by Lee Rowan
“I was in London! And what business is it of yours?”
“I do not understand what you mean by that, Major,” Will said punctiliously. “I was referring to matters of honor; I have called a man out and killed him for sufficient provocation, and I thought you might have, also.”
“That, too, seems to me to be none of your affair.”
“I fear that it is.” Officer and gentleman, Commander Marshall could speak from his own authority when the occasion warranted. “I am aware of the courtesy due one’s host, and would have thought it infamous to transgress upon your father’s hospitality. But if you and I should meet when I am not a guest in your father’s house, I suggest you refrain from crude jokes that impugn your brother’s honor and my own. I have received such insults before, and I have dealt with them.”
David felt a thrill of pride at Will’s firm, level tone and found it hard to maintain an impassive expression in the face of his brother’s frustrated ire.
“What are you doing here, anyway?” Ronald flung at him. “And why have you brought him?”
“I don’t believe I need explain myself to you,” David said without raising his voice.
“You will, brat. Remember, you are dealing with the future Earl of Grenbrook.”
“And the present horse’s arse.” He was angry with himself for allowing this quarrel to escalate, but on the other hand, he was relieved—and not only because Will was here beside him. Until now, he had been burdened with a dread of his brother, leftover memories of childhood pain, but life in the Navy really had made a man of him. After sailing into the face of cannon fire, he had no fear left for this fuming bully. “The future is a long way off, Ronald.”
“Not so far as you think.” His brother turned on his heel and strode back to the stable, with a touch of tantrum in his furious steps.
“Well, I had been willing to like him, for your sake,” Will said, “but somehow it seems that is not to be. Whatever possessed you to accuse him of murder?”
“I didn’t, Will,” David said. He waited a moment to be sure Ronald did not follow them after all, then headed for the house. “I asked him what his plans were, not what he had done. I wanted to see what his reaction might be. It was you who elicited an alibi, and you were not accusing him of murder either—I took for granted that you were referring to his duel. Isn’t that interesting?”
“What duel?”
“That’s right, I never mentioned that to you, did I? And I’m sure Amelia did not.”
“No. Neither of you have said anything to me about such a thing.”
David glanced around, but there was no one within sight or earshot on the long path back to the house. “I hate to draw you into the family muddle, but after this, I think it best that you be aware of the situation. Yesterday, my sister told me that Ronald’s wife, Lenore, died sometime this past year when she was abroad, near where his regiment was stationed. There’s been no explanation of what happened, whether she died of illness or accident… and shortly after that, Ronald was apparently involved in an affair of honor and wounded someone.”
“Do you think the two events were connected?”
“Good Lord! That had not even occurred to me. I don’t know, Will, and unless we were able to find someone who was on hand at the time, I see no way of finding out. The impression Amelia had was that the quarrel was over some debt or other, and getting Ronald out of that fix was expensive. She doesn’t know the particulars, but she overheard Father laying down the law when Ronald was home last year. Even though that visit occurred shortly after his wife had died, he never saw fit to mention her death when he was home.”
“What? Not a word to the family?”
“Not one. Apparently he acted as though she was still alive but unable to travel—Amelia says he gave the impression that she was expecting a child.”
“That seems….” Will shook his head. “That is a very peculiar omission.”
“Is it not? I wondered how he was planning to explain himself when the truth finally came out, but apparently he has managed to avoid a reckoning. If my father was able to pry anything out of him, I’ve heard nothing of it. Mark’s death seems to have pushed all the old questions aside.”
“When did you learn of his wife’s death, then? And how?”
“Mark found out, according to my sister. He received condolences from a friend whose brother was in Ronald’s regiment, but he could hardly inquire further without revealing that he’d known nothing about it. Ronald has also been bringing home gambling debts for my father to pay, which is why Amelia thought that might have had something to do with the duel.”
“Should you be telling me all this?” Will interrupted.
David turned. “Who better? I need to talk to someone I can trust, and after all the hints my sister was dropping, it is only fair to be sure you understand the situation. I’ve been asking myself just how desperate Ronald might have become and to what extent he would go to secure his own future.”
“You know you can tell me anything in confidence,” Will said. He walked on for several paces, studying his own boots. Then he said, as though making it clear to himself, “Do you mean to suggest that your brother Ronald might have had something to do with your brother Mark’s death? Davy, do you truly think that a serious possibility?”
“Put so bluntly…. Yes. I hate to think it. I know I sound like a complete scrub for making the suggestion, or even thinking it, and if he really was in London at the time, then of course it’s impossible. I know my dear brother well enough to be certain he would never hire an assassin and leave himself open to blackmail. He would do it himself.”
“You are serious, then.”
David sighed. He didn’t like the tone of Will’s voice. “Perhaps I should have kept silent. But Cain and Abel is the oldest story in the book, Will. Apart from the talking snake and the apple, of course, and I’ve always had my doubts about that one.”
“If it were true….” Will stopped and turned. “If it is true, then your duty is clear. But, Davy, just because he goes out of his way to be rude and offensive, even if he had wished his brother dead… or was vile enough to rejoice in it… that still does not make him a murderer.”
“I know.” David kicked an innocent stone that lay on the path, sent it hurtling into the grass. “I know that, of course. But it’s not just Ronald’s character, or lack of it, or the fact that I know him to be capable of considerable cruelty—that’s not what has nagged at me from the start.”
“What, then?”
“Will, my brother Mark taught me to shoot. And you would be hard put to find a man who had more caution and respect for the destructive power of a gun. He would not let me even touch one until I could recite his rules for safety—never point it at anything I did not mean to kill, never kill any creature without a reason, never assume a weapon is unloaded…. Even such things as being sure to put the gun through a fence before climbing the fence, and place it far enough away that there was no chance of stepping or falling on it, and—dear God, I had forgotten this—he taught me that if I should slip and fall, I must make certain to thrust the barrel away from me, to avoid just such an accident as they claim took his life. Mark was as careful and painstaking as the captain of a powder room. Of all the people in the world who might die accidentally of a gunshot wound, of an injury from the careless handling of his own gun—his own gun, Will!—Mark is the very last person. I cannot believe his death was an accident.”
Will nodded. “I must accept your knowledge of his character,” he said.
David’s heart sank at his tone and at what was left unsaid. Will Marshall was a fair-minded man, a decent man. Faced with something this genuinely evil, his mind refused to accept it. David envied Will that innocence but felt deserted in the face of enemy fire. “You don’t believe me.” It wasn’t even a question.
Will stopped and turned to him. “Davy, I trust you. I love you, sir. I know you to be a fair and honest man, and I believe you are telling me the truth abou
t your brother Mark. But accidents do happen, even to the most careful of men. And… yes, I do think you may be less than perfectly objective in this situation. Ronald is arrogant, condescending, he seems to have no respect or regard for you—it would be amazing if you did not think the worst of him.”
“With reason,” David said, pushing away the memories of what Ronald and his friends had done so many years ago. “I haven’t told you half the things he’s capable of.”
“If you did, I am sure I would believe them. I do not like him in any way, and he looks as though he’s gone badly to seed since that portrait was painted, so no report of debauchery would surprise me. But murder? Of his own brother, Davy? That is so very…. To say it’s far worse is the most pitiful understatement. It is unthinkable!”
“Do you think I do not know that? And what of his wife? What happened to Lenore, and why has he never even mentioned her?”
Will threw up his hands. “I don’t know! Perhaps it was nothing more than guilt at having failed to protect her. He might have felt ashamed.”
“Oh, Will…. No. Not possible. He is not like you, he never feels shame—he only regrets being caught. I know for certain that he would torture his own brother.”
“What?”
“From personal experience,” he said shortly, “and that’s all I mean to say about it. Perhaps you see that as less serious than murder—I did not, and do not. But even setting that aside, please consider what it means if my unfilial suspicion is correct. I fear for everyone over whom he will have power—especially for my father, who is now the only one standing between him and the title. It isn’t just that I do not know what evil Ronald may have done. I do not know what more he might do.”
“But we are not certain that he has done anything.”
If I cannot even depend on you…. David sighed. “Remember on our first night here? I warned you of this and asked you to trust me. You said that you would. If you find you cannot… then at least tell me so, and tell me now. I must find out what happened to Mark, with your help or without it. I will find out. If you are unable to help, at least don’t hinder me.”
Will studied him for a moment, then sighed. “You know I could never do that. But this enmity between you is so strong—and well-deserved, I certainly take your word for that—”
He stopped suddenly and turned away, and David could almost hear what he did not say. You cannot be objective. Well, that was true. He was not objective. He was too familiar with Ronald’s character to be so naïve. But there was no point in trying to make Will see that, and no point in feeling hurt and angry that Will seemed to be taking Ronald’s part against him. Will was trying to be fair. He could only wait and try not to hope.
Finally Will turned back to him. “Davy, I trust you, but I cannot adopt your conviction as my own. I need proof to convince me that such a loathsome charge is true. If you can accept that, I will do what I can to help you find that proof. If he did murder your brother simply to gain the title, of course you must find a way to prove it and bring the murderer to justice, and I must help you. Even if you were not dearer to me than my own life, I should be obliged to do that.”
The words were all David could hope for, but the restraint in Will’s manner felt like a wall rising between them. But Will was doing his best and could not know how much hurt accompanied this loss of intimacy. Will was being himself, and entirely honest. There was nothing to do but try to meet him halfway. “Thank you. Will you come with me tomorrow, then? I want to see where this so-called ‘accident’ took place, and if there is any proof that it truly was an accident, you will hear no more about it from me.”
“Gladly,” Will said.
DINNER THAT evening was as cheerless as that of the night before, with the added discomfort of Ronald’s presence. The Countess did not feel well enough to join them, and the ladies Virginia and Eugenie also remained in their rooms. David concentrated on his dinner and exchanged a few quiet words with his cousin Jane. Amelia relayed the greetings and condolences of their tenants and received a nod from her father in return. Ronald made a few abortive attempts to quarrel, but Will presented a face of such bland courtesy that none of his darts appeared to stick, and the Earl at last snapped, “Mind your manners or go to your room!”
“Thank you!” Ronald answered icily. “I shall see if I cannot find more congenial company elsewhere.” He rose, made a mocking bow to the ladies, and departed.
Becoming heir apparent, David reflected, had only worsened his brother’s behavior. In the past, Ronald would have left after dinner to go inflict himself on his friends, or wherever it was he got to—but he would have waited until the ladies had left and would never have been so disrespectful to their father, who was looking decidedly dyspeptic.
To his surprise, though, his father did not make an early exit from their company. He stayed behind until the ladies departed, the port had been passed, and they were on their way to rejoin their womenfolk. As Will passed through the dining room doors ahead of them, the Earl stopped Davy with a glance. “A word with you.”
David nodded to Will to go on and turned. “Sir?”
“Your sister spoke to me today. I imagine you know what she had to say?”
“Yes, sir, I do. But I would like you to know that this was not my doing—”
His words were cut short. “Nothing to do with you,” his father said, staring at him with a measuring eye. “All her own idea, I know that. That one’s got spirit enough, she should have been another son. Seems to think you’d do a better job of looking after her than your brother would, if I should stick my spoon in the wall. I told her I didn’t see how. She said you couldn’t do worse.”
“I thank you both,” David said gravely.
“Hold your tongue!”
David bit back a retort. There was nothing to be gained by starting a quarrel with the old man, not with the girls’ future at stake.
“The pity of it is,” his father continued, “she’s right. He’s no fit guardian for my daughters, and you’re finally showing some sign of becoming a man. I’ve sent for Beauchamp to come by tomorrow. I shall be altering my will to remove Ronald as the girls’ guardian and transfer that responsibility to you. If you’re not willing to take the job, you’d better say so now.”
It was hardly the sort of conversation he’d ever expected to have with his father, but it was the first time he could recall ever having been addressed as a competent adult. “I am willing,” he said, “if by ‘the job’ you mean what my sister proposed to me—that my mother and I be made joint guardians of Amelia and Eugenie, in the event of your death. My expectation, of course, is that Mother would exercise actual control over their activities, and I would merely act as needed in those areas outside a woman’s domain.”
“Yes. And Jane as well. She’s doomed to be an old maid, but I’m damned if I’ll send her back to that drunken lecher of a father—I told Eustace I’d take a horsewhip to him if he came near that girl ever again, and he knows I meant it. He signed her guardianship over to your mother and me, with an irrevocable trust for her marriage portion.”
“So Jane is now a permanent member of our household?”
“Yes, until she marries or your uncle dies. Not that anything will change then—her brother’s just as big an oaf as his father and grandfather before him, but the legal matters are sealed up too tight for him to get his paws on her money. How that clot of barbarians ever managed to produce an angel like your mother—but never mind that, it’s three of them to look after. Do you think you’re up to the job?”
“I believe so. But I hope and pray that the girls will have presented you and Mother with grandchildren before it ever comes to that.”
The bristly eyebrows drew together over a suspicious stare. “Think you’re smart, do you?”
That was simply too much. “Father, I have no idea whether I’m smart or not,” he said, exasperation getting the better of his self-control. “But I don’t believe I’m stupid, and I do lov
e Mother and my sisters and will do my best to protect them if necessary. And—” He stamped hard on his anger and tried to find something conciliatory. “I am sorrier than I can say that we’ve lost Mark. I don’t believe I ever realized how much we all depended on him.”
For a split second, his father’s face crumpled in pain, then returned to the lines of scorn and anger David knew too well. “Of course you didn’t. You were oblivious. I doubt you ever gave a thought to this land, or anyone on it.”
“And why would I have had reason to?” David asked, still trying to keep this discussion on even ground. “The land is yours, sir, and I knew it would be Mark’s one day. If you know nothing else about me, you know full well I never envied him the title, or the estate, or the burden of responsibility.” Which is more than you can say for Ronald! He thought that last, but hardly needed to say it aloud; he could read the old man’s face well enough.
“Well, you’ll have your share of the burden,” the Earl growled. “And you needn’t worry about supporting them on your Navy pay. I’ll see they’re all provided for.”
“Thank you, sir.” He waited, knowing that he would not get a word of thanks in return but willing to be proven wrong. He almost asked if there was anything else, but knew his father would twist that into sounding like he was seeking something for himself. Which he was not. He knew better. If he said nothing, he would regret nothing.
After a long moment, the Earl said, “That’s all. Go tell your sister she’ll get her way. I need to go to my study and draft the changes.”
“Yes, sir.” As always, his reply was made in the privacy of his own mind. I am doing you a service and am expected to thank you for it, and know that you respect me no more for this than you would if I had refused. Thank you, Father! It’s nice to know that something in this house has remained constant. As he hastened to the drawing room, David reflected that at least his upbringing had made life in the Navy a little easier. One who expected nothing from Authority was seldom disappointed.
