by Cheryl Holt
Suddenly, his head was pounding again, a fierce ache forming behind his eyes. “Did I have sisters?”
“What a ludicrous question. No! You didn’t have sisters. Your father married Angela when they were both much too young. Your grandfather arranged it without consulting your father, and they were very miserable together.”
“Why were they miserable?”
“Your mother was spoiled and fussy and difficult to like.”
“Sort of like me?”
“Yes, just like you. She passed away after birthing you, and your father never remarried. Then he passed on too when you were six. You are very much an only child.”
She stared blandly, her gaze firm and steady, and he was positive she was lying, but about which part?
If he’d had sisters, wouldn’t he recall? How could a fellow forget such a thing? Yet he had so few memories of his earliest years. On his exhausting journey back from Africa, when he’d been wounded and in such a perilous state, he’d been particularly morose and homesick. He’d spent lengthy hours pondering his father.
As a boy, he’d been so angry, yet he had no idea why. Often, it felt as if his mind was a slate board that had been wiped clean. What was bubbling beneath the surface?
He knew—with absolute certainly—that his mother had been named Mary, that his father had loved her very much, that they’d been ridiculously happy. How could his recollection vary so thoroughly from Edwina’s?
“Are there any pictures of my mother?” he asked.
“Of Angela? I believe there was a portrait painted of her. It’s probably stashed in the attic somewhere.”
He didn’t care about a woman named Angela. He was talking about Mary and was curious if there was a picture of her. He thought—if he could see her face—it might jog loose a missing piece of his past.
“I have to go to London for a day or two,” he said.
“I have no problem with it, so long as you’re here for the wedding.”
“I’ll be back for it. While I’m there, I’d like to ride by my old house, the one where I lived with Father before I was kidnapped and dragged to Selby.”
“You weren’t kidnapped!”
“It seemed like it to me.”
“I don’t understand why you refuse to accept how chaotic matters were during that dreadful period. Your father had died, and he was your grandfather’s son and heir. It was a calamity, but you were next in line. What were we supposed to do? Send you to an orphanage?”
“Why didn’t Father and I reside at Selby with all of you? Why were we off in our own home?”
She hesitated, choosing her words. “Your father and Godwin didn’t get on. They fought constantly. Your father grew weary of the bickering, and he moved out.”
“Did anyone get along with Grandfather?”
“No.”
“Where is the house, Aunt Edwina? Is it in London?”
“Why are you so determined in this, Nathan? Why can’t you let sleeping dogs lie? What is to be gained by dredging up that portion of your history?”
“You’ve previously told me you don’t remember where it is. Don’t tell me that again. If you try, I’ll have the estate agent pull out the records from that era. Don’t make me waste his time.”
She dithered and fumed, and ultimately, she admitted, “Yes, it’s in London. If you’ll apprise me when you’re ready to leave for town, I’ll jot down the directions.”
“Thank you. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“Everything with you is hard. You like to quarrel.”
“Not really, but you simply bring out the worst in me.”
He stood and started out, and she said, “Our discussion is not over. I have a dozen other issues to address with you.”
“I’m not interested in them, and don’t harass Nell Drummond again.”
Then he was free and away, and he bounded up the stairs, eager to change into more comfortable clothes, then locate Nell right away. He wondered where she was, what she was doing, and if—by any chance—she might be bored and thinking about him too.
He couldn’t wait to find out.
CHAPTER TEN
Sebastian Sinclair stared out the carriage window as Selby Manor loomed in the distance.
He hadn’t visited the estate in years. Nathan’s grandfather and aunt were such unpleasant people, and they’d always been clear that they didn’t countenance Sebastian’s friendship with Nathan. Sebastian had never been welcome, and he hadn’t minded staying away.
Thankfully, Godwin Blake was deceased, so he only had to confer with Edwina. His dislike of her was so extreme that he’d actually considered sending her the terrible news in a letter, but that would have been the coward’s route, and he’d never been a coward.
Nathan’s death had been widely reported, which meant a member of Sebastian’s crew must have talked out of turn. He was incensed that the story had been disseminated before he’d had a chance to privately inform Nathan’s relatives.
It was a cruel development, and he hoped the Blakes hadn’t read any of the pertinent issues of the London papers.
He doubted Edwina would hold a memorial service, or she might agree to host a small, tepid one, but he intended to demand that she follow the correct procedures. If she wouldn’t behave appropriately, he would host his own service, would celebrate the famous explorer with all the pomp and circumstance his status warranted.
He wouldn’t let Edwina pretend Nathan’s life hadn’t mattered.
He supposed Percy was earl now, and he could barely stand to imagine how delighted Edwina would be. There would be scant sorrow among the Blakes over Nathan’s passing, and they’d likely begin celebrating the minute Sebastian left.
He’d deployed an enormous amount of fussy regalia to underscore the gravity of the moment: a black coach and four black horses, outriders hanging from each corner, black bunting draped around the vehicle, and all of them wearing black armbands.
The coach rattled to a halt, and he dawdled, listening as the dust settled. His men leapt down and lowered the step, then the door was opened. Bracing himself, he straightened his shoulders and climbed out.
Two footmen rushed out to greet him. The butler, Mr. Dobbs, followed behind. He’d always been kind, and Sebastian was glad to see him. He’d smooth over any awkwardness as Sebastian entered the mansion.
“Mr. Sinclair!” Dobbs said, and he smiled as he approached.
“You may call me Sebastian, Dobbs. It’s all right. You’ve known me since I was in short pants.”
“With you all grown up, it doesn’t seem proper. I realize your family is in mourning, so it’s wonderful that you decided to stop by.”
“Thank you.”
“We were very sorry to hear about your father.”
“It’s been a very difficult few months. I can’t deny it.”
“How is your mother faring?”
“She’s bearing up.”
That was a bit of a stretch. His mother wasn’t exactly grieving. She and his father had never gotten along, and Sebastian suspected she was thrilled to be a widow.
“Is Edwina at home?” he asked. “May I speak to her?”
“Of course. Come in, come in.”
They walked toward the house, when a commotion erupted in the entryway. After how the debacle in Africa had unfolded, he was tense and easily alarmed. He blanched and lurched away.
Suddenly, Nathan burst outside, and the sight of him—hale and in one piece and strutting about at Selby—was so bizarre that he couldn’t process what he was witnessing.
Nathan had been his oldest friend, his only friend, the brother he’d always wanted, the other half of himself. Sebastian had been inconsolable, had been dying a little each day, over Nathan’s brutal demise.
It had been bad enough to lose his father. Sir Sidney had been larger than life, a vibrant, notorious, superior human unlike any other on the planet. He’d been brash and brave and brazen, and he’d been the best father any son cou
ld ever have had. His murder had been a crushing event, a devastating episode from which Sebastian would never fully recover.
But the death of Nathan…
Oh, the death of Nathan! There could be no moving on from such a distressing conclusion.
He was alive? He was at Selby? What? What? What?
“Nathan?” he murmured, worried that he wasn’t hallucinating, but that he’d finally lost his mind.
“You bastard!” was Nathan’s reply.
Sebastian was so stunned he collapsed down onto a knee, but Nathan didn’t notice his bewilderment. He stormed over and punched Sebastian as hard as he could. Sebastian hadn’t been expecting an assault, so he hadn’t attempted to defend himself.
He flew back and landed in the dirt, thinking yes, Nathan was definitely alive. That had definitely been a wallop from a man who was mortally angry.
Sebastian wondered if his jaw wasn’t broken.
Though dazed and befuddled, he rose to his feet, but Nathan hit him again before he could block the blow.
Sebastian staggered as, vaguely, he noted people were shouting, people were running. Nathan loomed in and hit him yet again, and Sebastian gathered his wits and was able to hit him back, delivering a fierce clout to the face that had Nathan reeling.
It didn’t deter him though. He advanced again, and Sebastian couldn’t guess what might have happened, but Dobbs wedged himself between them.
“Boys! Boys!” he bellowed, a palm on each chest. “We won’t have any fighting! Control yourselves!”
Sebastian’s outriders jumped into the fray, as did the Selby footmen. They grabbed Nathan, pinning his arms, and it took five men to restrain him. He was that enraged.
Sebastian’s eye was swelling shut, his nose bleeding profusely, and he swiped a coat sleeve across it to swab the torrent away.
“What is wrong with you?” he demanded of Nathan.
“You don’t know why I’m so furious? No, I don’t suppose you do.”
Nathan was wrestling, desperate to escape so he could resume his attack.
“Why are you alive?” Sebastian inquired, being absolutely astonished. “Why are you home? How is it possible? I’ve been mourning your death!”
“My death!” Nathan fumed, and he scoffed derisively. “Why don’t you ask Judah about my so-called death? I’m sure he’ll have quite a story to tell you.”
Judah was a member of their expedition, the one who’d lead the search party for Nathan and who’d returned with the terrible report that he’d been killed too.
At the time, the situation had been utter chaos. Sir Sidney was being hacked to bits by native warriors. Nathan had tried to intervene, and for his valiant efforts, he’d been stabbed repeatedly and was motionless on the ground.
The warriors had been eager to start in on the rest of the crew, so Sebastian and his men had flitted into the jungle with a homicidal mob hot on their heels. But once the worst of the danger had passed, he’d had a team sneak to the edge of the tribal village to stealthily spy so they could be certain of Nathan’s fate.
Judah and two others had located him in the foliage, his body tossed away as if it were garbage. With their safety still paramount, it had been too risky to carry him away. They’d trudged to camp, glum and begging him to forget about Nathan, to save themselves, to go, go, go. Sebastian—to his great shame—had left both his father and his friend behind.
Later, after matters had calmed, he’d sent native emissaries to retrieve their remains. Sir Sidney had been handed over, but Nathan had vanished. Sebastian’s shocked, horrified band of explorers had fled Africa, and it had been a lengthy, humiliating funeral procession that sailed to England—with Sir Sidney, but without Nathan Blake.
“Judah saw you!” he said to Nathan. “He saw your corpse! He swore it to me.”
“He lied,” Nathan seethed.
“I came to notify your aunt.”
“She’s aware that I’m fine, now get off my property.”
Mr. Dobbs stepped to Sebastian and whispered, “Perhaps you should leave, Mr. Sinclair. As you’ve discovered, the Earl isn’t himself.”
“Don’t apologize for me!” Nathan insisted. “I’ve never been better.”
“You’ll mend this rift someday,” Dobbs told Sebastian, always the voice of reason, “but not today. You can try again in the future.”
Sebastian gazed at Nathan, and he was anxious to sit and chat about what had occurred in Africa. Nathan was the only one who could comprehend the depth of the calamity they’d suffered by losing Sir Sidney, and Sebastian yearned to wallow in the spot where they’d been in the past—like brothers but closer than brothers—so they could comfort each other.
Dobbs was correct though. From the rabid gleam in Nathan’s eye, there would be no talking to him. Maybe not ever.
“I’m glad you’re home,” Sebastian said, struggling to make their farewell as cordial as he could manage. “I’m glad you survived.”
“No thanks to you.”
Sebastian shrugged, regret pelting him. “I’m sorry.”
“Bastard!” Nathan spat again. “If I ever see you again, I’ll kill you. I swear it.”
The onlookers gasped, then the Selby footmen seized Sebastian and dragged him to his carriage. After being so thoroughly pummeled, his knees were weak, and they helped him in. Once he was safely inside, his servants released Nathan and hurried over to the coach. They jumped aboard, the driver cracked the whip, and the horses raced away.
As they rounded the curve of the driveway, he glanced out the window, hoping for a final glimpse of Nathan, but he’d spun away in disgust and was already entering the manor. The front doors were firmly shut behind him, bluntly informing Sebastian that he wasn’t welcome and shouldn’t return.
* * * *
Nathan was seated on a stool in his sitting room, Dobbs standing next to him, glaring down, his displeasure clear. When Nathan was a boy, the man had regularly chastised him, had even spanked him a few times. He’d never believed Nathan should be allowed to act like a spoiled brat.
Even though Nathan was now thirty and earl, Dobbs still felt entitled to state an opinion as to how Nathan was behaving. He was the only one at Selby who could get away with it.
“Obviously”—Dobbs sniffed with annoyance—“there are details about your recent expedition of which we are all in the dark.”
“I won’t discuss it, Dobbs.”
“Your displays of temper are your greatest failing, and I cannot condone public brawling. There are better ways to resolve a dispute.”
“Yes, I’m thinking about pistols at dawn.”
Dobbs blanched. “Well, you will just stop thinking about it.”
Nathan stared up at him, trying to shield his weary expression, but he never could hide much from Dobbs. He was too perceptive.
“The housekeeper delivered hot water and bandages,” Dobbs said. “Shall I nurse you? Or will you insist on tending yourself?”
“I’m fine, Dobbs. Don’t make a fuss.”
“You’re not fine, and you’re lucky you didn’t break your hand or that Sebastian didn’t break your nose.”
Nathan patted his face, wincing at how tender it was. His nose was bruised and swollen, but he’d been pressing a cloth to it, so the bleeding had slowed. His head throbbed unmercifully, and he figured his eyes would turn black and blue. He yearned to crawl onto his bed and curl into a ball.
Suddenly, footsteps pounded down the hall, and he peered over to find Nell in the doorway. Their gazes locked in a sizzling manner.
“I heard you were fighting,” she said, her tone exasperated. “Are you all right?”
He held up his fingers, showing her his damaged knuckles. “I’m merely a little battered.”
She didn’t wait to be invited in. She simply marched over and clasped his chin to more closely study his injuries.
“You look awful,” she said.
He smirked. “You should see the other guy.”
“I�
�m glad I didn’t. Who were you quarreling with?” He didn’t reply, and she spun to Dobbs. “Were you there?”
“Yes, Miss Drummond. It was an old acquaintance of Lord Selby’s.”
Dobbs was about to launch into a lengthy tirade about Sebastian, about Nathan’s history with him, but Nathan couldn’t bear to listen. His headache had grown even more fierce. He simply wanted some peace and quiet.
“That will be all, Dobbs,” he said.
“Won’t you permit me to wash your knuckles?” Dobbs asked. “They are cut and inflamed. There’s some ointment that will reduce the sting.”
“Miss Drummond can take care of me.”
“Why would I?” she snottily inquired. “I don’t countenance fighting.”
“I pummeled him because he deserved it.”
“If you’re feeling poorly, it’s your own fault. We ought to let you stew in your own juice.”
Nathan wasn’t about to argue over the incident.
When Sebastian’s coach had rolled up the drive, as if he had every right to visit, Nathan had never been more incensed. He hadn’t thrashed Sebastian as violently as he’d meant too—there had been too many men to restrain him—but there would be other chances.
He glanced up at Dobbs and nodded to dismiss him.
“Am I to leave you here—quite alone—with Miss Drummond?” Dobbs had the audacity to nag.
“Yes, Dobbs. You’re excused.”
Dobbs frowned at Nell, at Nathan, at Nell again. He’d likely heard the gossip about them, and Nathan was fueling more of it.
“I haven’t agreed to stay with you,” Nell haughtily retorted.
“Will you?”
He stared at her, not concealing how drained he was. She was a kind person, so it was easy to coerce her.
She knew he was doing it too. She scoffed with irritation, then advised Dobbs, “I’ll get him cleaned up, Mr. Dobbs.”
“If you’re sure, Miss Drummond?”
There was a significant note of caution in Dobb’s voice, and she said, “Don’t worry. My virtue and reputation are completely safe. He’s too beaten down to attempt any mischief, and if he tries, I’ll stomp out.”
