
“Are you looking for an excuse to avoid dining with your father?”
Marcus rarely spoke of Sampson—he referred to him by name and never Father—but the few times he had, it hadn’t been to sing the man’s praises.
“Perhaps,” he said with a grin, “or maybe I wish to spare you.”
“How thoughtful.” She smiled and cupped his cheek. “I have a better plan. Let’s survive this dinner together then you may escort me home.”
His devastating smile widened, causing her heart to skip. “How am I to resist such an enticing offer?”
“You are not.” She held out her arm as he had done earlier. “Shall we join the others?”
He linked arms with her, and they headed toward the dining room.
Soon Adele realized Marcus had shown admirable restraint in the past when speaking of his father’s faults. Sampson Fletcher was a braggart, tyrant, and shameless flirt. It was a mystery how he’d sired such a wonderful, loving son.
“Lady Adele, do you consider yourself a connoisseur of poetry?” Mr. Fletcher asked.
“I cannot say I have extensive education on the subject, sir.”
He cleared his throat and placed his hand over his heart, gazing at the ceiling as if enraptured with his own booming voice. “If I could write the beauty of your eyes and in fresh numbers number all your graces, the age to come would say, 'This poet lies; such heavenly touches ne'er touched earthly faces.'” Marcus’s father saluted her with his glass of burgundy, smiling wolfishly. “Shakespeare could have been speaking of you, dear girl. You are a vision in pink this evening.”
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