Grant felt his hackles rise. Will had stepped back into his usual pompous self. That he had a legitimate grievance did not change Grant’s knee-jerk response. Whenever his brother sought to school him, Grant resorted to a casual insouciance that never failed to irritate the boy. Er, the man.
“Ah well,” he said, spreading his arms wide. “As you can see, I’m still well and hale. Lord Crowle in all his glory, so to speak.” Then he turned to the well-stocked sideboard. “Something to drink anyone? I am feeling quite parched myself.”
He stepped to the sideboard, his hands shaking. Except for the night of the Redhill ball, Grant hadn’t considered a drop of brandy in five years. Now he wanted it with a frightening desperation. Not because he cared for the alcohol, but because he had no wish to face the animosity in his brother’s eyes. Did the man really despise him so deeply?
Thankfully, Irene stepped into the breech, asking Miss Powel about her wedding and beginning a discussion of gown fashions. That gave Robert time to take the brandy decanter from Grant and set it aside.
“Steady there. Will was always somewhat dour. That proves nothing.”
“Comes from trying to run an estate without a copper to support it.” Grant swirled the liquid in his glass, but didn’t drink. He was afraid if he started, he’d never stop.
Meanwhile, Robert squeezed his arm. “You had plenty to handle as well. Your father was ten times worse than mine, and considering the comparison, it’s a wonder you’re not completely mad.”
Grant’s madness thought that was terribly funny, and it was probably two breaths before Grant could hear anything but the thing’s laughter.
Meanwhile, Redhill swallowed his brandy and shot Grant a dark look. “I didn’t know you’d kept apart from your family for the last five years. Bloody hell, man, I’d be angry at you too.”
“Yes,” said a hard voice. Will, of course. Coming up behind them in his quiet way. “What have you been doing?”
Grant turned, the truth on his lips, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it. He couldn’t confess that he’d been sweating at the mill, working harder than the lowest beast in the field, and starving like a mongrel dog as he did it. He couldn’t say that he’d been doing it all—five years of blood and sweat—to buy back their land. Land, incidentally, that Will was going to get simply by marrying the girl he loved. He couldn’t say any of it, so other words spilled from his lips. Angry, bitter ones made worse by their almost polite tone.
“I know what you’ve been doing. Putting in a canal, I understand. Improvements to Lawton’s land, so it’s now a bloody showpiece for the bucolic life.”
Will’s expression hardened at Grant’s cutting tone, and he answered in kind. “Yes, I did,” he said coldly. “The minute Lawton signed the papers, I began spending his money. Doing all the things that were five and ten years wanting. Did you think I’d let things remain broken once there were funds to fix them?”
No, of course not. It had been so much easier thinking of everything at home remaining exactly the same. That everyone else would wait while he got the money together to buy the land back.
And what makes you so bloody special that the world would wait on you?
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing,” he said to his madness, temporarily forgetting that no one else heard the thoughts in his head. It wasn’t until he saw Will’s and Robert’s gaze sharpen that he realized what he’d done.
Flushing, he shot them a carefree grin, then downed as much of his brandy as he could swallow in one mouthful. It was harsh on his throat and nearly choked him, but he swallowed it with a gentleman’s aplomb. Funny how some habits never quite disappeared. He could pour brandy down his throat and not gag. Wondered if he could still blow fire.
And that thought brought him right back to his brother. “You’ve got it all now, brother dear,” he said with false good cheer. “The land you’ve always wanted, a woman who loves you. All you need is the title, and you’ll be the peer England so desperately needs. Landed and lordly as you rule your people like a king.”
Will jerked in shock at the statement, his brows lowering into a scowl. “What the devil are you talking about?”
“Nothing, nothing,” he said as he threw an arm around his stiff-shouldered brother. “I’m just glad to be with my brother again. I’ve dreamed of this moment, you know. Course it wasn’t at an inn in London, but at home. And we were talking about all the improvements we would do, not about the canal you’ve already dug that apparently brings in a mint every day.”
Will’s gaze dropped to Grant’s nearly empty glass, his thoughts obvious. Just how much had Grant drunk already? Was he drunk?
“Come, come,” Grant said. “Let me pour you something. Ladies? Anything?”
Everyone stared, Irene included. Was this the moment? Was this when he was finally exposed as a madman before the world? If so, then let him do one last sane thing before he disappeared into bedlam. One last sane act because, bloody hell, it was terribly hard to ask one’s brother if the man was contemplating fratricide.
“I’ll recant the title, Will. I’ll give it to you. You needn’t go to extremes. You’re the better man anyway. We both know that.”
“What?” That explosion came from Robert, the man nearly apoplectic with shock. Grant only knew that because the man was standing beside Will. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have seen it. He was looking at his brother, trying to read his stone-faced sibling. It was especially hard because superimposed over the stiff man was the face of an eight-year-old boy with ruddy checks, scruffy hair, and a look of worship as he followed Grant like a stray puppy.
That was years ago. Decades, even. But Grant couldn’t look at the man now without remembering the boy then. How had they come to this place?
Meanwhile, the ladies had come to their feet. Miss Powel moved quickly and silently to Will’s side. She didn’t touch him, but stood there uncertainly. And, all the while, Will just stared at him. Then finally he spoke, his voice quiet, his expression infinitely sad.
“How long has the madness been back?”
Grant started, then cursed. Of course his brother would ask about that. No one knew about the voice in his head. Not even Robert. But he had once—many years ago—told his little brother. He tried to answer. His throat worked, but his mouth didn’t. And when he tried to make a sound, it only came out as a strangled grunt.
Then Irene stepped in. Irene of the long legs and the soft voice. Irene who didn’t understand the truth, but nevertheless, had the answer he needed. She took his arm and gently pulled him back. Not far. Just enough so that she could step up and face his brother. In fact, he belatedly realized, it was in much the same position as Miss Powel had taken beside Will.
“He’s not mad, Mr. Benton. He thinks… well, we all think, uh, fear…” She grimaced then took a deep breath. “Grant was attacked two nights ago by a man who meant to do murder.”
Miss Powel gasped and pressed her hand to her mouth. She’d known about the attack, but they’d called the perpetrator a “footpad” in the dress shop. Meanwhile, Will’s eyes widened, and his gaze jumped to Grant’s looking for confirmation.
“It’s true,” he said quietly. “And so we started asking who would want me dead.”
Suddenly, Will’s eyes blazed fury. It was less than a heartbeat between Grant’s statement and his brother’s reaction as the man processed the information and leaped ahead to the correct conclusion.
“Bloody hell!” he spat. His hands clenched into fists, and he looked like he might very well murder someone right then.
Grant took hold of Irene and forcibly pushed her aside. If it came to blows, he wanted her safely out of the way. But that one action infuriated Will all the more.
“You think I’m going to hurt her? You think I’d try to kill you?” The words weren’t shouted. It would have been better if they were. Instead they were hoarse and low, as if strangled, as they came out of his mouth. Meanwhile, Miss Powel was stepping forward.
; “He’d never do that! How could you even think it?” she cried.
“He doesn’t want to,” answered Robert quietly. “He doesn’t want to believe it.”
Meanwhile, Will was looking around at the cozy inn parlor, at the table set for six. “Is that why we’re here? Instead of at the Lawton’s home? So you could confront me in private?”
Grant nodded, somewhat startled that he could still move in the face of his brother’s righteous anger. And yet, even now with his brother ready to deck him, he couldn’t stop the questions: was this an act? Was it all to cover his crime?
Will must have seen the doubt in his face. Or maybe the reality of the situation was hitting him—hard and right in the gut. The man curled in on himself, his fists planting on his hips.
“I didn’t do it, Grant. Good God, I can’t even imagine thinking it!”
Meanwhile, his fiancée would not be deterred. “I don’t understand. He got to London today. How could he have attacked you two nights ago?”
Irene touched the girl’s arm, pulling her back when she might have stepped between the two brothers. “The attacker was hired by someone.”
“But Will wasn’t even here.”
“I was here,” he rasped out. “Weeks ago, looking for him.”
“But… but that was weeks ago!”
“And I left messages everywhere, hoping he would contact me. Don’t you see, Josephine? He thinks I hired someone to kill him when he finally turned up.”
The woman’s mouth flattened into an angry line and then she rounded on Grant. “But that’s stupid!” she spat. “In fact, in a world of ridiculously stupid, that is the most obviously, blatantly stupid thing ever!”
It was at that moment Grant finally believed. It made no logical sense. Any man who contemplated murder could easily dupe this innocent woman. But something in her rock solid faith in Will put his mind at ease.
But just in case, he focused on his brother and repeated the offer with calm sincerity. “I will give up the title, Will. I mean that. You’re the better man anyway.”
“The devil you will!” That came from Will, the words gratifyingly vehement.
Meanwhile, Robert had his own exclamation. “You will not!”
Then before anyone could say more, Will straightened to his full height. He wasn’t quite as tall as Grant, but he was solid and strong from hard farmwork. And from building a canal.
“I won’t deny I’ve wished for your title, Grant. Hard enough courting her as a steward. At least with a title, I’d have gotten a second look from her father.”
Grant snorted. “Not Lawton, you wouldn’t. He’s damned all us Crowles—”
“From the beginning. Yes, I’m aware.” He paused, his expression tightening into a frown. “But I’ve never wished you harm, Grant. Far from it. I wanted you to get sober. To think instead of gamble. To—”
“Not burn down the barn?”
Will snorted, an identical sound to his brother’s. “Well, yes, I could have done without that. But that only proved that you’re the right man for the title.”
Grant laughed, the sound tight and cut off, but it was still a laugh. Not surprisingly, no one else in the room understood the joke. Looking at the others in the room, he explained. “Every Lord Crowle for generations has done one thing in his life that is remembered for generations. One single event that becomes attached to his name forever.”
Taking up the tale, Will curled his arm around his fiancée and started talking. “It is known throughout the counties as the Crowle Stupidity. One event that is extraordinarily dumb. I,” he added with some measure of pride, “have never done a Crowle Stupidity.”
Grant raised his empty glass to the room. “I burned down our barn on the day of our sister’s wedding.”
“You didn’t!” Irene cried.
Robert’s voice was a low rumble. “He did. I was there and helped douse the ashes so it wouldn’t spread to the house.”
“And I,” continued Will, “kept it from the woods.”
“And I,” said Grant, “crawled into those same woods and hoped to die from the shame.”
Irene smiled, her expression not in the least bit horrified. “However did it happen?”
Grant shook his head. That was not an easy answer. He’d have to explain gypsies and fire-blowing and all the ridiculous choices he’d once thought were a good ideas. But before he could even frame an answer, his brother spoke.
“I never saw him again until tonight. We thought he’d died, but Robert here brought us the news that he’d survived.” There was a hard edge to the words, an old anger that apparently hadn’t cooled.
Grant acknowledged it with a sad shrug. “You really didn’t expect me to volunteer to return, did you?”
Will was quiet a long time, but in the end, he shook his head. “No, I suppose not. I found out the next day that you had sold everything.”
“Not me. Father.”
“And then, you were gone.”
Grant looked away. Yes, he’d disappeared. Off to the mill, and he’d lived there nearly every day since. Will stepped forward, his hand open this time as he touched his brother’s shoulder.
“Where did you go, Grant? What have you been doing all this time?”
Grant looked at Irene and Robert. Those two knew the truth. How much harder would it be to tell everyone else? To admit the truth to his own brother?
“I went mad, Will. Stark, raving mad.”
Seventeen
Why is he lying? Irene listened to Grant chatter about his last five years. He made it sound like he’d wandered the world in search of sanity. And all of it suffered from a vague lack of detail. For all the specifics he gave, he could have been doing anything from picking olives in Greece to spying for the Crown.
Irene wasn’t the only one who noticed his evasion. Will frowned, his lips pursing in disgust. And Robert—who knew the truth—looked like his drink had gone sour. But no one interrupted Grant’s cheerful discourse, and then the innkeeper arrived, bringing in a tray filled with succulent dishes. So everything stopped as they settled to eat.
It was a lovely meal. Grant hadn’t spared any expense with the inn, and the conversation turned general. They learned more about Miss Powel. That she had lived in India and had learned something about magic potions there. That last was said as a joke, but apparently, she was quite the wizard with a cosmetic facial cream.
Robert and Helaine talked about their honeymoon, and Irene spoke freely about her position as purchaser for the dress shop. Given her father-in-law’s profession as owner of Knopp’s Shipping, she was able to mention the current political climate regarding tariffs, especially as it affected prices of the goods she found for the shop. Naturally, that led to a more general discussion of taxes and politics.
She watched Grant closely as she spoke, wondering if he’d have preferred she hide her common labors. He didn’t. Or rather, he was such a congenial host that he made sure everyone was comfortable. And that’s when she realized he was behaving as an aristocrat. This was a true example of what his table would be like if he fully stepped into the role of his title. Lord Crowle would be a congenial host, able to talk on a variety of subjects, with decided opinions regarding the country’s politics without being overbearing.
She glanced to Will, seeing the man’s solid strength, but noted that in this he was decidedly outclassed. Will was quiet—almost dour—and though he could speak quite intelligently on farming and Yorkshire, he was not nearly so versed on the rest of the world. In this, Will was the perfect counterpoint to the well-traveled, slightly scattered Miss Powel, but he would make a terrible earl.
So as the evening wandered on, Irene discovered two distinct things. The first, it would be a terrible crime if Grant did not pick up the political requirements of his title. And the second, she was indeed falling in love with the man.
She’d first suspected her emotions were tumbling out of control two days ago, so she’d resolutely pushed them aside. That h
ad worked during the daylight only. At night, she was much too aware of how much she longed for him. But now, sitting at his table and listening to his easy conversation, she realized that her heart was truly engaged. It wasn’t surprising. Of course, the first man to touch her in years would perforce grab hold of her heart. Inevitable really.
Sadly, she was old enough to know that the relationship could not stand—adoring emotions or not. Perhaps she would be his mistress for a while. Indeed, hadn’t she already come to that place? But a man of his standing would need to marry a titled virgin. Eventually, he would say his good-byes and hark off with some nineteen-year-old innocent who would bear him many heirs. The girl in question would grace his table and be a credit to his name, whereas a widowed purchaser at a dress shop could absolutely not fill that role.
And even if Grant could bring himself to decry tradition and look to her for marriage, Irene knew she wouldn’t—couldn’t—say yes. She had a happy life now, one that she’d struggled hard to attain. She lived in a house with people who loved her. She had work that she adored and friends to share that work with. And most important, she had money she’d earned by herself and that no one could take from her.
Why would she give all that up for the uncertain life of an aristocratic wife? She would have to quit her job, live off her husband’s income, and spend her days going to parties, where the smallest nuance of attire or behavior was scrutinized ad nauseam. Certainly, she’d once wanted that life with an aching hunger, but that had been a fantasy built on childish dreams. She now had an adult woman’s life, and she had no intention of giving it up. For anyone. Even someone as wonderful as the man she was starting to love.
That thought lent a melancholy note to the evening, but only a little. In general, everyone seemed to have a good time. But then the meal concluded, the after-drinks were shared, and Will pushed to his feet. He was getting ready to leave, and he wasn’t the only one realizing the party had come to an end. But as Irene was about to call for coats, Grant’s brother said something that brought the entire evening to a silent halt.
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