“My brother has great disdain for those without power, myself included.”
“He is a bully, you mean.”
“I did not always understand that to be the case.” She nodded. “But yes. And because of it, he likewise has great esteem for gentlemen such as yourselves. He will want you to think him clever.”
“I know the sort, ma’am,” said Lord Ashborough. “They’re easy enough for a player with some skill to pluck.”
She recalled what the duke had said about Lord Ashborough’s gambling days. If he’d made his own fortune, other men must have lost theirs. And just once, she would like to see Charles be the loser.
“I wish you to frustrate him. Aggravate him. Make him angry enough to reveal what I have never been able to determine: why he has tried to do this to me.”
“But surely he will not speak in front of you,” the duke pointed out.
“Is there a room where I might stay hidden, yet overhear your conversation?”
“My study adjoins the library downstairs,” said Lord Ashborough. “If the door between them is left ajar, you will hear rather more than one could wish, I fear.”
“I have heard a great deal already, my lord. But today, when the moment is right, I have something to say.”
Raynham nodded his understanding, and the three of them went to await their callers.
The single chime of the longcase clock was still vibrating through the room when Philpot knocked. “The Earl of Dashfort and Viscount Setterby to see you, milord, Your Grace.”
She could hear the creak of chairs when Raynham and Ashborough rose, the muffled sound of two sets of booted footsteps, Lord Dashfort and her brother, crossing the plush Turkey carpet. Her vivid imagination had no difficult conjuring faces.
“I thank you for your assistance, gentlemen.” Charles’s voice sent a shudder through her, and she gripped the side of the wooden chair on which she sat to stop herself from leaping to her feet. “May I present Lord Dashfort, my sister’s betrothed.”
“Gentlemen.”
There was a general rustle, the scrape of chairs as the gentlemen seated themselves. Lord Ashborough offered refreshments and was refused. Then an awkward silence fell.
“I understand you have a sister, Duke.” Charles spoke first, in a wheedling, obsequious tone she had never heard him use. “I hope she is no trouble to you, as mine has been, so regrettably, to me.”
Raynham was quick to quash his hopes. “A spirited sister is hardly reason for condolence, Setterby. And my sister has naught to do with your visit.”
“Of course, Duke. My apologies.” Quickly, he changed tactics. “Your letter, Lord Ashborough, gave me to understand that Mr. Burke is here. I wish to speak with him. I’m quite sure he knows where my sister may be found.”
“Here?” Lord Ashborough drawled in his deep voice. “By no means. I said I believed Burke to have recently arrived in town.” A clearly dismissive laugh. She recalled what Raynham had said about his skill at bluffing. “I daresay no one has ever before mistaken me for my brother’s keeper.”
Even at this distance she could hear her brother’s sharp intake of breath. And she felt certain that Lord Dashfort’s querulous “Setterby?” would only add to his frustration. Good.
“I own I find it strange that your sister would not keep her promise to Lord, er—Dipfoot, was it?” asked Lord Ashborough. “Did she have some objection to the match?”
“Though I’ve done my best to check it, I’ll own she has an obstinate streak.”
“I say,” Lord Dashfort chimed in. “I don’t think I like the sound of that.”
Charles was quick to soothe him. “In the right hands, as I’ve told you, I’m confident she can be brought to heel.”
“Forgive me, Setterby.” Lord Ashborough again, sounding bored. “I thought this matter concerned your sister? Yet you would appear to be discussing a horse, or perhaps, er, some sort of dog?”
That brought Charles to his feet. She heard his bootheels strike the floor. “Damn it all. You know quite well what I mean.” She could picture the little globs of spittle forming at the corners of his mouth. “Surely, among gentlemen, we can speak of the jilts as we like.”
“I am quite familiar with how gentlemen speak of ladies. Whether they are present or not.” Raynham’s voice was solid ice transformed into sound. By suggesting her brother was something other than a gentleman, he seemed to want to provoke a response beyond mere conversation. A challenge? No—she couldn’t have a man’s death on her conscience.
“Come, Dashfort,” Charles ground out. “This is obviously a waste of precious time. Time we might better put to use tracking down Rosamund.”
She stood, unable any longer to keep still.
“Really, Setterby,” the earl protested. “It seems an awful lot of trouble. The more I think on it, the less inclined I am to believe that your sister and I will suit. I haven’t any wish for another difficult wife. Perhaps it would be best if you just returned what I gave you.”
Charles cleared his throat. “That won’t be possible.”
Dashfort stood. “I say. I can’t afford to—”
“Oh dear.” She crept close enough to the door to see Ashborough tip back in his chair. He was observing the conversation between her brother and Lord Dashfort like a spectator at a badly-acted play. “Sounds like someone intends to renege on a debt of honor. Tut-tut, Setterby. Badly done.”
“Stay the hell out of my affairs, Ashborough.”
“Gladly. Get the hell out of my house.”
Her brother was all cold fury. She thought for a moment that he really would leave. But Lord Ashborough had a keen instinct for just how far a man could be pushed. Charles rocked back on his heels and folded his arms across his chest. “Not without my sister.”
“No.” As she pushed into the room, four heads swiveled in unison. For just a moment, her resolve faltered. Old habits—even bad ones, like deference and obedience to her heartless brother—were not easy to break. Charles would have lunged toward her, but Raynham rose and stepped between them. She continued speaking as if there’d been no interruption. “And if you try to force me, I’ll—I’ll tell everyone I saw a ghost at Kilready Castle.”
He’d so often tried to make her believe what wasn’t true or forget what was. But she suspected that whatever perverse value she held for him would be sorely diminished if the world thought her mad.
Dashfort looked stunned. “You what?”
“You dare to threaten me with some nonsense from a gothic novel? Well, keep it up and you’ll soon find yourself living in one. The day you turn one and twenty, I’ll wash my hands of you,” Charles snarled. “You’ve got nothing to your name—why, I’d wager even that dress is borrowed. If you won’t marry Dashfort, how do you mean to survive?”
She willed her spine straighter. “I’ll work. I’ll find a post as a governess—”
“A governess? You’ll be lucky to find work as a scullery maid when I’m through. You’ll have nothing, nothing!”
The hinge on the door leading into the library from the corridor creaked as it swung inward. She realized now that it must never have been shut tight after her brother and Lord Dashfort had been shown in.
Paris stepped into the room. He did not look at her. His dark eyes were fixed squarely on her brother. Despite his rather rumpled clothes and unshaven jaw and mussed hair—he’d been running his hands through it again—he commanded perfect attention when he spoke, as he always did.
“That’s a lie, Lord Setterby. And you know it as well as I.”
Chapter 23
Paris forced himself not to look at Rosamund, though she was all he saw.
“Burke.” Setterby spat out his name and Paris nearly smiled. Anger was easy to manipulate. “You dare to show your face after what you’ve done?”
He did laugh then. “An
d what sin is it you suppose I’ve committed, my lord?” The viscount could have no idea.
“You abducted my sister.”
“What patent nonsense is that, Charles?” Her voice sliced the thick air between them. “You’ve been the one attempting to violate my will.”
Paris couldn’t have scripted a more perfect opening. He reached into his breast pocket and withdrew the paper Erica had given him the day before. He’d forgotten all about it until the early hours of the morning, when he’d awoken alone and needed some diversion to keep himself from seeking out Rosamund.
He stepped forward. “Speaking of wills…”
Setterby, who had turned toward his sister, spun around again, his face a startling shade of puce. “How’s that?”
“This is a copy of the Last Will and Testament of Charles Gorse, Ninth Viscount Setterby,” he said, holding up the folded parchment. “Your father, yes?”
Some of the color left the man’s face. His eyes, ordinarily so like Rosamund’s, were hard as slate. “Of course.”
“Which of us, sir, will have the pleasure of telling your sister what it contains?”
Ashborough gave a theatrical gasp. “Oh, dear. The plot thickens. My wife will be sorry to have missed this. She might write it into her next book.”
Annoyance flickered across Setterby’s countenance. “So glad to furnish amusement, Ashborough. As to the will, it’s all legal flourishes, dry as dust. My chit of a sister can have no interest in, nor comprehension of, such a document.”
Paris could see Rosamund’s lips part as she prepared to challenge her brother, so he continued smoothly, “The law does indeed have its peculiar forms. Shall I translate it for her, Setterby? Or will you?”
“There’s nothing to explain.” Setterby gave a dismissive wave of one hand. “My father’s will named me her sole guardian. What else about that paper can concern her?”
“I suspect she might feel some interest in other portions of it. Her inheritance, for example.”
Rosamund gasped, as he had expected. Equally expected was Lord Dashfort’s impassivity. Of course he’d known. Only Rosamund had been kept in the dark.
“As her guardian, I have been tasked with managing my sister’s affairs. The details are nothing with which she need be bothered.”
“From what I know of Miss Gorse, I suspect she would not be at all bothered to learn that her father left her Tavisham Manor.”
He half expected her to faint. Or, at the very least, to sink into the chair by which she stood. Instead she charged forward and whirled to face her brother. “Charles.” Her voice was sharp, accusatory. “Is this true?”
Setterby shifted ominously, with clear intent to grab her by the arm. Instead he found his own arm pinned by Raynham. “You seem to have no proper notion of how ladies are to be treated, Setterby. I should very much enjoy an opportunity to teach you.”
“Is that a challenge, Duke?” Setterby wrested himself free. “You all heard him. Can I count on you to serve as my second, Dashfort?”
The earl’s narrow eyes widened as much as they were able and he stepped back from the fray. “I say, Setterby. I heard nothing of the sort.”
“I’ll remember your bravery, Dashfort,” Setterby sneered, shrugging his shoulders and tugging his coat sleeve into place. “And as to you, dear sister, I should expect to see your gratitude, not your condemnation. A word of thanks for how I’ve managed Tavisham to advantage all these years—”
“Your advantage,” Paris pointed out. “I spent the morning doing a bit of digging and managed to learn a few items of note. For instance: The terms of your guardianship require you to manage the estate in your ward’s best interest—”
“Which I have done. It’s a small property, no more than a few farms. Hardly enough to pay her dressmaker’s bill.”
“You were the one who insisted on the lavish gowns,” Rosamund said, her voice shaking. “You insisted on parading me about like a—a—”
“An heiress,” supplied Paris, more than a little fearful of the word she might choose instead. “You once told me, Miss Gorse, that you regretted having deceived me. It seems you were the one being deceived.”
“Heiress,” scoffed Setterby. “Do you dare to suggest that I have wronged my sister by using her small inheritance to find her a respectable husband? She has no other dowry.”
“Why could I not be allowed to choose for myself?”
“Because your brother wished to choose for you,” said Raynham darkly.
“And what of that?” argued Setterby. “Is that not part of my duty as her guardian and her only family still living?”
Ashborough crossed his arms behind his back and spoke in his driest voice. “Such selflessness.”
“Alas, not quite selfless, I’m afraid.” Paris tapped the parchment against his palm. “It would seem he planned from the beginning how Tavisham might best be used as a bargaining chip. I spoke just this morning with two gentlemen whom he approached last year, who could not meet his terms: Tavisham Manor and his fair sister, in exchange for—”
“Money.” Rosamund still faced her brother; Paris could see no more than the stiffening of her spine. “It wasn’t enough to humiliate me, to belittle me. Why, all this time you’ve been trying to—to sell me. To marry me off to the highest bidder.”
“It’s done as often as not,” Setterby insisted, leaping to his own defense. “What are dowries and jointures, after all? Marriage, my girl, is entirely an economic matter. If you’d done as you were told, you’d have been well-settled by now.”
“If I’d done as I’d been told, I’d be in misery right now.”
Dashfort gave an awkward cough, which had the unfortunate effect of drawing Paris’s attention. “It does sound as though Dashfort was willing to pay whatever price your brother asked,” Paris said. “But it seems the transaction was not entirely about money.”
She glanced over her shoulder at him, and it was very nearly his undoing to see the worry and pain flooding her eyes. “What, then?”
“You said it yourself not an hour ago, Miss Gorse,” said Raynham. “Power.”
Paris nodded. “Tavisham is what’s known as a pocket borough. Which means that this particular ‘small property,’ as your brother describes it, exercises rather an outsized influence on matters of great importance. Its owner effectively chooses a Member of Parliament and cannot be gainsaid. Your brother has exerted his pull over the election in the years since your father died, and it seems he hoped to marry you off to a man who would continue to be subject to his authority, to vote in the way he sees fit.”
Setterby sputtered but did not deny the claim. “Well, what of it? Would you have the country governed by just any fools?”
Rosamund ignored him. “But if it’s all to do with a seat in the British parliament, why should Lord Dashfort care? He’s already a peer.”
“An Irish peer,” Paris said as he dragged his gaze from Rosamund to the earl. “Here, I must indulge in a little speculation. I believe it comes down to this: Lord Dashfort has demonstrated a great wish to legitimize his claim to be an Englishman. An hereditary English estate would have helped him, or at least his son, achieve just that. It may also be that there are matters expected to come before Parliament in which he wished to have some voice. Perhaps he even foresaw a time when he might want the seat for himself. If the Act of Union is passed, the Irish parliament will be dissolved, and there’s no guarantee he’ll be given a seat in the British House of Lords. His title will be worth little enough then.”
During Paris’s speech, Dashfort had been moving unobtrusively toward the door of the library. With surprising lightness, Ashborough stepped into his path. “Don’t leave at intermission, my good man. I myself cannot wait to see the final act.” Dashfort winced.
“You shall have a great deal of difficulty proving I’ve done anything wrong in
my management of Tavisham or my sister’s care,” Setterby said with a jeer of defiance. “Surely, Burke, you will not deny that the law allows a guardian to act as he sees fit.”
“The law may have very little to say on the matter,” Raynham said loftily, every inch a duke, “but I believe you’ll find there are still consequences for a man who mistreats his ward.”
Setterby seemed to consider those words a long moment, and Paris found himself holding his breath. Every criminal had a breaking point. How far would Setterby go to save his own neck?
The man’s shoulders dropped, only a fraction of an inch. But it was enough. His tone, when he spoke, was almost submissive. Wheedling. “Perhaps you gentlemen would be interested to learn how Dashfort acquired the funds with which he intended to pay me?”
Dashfort, who seemed to require a moment to grasp the implications of Setterby’s words, nodded along until Raynham’s dark gaze shifted to him. “I say, Setterby,” he squeaked. “We were at school together. You don’t mean to turn on me?”
“Oh,” said Ashborough gleefully, “I think he does.”
“It’s that decrepit old castle.” Setterby shook his head disparagingly. “Someday it’ll fall right into the sea. But for now, men run their boats right into its dungeon. Makes it easy to get around the British tariffs on goods from both France and Ireland.”
Raynham folded his arms across his chest. “I’ve got an associate at Whitehall who’s always glad to hear any tips about smuggling along the Irish coast.”
“It was never my doing,” Dashfort insisted. “The smuggling. Why, I was hundreds of miles away for the last ten years.”
“And you received no profit from it, I suppose?” Paris glanced toward Setterby and back again. “Paid no bribes?”
“I—” Dashfort shook his head, more in dismay than denial. “My late wife was determined to live in England, despite the expense. She hated Ireland, and for a time, she persuaded me to hate it too. To hate myself. I told my agent to find the money somehow. I—I didn’t let myself consider what that might mean.” His voice grew quieter still, and guilt suffused his face. “Still, it was never enough. Last year, I told her we would have to return to Kilready, and we…we argued, as everyone knows. Or pretends to know. She was hysterical. I—I didn’t push her,” he insisted, his gaze lost in the memory of that day. “She stumbled and fell before I could reach her. But it’s still my fault that the mother of my children is dead.”
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