“What do you want?” Milo asked at last.
“Who says I want anything?”
“Then what are you doing here?”
The young man gave a dry laugh. “I take it you’re not going to welcome me home.”
“This isn’t your home,” Milo replied.
Darien glanced around the room, his insolent gaze taking in the antique furniture and expensive décor, all of it furnished by Milo’s father. There was nothing overtly mercenary in his expression, but I wouldn’t have been surprised if a request for money was forthcoming.
“No,” he said at last. “I know it’s not, but I did hope that you’d be happy to see me.”
I might have felt sympathy for him at those words, but there was something in his tone that expressly rejected the sentiment.
“How do I know you’re even telling the truth?” Milo said.
“For pity’s sake, Milo,” I broke in, finding my voice at last. “Look at him.”
Milo glanced at me, his expression making it clear that my interference was not exactly welcome.
“If you don’t mind, darling, I’d like to have a talk with Darien alone.”
I hesitated. I didn’t like being excluded from the conversation. And, what was more, I was fairly certain the two men could do with a buffer between them. Whatever the situation, I felt that neither of them was in the frame of mind to hold a civil conversation.
I could tell by looking at Milo, however, that he wasn’t likely to take my wishes into account at the moment. And, in all fairness, it made sense that they might want to discuss this matter in private.
I suppose my hesitation was obvious, for Darien flashed me a smile. “Don’t worry. We shan’t kill each other in your absence.”
“That remains to be seen,” Milo said, his eyes on his brother.
Darien’s smile widened.
“I … shall I send in some tea?” It was a silly thing to say, perhaps, but tea had mediated more precarious situations than this.
Milo glanced again at the young man who claimed to be his brother. “I think something stronger may be in order.”
“My sentiments exactly,” he replied.
I nodded. There was a sideboard in the corner of the room with all the liquor they might require, so it seemed there was nothing else for me to do but take my leave.
With one last glance at the two men, I turned and left the room.
* * *
I HAVE NEVER been very good at waiting. Alas, aside from putting my ear to the keyhole—a task that my growing stomach would make physically difficult if I were even so inclined—there was little that I could do.
And so I went to the sitting room and began working on my knitting. Keeping my hands busy did not, however, stop my mind from turning over all the possibilities produced by this latest turn of events.
I had no doubts that this young man was Milo’s brother. Their looks convinced me of that, but even if they had not been so similar in appearance, there were mannerisms I had noticed in Darien’s face, even in the space of a few moments—the tilt of that flashing smile and the impudent flick of the brow—that could not have been replicated by chance.
Milo’s father had never remarried after the death of his wife; by all accounts he had loved her deeply and been much affected by her passing. Nevertheless, I supposed it would be naïve to believe that he had never sought out another source of female companionship. Yes, it was entirely probable that the young man was telling the truth on that score.
But even this brought up several more questions. Why had Darien chosen now to make this appearance on our doorstep? Had it something to do with Imogen? As far as she went, why had he chosen to marry her using Milo’s name? And if they had married in Brighton and agreed to meet in London, what had brought both of them to Thornecrest at the same time?
The whole thing was a muddle, each question leading directly to another more complex one, and I felt a sudden surge of annoyance that I had allowed myself to be dismissed from the conversation. Surprise half brother or no, I ought to have stayed and heard what there was to be said.
Time ticked slowly by. I finished the infant sock I was working on and began to knit its mate.
At last Milo came into the sitting room. I set my knitting aside, studying his face for clues as to how the meeting had gone. It was difficult to tell, though I could detect a faint hardness about his mouth and a certain set to his shoulders that told me that it hadn’t ended in handshakes and welcoming pats on the shoulder.
“Has he gone?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“But he’s coming back.” Surely things couldn’t be settled between them in one brief conversation.
“Yes, there are a great many matters to discuss.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“He does appear to be my half brother.” His voice betrayed nothing of how he felt about this revelation. Perhaps he didn’t know yet how he felt. “He had a few documents in his possession that bear him out: letters, a photograph of my father with his mother.”
“Are you … surprised?”
“It’s unexpected, of course, but nothing my father might have done would much surprise me. In any event, we never took much interest in each other’s personal lives, aside from the reprimands he would occasionally give me for being too public in my behaviors. He might have had any number of mistresses.”
I didn’t know exactly what Milo was thinking, but I knew this must be an extreme shift from the way he had seen things. He had been the only child of parents who were deceased, the last of the Thornecrest Ameses, and now there was this young man, a brother he had not expected and did not especially want.
“Are you all right?” I asked softly.
He looked over at me. “Of course.”
In the past, I might not have pressed, but we were much more comfortable together now than we had been in the early days of our marriage. I had learned that it was possible to get behind that impassive façade of his.
“Surely you must have some thoughts about all of this.”
“Certainly I do, but I’m afraid they’re not for your delicate ears, my love.” There was an edge in his voice now, the irritation he felt at all of this coming to the surface.
Milo very much liked to be in command of things, was accustomed to matters bowing to his will and his money, and this situation was something entirely beyond his control. A brother was not going to dematerialize no matter what one thought about him.
“I know it’s quite a surprise,” I said, “but that doesn’t mean it need be unpleasant.”
“I have a bastard brother who’s used my name to convince a woman to marry him. You don’t think that’s a bit of a problem?”
I sighed. “Of course. Did you speak to him about Imogen?”
“I did. He claims they were never married.”
“He denies it?” I was trying to keep my temper down. Milo had enough to process at the moment without my adding fuel to the fire.
“He said he only discovered upon his mother’s death, a year ago, that I existed. Since then he has been meaning to come and introduce himself, following our movements in the society columns, apparently. In the meantime, however, he began a romance with Imogen. He didn’t mean it to be long-lasting and decided on a whim to use my name instead of his own.”
“He didn’t mean it to be long-lasting, but he meant for her to think they were wed?” I repeated, incredulous. “Does he realize that the marriage is likely legally binding? If he signed the marriage certificate, they are wed no matter what name he used.”
“It would come down to a question of fraud for an annulment, I suppose,” Milo said. “But he claims there was no ceremony, only that they stood on the beach and declared their love for each other.” His tone let me know what he thought of this display of sentiment. I felt another pang of sympathy for Imogen.
“She said they were married,” I pressed.
He shrugged. “Perhaps she said that because
she was desperate to find him. There’s little doubt they consummated their relationship. If she did so on the assumption that they would soon be married, it must have come as an unpleasant surprise to discover that he had gone missing.”
“Whatever the case, he has treated her abominably,” I said with feeling.
“Certainly,” Milo agreed.
I rubbed a hand across my face. “What a dreadful mess.”
There was a moment of silence, both of us lost in thought, and then I voiced my next question. “What brought him here? Did he ask you for money?”
Milo looked at me. “No. I offered it to him, in fact, and he laughed in my face. He said he didn’t come here for money, that he merely wanted to make his … existence known to me.”
This surprised me. I didn’t know Darien, of course, but, from his actions thus far, he had struck me as the sort of man who was out to get what he could from life, with little regard for the consequences. I would have thought he might have taken Milo’s money gladly. What surprised me even more was that Milo had offered it.
“I didn’t suppose you’d give money to him,” I said.
“It’s not his fault my father abandoned his family. He deserves something for that.”
“That’s very generous of you.”
His expression darkened. “Generosity was not my aim, but the offer was substantial enough. I wonder that he refused it.”
I knew it was typical of Milo to turn to his wealth for answers. Money had solved a great deal of the problems in his life, and he was suspicious of things that didn’t bend to its influence.
Truth be told, however, I agreed with him. Darien’s refusal to take money didn’t make me feel as though he was trustworthy. Quite the contrary. If he wouldn’t take what Milo had offered him up front, I wondered if there was something else that he was playing at. There were too many facets to this puzzle. Something was going on that we weren’t yet aware of.
“Where is he staying?”
“At the inn, I suppose. I certainly didn’t invite him to stay here.”
“Imogen is at the inn,” I said, rising from my chair. “I should go and see her. I think it best that someone break the news to her before she sees Darien there and assumes that they’re going to have a happy reunion.”
“That’s not your worry, darling,” he said.
“I know, but I feel sorry for her. Under other circumstances, she might have been my sister-in-law.”
Milo swore under his breath.
I went to him and put my hands on his chest, looking up at him. “It’s all going to be all right, you know.”
He offered me a smile, one hand moving to cup my face. “Yes, of course.”
He leaned to brush a kiss across my lips and then he left, no doubt to place a telephone call to our solicitor’s office.
A moment later Winnelda came hurrying into the drawing room.
“Oh, madam,” she said breathlessly. “That young man … Who … who was he?”
“He’s Mr. Ames’s brother,” I said. There was no reason to keep it a secret. Everyone was going to know about it soon enough.
“I didn’t know Mr. Ames had a brother.”
“Yes, Mr. Ames didn’t know it either.”
“He … smiled at me as he left. I think he even winked! Very improper, of course. But he’s ever so good looking, isn’t he?”
I felt an immediate tinge of alarm. If Darien was going to be a frequent visitor, I was going to make sure he stayed away from Winnelda. It would prove most inconvenient for all of us if he was to trifle with her. What he had done to Imogen made it abundantly clear he was not to be trusted.
“He’s very good looking,” I agreed. “But I think you had better steer clear of him. He … he isn’t exactly…”
I hesitated, trying to think of how best to warn her without making Darien seem too appealing. Winnelda had always had romantic notions, and I didn’t want to increase his allure by casting him as the prodigal son.
“Oh, I know just what you mean, madam. It’s never wise to get involved with a gentleman that handsome.” She paused. “That is, it’s different for you and Mr. Ames. You know how to handle him. That is…”
She seemed to feel that she was digging herself deeper and deeper and decided that it was best to change the subject.
“Well, as I said, he’s very improper. And I don’t approve of that sort of thing.”
“No,” I agreed. “His behavior thus far hasn’t been that of a gentleman.”
“Perhaps he will behave better now that he’s come home,” she suggested.
Come home. Things weren’t going to be that simple.
I sighed; this was all much more excitement than I had bargained for.
* * *
NOT HALF AN hour later, our car pulled up before the Primrose Inn. I asked Markham, our driver, to wait for me as I made my way inside. It was a fairly standard place as far as village inns went, a small but tidy lobby with a worn rug and furniture that had seen better days.
There was a girl at the desk that I didn’t recognize, fair and freckled with pale blue eyes that were, at the moment, fixed on the magazine that lay on the counter in front of her. I was relieved that I didn’t know her, for I thought the task at hand would arouse considerably less interest than if it were someone familiar.
I walked up to her. Glancing down, I saw it was a gossip rag that held her attention. So much for my hoping that she would show discretion. I would have to be careful not to give her fodder for any gossip of her own.
“Good afternoon,” I said brightly when she failed to greet me.
“Afternoon,” she said, pulling her eyes from the page to look at me. “Do you want a room?” She asked this in a singularly discouraging manner.
“Thank you, no. I wonder if you could tell me in which room Miss Imogen Prescott is staying.”
“I don’t know the name.”
“Perhaps you could check the register?” I suggested.
The girl gave a little sigh and moved over to the register lying on the counter. She put a finger to the page and moved it slowly downward as she read over the names. It was very leisurely business, and I wondered if she was doing it expressly to annoy me. Her eyes had moved much more quickly over the pages of her gossip magazine.
“No one here by the name,” she said at last.
“Are you quite certain?”
“Yes.” Her gaze met mine, a touch defiantly.
It seemed that Imogen must have decided to lodge at Mrs. Cotton’s rooming house, my alternate suggestion.
“Hello, Mrs. Ames.”
I turned to see Marena Hodges coming out of a little room that led off the foyer—an office, I thought.
“Oh. Hello.” I had forgotten that Marena Hodges worked here. Mrs. Busby had mentioned as much to me at the vicarage, I remembered suddenly, but I had been daydreaming. Now I had to think of a way in which to extricate myself without giving away too much information. It was a miracle that gossip wasn’t already flying all across the village, and I didn’t want to be the one who started it. I could only hope that Imogen and Darien didn’t suddenly appear at the same time.
“I’m looking for a friend, but I think she must have taken a room with Mrs. Cotton,” I said quickly.
To my relief, neither she nor the freckled girl, who had slid her magazine beneath the desk when Marena appeared, seemed curious about my friend.
“I suppose I’ll see you at the festival?” Marena said.
“Yes. I’m quite looking forward to it.”
I was just preparing to turn and leave when I heard the front door of the inn open behind me and caught sight of Marena’s face. It had lit up like a chandelier.
For some reason, I felt a sinking feeling in my chest.
This instinct was quickly confirmed by her next words, words uttered in the breathy, exhilarated voice of one newly in love. “Hello, Darien.”
5
EVEN IF SHE had not used his name, it was clear fr
om the way Marena was looking at him that they had met before. Indeed, from the pretty blush that suffused her cheeks, I suspected they had done more than that.
It occurred to me to wonder how long Darien had been in Allingcross. It couldn’t have been much more than a week; it was nearly impossible to keep things quiet for that long in a village this size.
That seemed an extraordinarily short amount of time in which to have courted Marena. Then again, I was well acquainted with the swiftly lethal aim of the Ames charm. From the rate he acquired female admirers, it seemed Darien possessed it in spades.
“Mrs. Ames,” he said, his gaze moving from Marena to me. “It’s lovely to see you again so soon.”
“Yes. I…” I tried to think of a reason why I might have come directly to the inn where he was staying. I had even beaten him here from Thornecrest, I realized. He must have stopped off somewhere else.
I couldn’t, of course, say that I had come to the wrong place, hoping to warn Imogen. “I … I was hoping that I could speak with you.”
It was something of a lame excuse, but it was the best I could come up with at the moment. Besides, it wasn’t entirely untrue. Perhaps it would be good for me to talk to him, to determine for myself what his motives might be. He might be less guarded with me than he was sure to be with Milo.
“I’d enjoy nothing more than to speak with you,” he said, the picture of courtesy. “I have luncheon plans with Marena, but perhaps…”
His voice trailed off as the front door of the inn opened again. We turned to see Bertie Phipps entering the lobby. If he had come to renew his suit to Marena, the timing seemed particularly bad.
“Hello,” he said, a bit uncertainly upon spotting all of us standing there. He had changed out of his dirty riding clothes, but he still appeared somewhat rumpled and windblown. I assumed he had ridden his bicycle from Thornecrest, for there was a sheen of sweat across his sun-flushed face.
“Hello,” Marena and I said at the same time. Darien, for his part, had swept his gaze across Bertie and summarily dismissed him, turning back to Marena. Evidently, he had determined that this young man was of no interest to him, and certainly no threat.
A Deception at Thornecrest Page 4