"I'm fine, Mother. How kind of you to inquire."
His sarcasm sailed over her head, as he'd known it would, and she smiled, clearly relieved.
"Are the accounts of the Yorkshire estates ready for my review?"
Stephen turned to his father. At fifty-two, the Duke of Moreland still cut a tall, imposing figure. Gray streaked his dark hair and deep lines bracketed his unsmiling mouth. He had the coldest eyes Stephen had ever seen. "No. I need another day to finish them."
"I see." The duke accompanied those two words with a long, silent, frigid stare that clearly indicated his disapproval. He returned his attention to his dinner, dismissing his son as effectively as slamming a door in his face.
Stephen realized that that exchange was the longest conversation he'd had with his father since his return to London.
"I heard an interesting bit at White's this afternoon," Gregory said, accepting more wine from a footman. "The betting book is filled with wagers on the outcome."
Stephen's gaze moved down the table and settled on his brother. Signs of Gregory's dissipated lifestyle were taking their toll, marring his handsome face, and the alcohol-induced bleariness never completely left his eyes anymore. His high color announced his inebriated state. If Gregory weren't such an immoral bastard, Stephen would feel sorry for him.
"What did you hear?" Victoria asked.
"There's talk that a woman has been writing a series of stories appearing in Gentleman's Weekly magazine."
Stephen froze. "What?"
Gregory gulped his wine, spilling burgundy drops on his white cravat. "Do you read A Sea Captain's Adventures by H. Tripp in the Gentleman's Weekly?"
"Indeed I do," said Justin from the head of the table. "You read them as well, Stephen."
"Yes. Continue, Gregory."
Clearly confident that he held his audience spellbound, Gregory said, "Of all the stories serialized in the magazine, H. Tripp is the only author who has never been seen in person. Why is he not a member of any writing society? Why does he not attend any social functions? There is speculation that the reason is because he's a woman."
"Perhaps he's merely shy, or infirm, or lives too far away," suggested Melissa in a quiet voice.
Gregory fixed his wife with a watery, baleful stare. "Why, what a brilliant suggestion," he taunted, his words thick with sarcasm. "I cannot imagine how we'd carry on without your sparkling insights."
Twin slashes of red humiliation colored Melissa's thin cheeks and her gaze dropped to her lap.
Schooling his features into an impassive mask, Stephen said, "Melissa's suggestions explain very logically why no one has ever met H. Tripp."
"Then explain why Mr. Timothy, publisher of Gentleman's Weekly, becomes visibly distraught when H. Tripp's name comes up in conversation," Gregory challenged. "The color drains from his face and sweat breaks out on his brow."
A humorless smile curved Stephen's lips. "Perhaps the alcohol fumes on your breath do him in."
Crimson mottled Gregory's face. He made a move to rise from his chair, but Melissa laid a restraining hand on his arm. "Gregory, please don't make a scene."
Gregory's attention turned to his wife and he pinned her with a venomous stare. "Get your hand off me. Now."
Melissa's pinched face reddened to crimson. She snatched her hand away, and for just one instant, before she lowered her gaze once again to her lap, Stephen thought he saw hatred flash in her eyes.
Gregory brushed at his sleeve where her palm had rested. "Your touch makes me ill. Just sit there and keep your stupid mouth shut."
Stephen's fingers tightened around his wineglass. "That's enough, Gregory. As for your theory regarding H. Tripp, I hope you didn't wager more than you can afford to lose."
"Indeed? Why is that?"
"Because I am personally acquainted with H. Tripp, and I assure you the author is the breeches-wearing sort."
Stephen could tell by the dismay that flashed on Gregory's face that his brother had indeed overextended himself in White's betting book.
Belligerence quickly replaced dismay, however, and Gregory narrowed his eyes. "Where did you meet him?"
"I am not at liberty to say."
"How do I know you're telling the truth?"
"Are you questioning my integrity, Gregory?" Stephen asked in a deceptively quiet, icy tone.
Gregory's watery eyes shifted nervously. "Do you give your word as a gentleman?"
"Absolutely," Stephen said without hesitation. "In fact, I'll make it a point to visit White's at my earliest convenience and put an end to this nonsense."
With a nonchalance he was far from feeling, he turned to Victoria and asked her about the party she was planning, knowing she would rhapsodize on the arrangements for at least a quarter hour.
He'd make sure he visited White's on his way home this very evening and squelch that damn rumor. No one would dare question the Marquess of Glenfield's word of honor.
He realized this might be the first time in his whole life he was grateful for his title.
* * *
"Delightful dinner party, Justin," Stephen remarked several hours later when he and his friend retreated to the library. The Duke and Duchess had departed, no doubt anxious to meet up with their latest lovers, and Gregory had staggered out, berating Melissa, who'd followed meekly behind. Victoria had retired to her bedchamber claiming the headache, and Stephen could not blame her. His own temples pounded from the tension-filled atmosphere.
Pouring himself a hefty brandy, Stephen tossed the drink back in one gulp. The liquor burned through him, relaxing his tense muscles. He promptly poured another, bringing it and the decanter to a wing chair next to the fire. He set the decanter down on the small mahogany table next to him.
Justin poured himself a finger of brandy and sat in the chair opposite Stephen. Both men remained silent for several long minutes, staring at the dancing flames.
Justin cleared this throat. "If you continue drinking at that pace, you'll end up in worse condition than Gregory." He eyed the brandy snifter in Stephen's hand. "Perhaps you already are."
"Not yet, but that is my ultimate goal," Stephen replied. He tossed back his drink and poured another.
"I see. Then, before you pass out, do you want to hear my observations of the evening?"
"By all means, although I'm certain they're the same as mine."
"Which are?"
"My brother is a greedy, abusive, debt-ridden drunk who I'm certain wished me dead at least a dozen times during dinner." He swallowed more brandy, praying for numbness. "Do you have anything to add to that?"
Justin shook his head. "No." After several minutes of uncomfortable silence, he asked, "Do you want to talk about what's really bothering you?"
The lump that formed in Stephen's throat nearly choked him. "No." Taking a long pull of his drink, he stared into the flames. Why the hell didn't the liquor dull the pain? How much brandy did he need to drink to make it go away?
"I don't mean to criticize, Stephen, but is drinking yourself into oblivion really the best course of action for you to take?" Justin asked quietly. "Whoever tried to kill you is still out there, waiting for another chance. You can hardly defend yourself if you're foxed."
Stephen leaned his head back against the chair and closed his eyes. The potent alcohol seeped through him, and he felt the onset of the blankness he strove for. Perhaps the liquor didn't make him feel good, but it kept him from feeling quite so bad. In fact, with any luck and a few more drinks, he would cease to remember anything painful at all.
"You care for her." Justin's soft statement hit Stephen like a bucket of cold water in his face. "That's why you're so miserable."
Stephen opened his eyes and immediately realized his folly. Three Justins swam before him. He snapped his eyes shut again. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said in a brandy-thickened voice.
"Yes, you do," Justin said, his tone quiet but implacable. "You haven't been the same since you arrived back i
n London. You're moody, angry, and hostile, and you snap at anyone who comes near you. Not that you would have won any awards for congeniality before your visit to Halstead, but now you're damned near impossible."
"Such flowery flattery will surely swell my head."
"If you care so much for the woman, why not go back and see her? Tell her who you really are. Be honest with her. If she cared for you when she believed you were a lowly tutor, she's bound to love it when she finds out you're a marquess and the heir to a bloody dukedom."
"She'd loathe me for lying to her," Stephen said in a hollow, flat tone. He took a deep swallow of brandy. "Hayley respects honesty above all else. Believe me, Justin. She is better off without me."
"In your current condition, that is no doubt true. It's abundantly clear, however, that you are not better off without her."
"Even if I wanted to see her again, I cannot. Not with my present situation," Stephen said in a tired, slurred voice. "My life is in danger. If Hayley were with me, that could place her in danger as well. If I return to Halstead now, I could place the entire Albright family at risk. If I'm followed, I'd lead a killer right to their door."
Justin stared at him, the light of understanding dawning in his eyes. "Good God, Stephen. You not only care for her, you fell in love with her. You're in love with Hayley Albright."
Stephen shook his head and was immediately sorry as the movement started an instant pounding in his temples. "That's ridiculous. Love is nothing more than pretty words men like Byron spout about."
"Perhaps you thought so before, but I would stake any wager that you don't now."
Stephen pried open his heavy eyelids and gazed into the fire. Images danced before him, images he'd spent the last two weeks trying to forget. But nothing helped. It didn't matter how hard he worked, or how much he drank, he couldn't erase Hayley from his mind. He pictured her laughing, playing with the children, reading to Callie, instructing the boys in Shakespeare, splashing in the lake, good-naturedly scolding her beastly dogs, wrapping Pamela up in a moth-eaten quilt to hide her wet gown from Marshall Wentbridge.
His mind rolled back over the time he had spent at Albright Cottage, and he realized it had been the happiest time of his life. The Albrights cared about him. Not his fortune or titles. They'd included him in every aspect of their lives, sharing all they had with him. He'd never felt so bloody damn good in all this life. And now it was gone.
Gone.
And damn it, he missed it.
He missed the noise, the confusion, and general chaos that reigned in Hayley's household. He missed the sound of laughter, and the warmth of smiles across the breakfast table. He missed holding Callie's little hand during the evening meal prayer. And most of all, he missed Hayley.
Dear God in heaven, how he missed her. He missed her sweetness and her kindness. He ached for the touch of her hands, the taste of her kiss, the feel of her body touching his, skin to skin, that look of love and admiration shining from her expressive eyes.
"You miss them."
Justin's words so accurately reflected his thoughts, Stephen couldn't stop the bitter laugh that escaped him. He swallowed and nodded. "Yes."
He could barely force the single word of admission past the huge lump in his throat. After tossing off the remainder of his drink, he carefully placed the snifter next to the decanter on the table. He leaned forward in his chair, braced his elbows on his knees, and dropped his face into his hands. He felt empty, hollow, miserable, incredibly guilty, and more than a little drunk.
"She told me that she loved me," he said in a raw, slurred voice, unable to stop the words. "She said I didn't have to leave, that I could apply for a tutoring position in Halstead and be a member of the family." He dragged his hands down his face, then clasped his fingers between his spread knees, bowing his head in abject misery.
Suddenly he raised his head and fastened his bleary gaze on Justin. "Do you know what I did when she told me she loved me? Do you know how I repaid her for all her kindness? For saving my life? For loving me?" A bitter, humorless laugh erupted from his throat. "I'll tell you what I did, how I repaid her. I stole her innocence, then left the next morning. Without a word. No, that is not entirely true. I left a note. In it I told her to find someone else to love."
Justin stared at him, clearly stunned. "You compromised Miss Albright?"
"Completely."
Justin's eyes widened. He opened his mouth, but no words came forth.
"Nothing to say?" Stephen asked with a humorless smile. "Have I managed to shock you?"
"Actually, yes," Justin admitted. After a long pause he asked, "Have you considered the possibility she might be with child?"
Stephen felt as if all the air had been sucked from the room. Hayley with child? Jesus, why hadn't he thought of that? Because I've been too miserable to think properly. "I hadn't considered that, no."
"And if she is?"
The brandy was dulling Stephen's mind at a rapid rate. "I don't know. I'll make discreet inquiries in several months and find out how she is. If she's with child."
"Good God, Stephen. I thought it a real possibility Miss Albright might fall for you, but I admit, in spite of my teasing, I never seriously believed you might fall for her."
"She's an angel," Stephen said, his tongue so thick he could barely speak. His eyes drifted shut. "Beautiful Hayley, from the hay meadow. God how I miss her…" His voice trailed off and his head slumped sideways.
Justin shook his head in amazement. He couldn't believe Stephen had been reduced to such a sorry state. And he was frankly shocked by what Stephen had just admitted in his drunken stupor. I must sober him up and keep him that way or whoever is trying to kill him will surely succeed.
He grabbed Stephen under his arms and pulled him to his feet. Jesus, the man weighed a bloody ton. A bloody ton of brandy-soaked deadweight. Stephen roused himself slightly, and Justin half walked, half dragged him up the stairs. He got him into one of the guest bedchambers and plopped him unceremoniously on the bed.
Justin looked down at him, his heart pinching in pity for his friend. Based on Stephen's words and his present uncharacteristic behavior, Justin could only conclude that he was indeed in love. He wondered how long it would take Stephen to realize it. Justin could only hope it wouldn't be too late.
* * *
Victoria Mallory could not sleep.
She'd retired shortly after dinner, hoping her absence would give Justin a chance to draw Stephen out and perhaps confide whatever was bothering him.
She was greatly concerned for her brother. Ever since his return two weeks ago, he'd been different. The old Stephen was cynical, jaded, and arrogant, but he could also be charming and devilish, and he always had a kind word for her.
Now he barely spoke to anyone, and when he did, his answers were limited to clipped monosyllables. If he said more than two or three words at a time, they were accompanied by such a frigid glare, the conversation abruptly ended. When he was not glaring or brooding, he was drinking.
But the thing that alarmed Victoria the most was the look of utter weary resignation in his eyes. It was almost as if he didn't give a damn about anyone or anything.
After remaining in her bed for almost an hour, Victoria couldn't stand the inactivity a moment longer. She simply had to know what was going on. Donning her robe, she crept silently down the stairs.
She paused outside the drawing room and pressed her ear to the door. Silence. She quietly turned the knob and saw the room was empty. She moved along the hall to the library.
She crept along, the sound of her footsteps swallowed by the thick Persian runner. Pausing outside the door, she heard the distinct murmur of voices. Triumphant, and without a twinge of guilt, she dropped to her knees and peered through the keyhole. Blackness. Damnation. The key must be in the hole. She pressed her ear to the door, but the words from within were muffled and indistinct.
Not ready to admit defeat, Victoria hurried to the study. There was an adjoining
door between the two rooms. With any luck, the door wouldn't be locked.
Once inside, she carefully picked her way across the room, taking care not to overturn any tables. When she reached the adjoining door, she held her breath, turning the knob in infinite degrees. To her delight, the knob turned. She carefully inched the door open and pressed her ear to the crack. Justin's voice drifted to her.
"…is drinking yourself into oblivion really the best course of action for you to take? Whoever tried to kill you is still out there, waiting for another chance. You can hardly defend yourself if you're foxed."
Victoria's blood ran cold and she clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle her stunned gasp. Dear God, someone was trying to kill Stephen? Pressing her ear back to the crack, she listened to their entire conversation, her shock growing with each passing minute.
Then the talking stopped. She applied her eye to the crack in the door and saw Justin struggling to pull Stephen, who appeared passed out cold, to his feet. Quietly closing the door, she made her way out of the room.
She sprinted down the hall in a very uncountesslike manner. Then, employing a method that would shock the matrons of the ton right down to their stockings, she hiked her nightgown and robe up to her thighs and took the stairs two at a time, not pausing in her mad dash until she was safely ensconced under the covers in her bed.
Closing her eyes, she calmed her breathing, for she knew Justin would come to her. He knew how anxious she was to know if he'd found out anything about what was bothering Stephen. Several minutes later she heard the door connecting her and Justin's adjoining suites open.
Victoria felt the edge of the bed pull down under Justin's weight as he perched there. She opened her eyes and smiled at him in the semidarkness.
"I should have known you'd still be awake," he said, his voice laced with amusement.
"I'm anxiously awaiting your report on Stephen," she replied, sitting up. "Did he tell you what is bothering him?"
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