age hit him hard. Granted, she was only in her early fifties, but how long before they would be here to watch her put into the grave? The thought made his heart falter in his chest. He’d had her for so little of his life already.
Then he noticed the tears running down her wan cheeks, and the sight was a punch to his gut. He’d seen his mother cry many times—she was an emotional woman who felt no compunction to hide her feelings, especially if some play or novel moved her. She also laughed, swore, and gushed over her children. It was her way.
But these tears didn’t stem from her being swept away by a poem. Which was precisely why they twisted his insides. He pressed his handkerchief into her hand. “Mother, I’m so sorry about Maurice.”
She bobbed her head, obviously too overcome to answer as she blotted her cheeks with his handkerchief.
“If there’s anything I can do—”
“You could call him ‘Father’ for a change.” She fixed him with her misty blue eyes. “It always grieved him that you stopped doing so once you came to England.”
Once I was banished to England, you mean. No, this wasn’t the time for such reminders. And what did it hurt to give her what she asked? It was such a small thing.
Yet it felt huge. “Of course. Whatever you wish.”
A sigh escaped her. “Forgive me for being short with you. I am just . . .”
“Grief-stricken. I know.” He seized her hand. “You’re entitled to be as short as you please.”
She raised an eyebrow at him. “I shall throw those words up at you in a week, when you’re chafing to be away from me because of my peevishness.”
He forced a smile, inwardly groaning at her expectation that he would stay a week. “I’ve seen you be many things, Mother, but peevish isn’t one of them.” He spotted his half sister approaching now that she’d finished consulting with Miss Wolfe across the room. “Gwyn is another matter entirely.”
Gwyn heard him, as he’d intended. “You’d better not be saying anything bad about me,” she chided, “or I will give you grief for taking so long to arrive. I was on the verge of sending Thorn after you, but I feared that the two of you would disappear into the London stews, and we’d never see either of you again.”
Ignoring that barb, he bent to press a kiss to her cheek, then scanned the room. “Where is Thorn, anyway?”
“There’s no telling. You know how he is—good at finding wenches and wine no matter where he travels. No doubt you taught him that skill.”
It was a measure of how little time they’d spent together that she still knew naught of his true character. “I did no such thing.”
Gwyn surveyed him with a sister’s usual skepticism. “Then why did Father always worry that you would lead Thorn astray here in England?”
“I have no idea. Thorn is perfectly capable of leading himself astray, which Mau—Father ought to have known. And despite what nonsense you may read in the papers, I’m not Thorn. I don’t spend my time in the stews.”
“Hmm. Methinks the man doth protest too much.”
“Don’t quote Shakespeare to him,” Mother said plaintively. “Or he’ll start mocking me by quoting Fletcher.”
“I don’t mock you, Mother,” he retorted, relieved to change the subject away from his supposed wild nature. “I merely think you’re unfairly biased toward our ancestor. Shakespeare is the better playwright, and you know it.”
“I know no such thing! Fletcher wrote some of the most engaging, witty plays in the English language. Why, The Wild Goose Chase never fails to make me laugh.”
“You see what you started, Grey?” Gwyn smiled. “Next thing we know, she’ll be acting out the scenes.”
“I beg your pardon, Sis,” Grey said, “but you were the one to start it. I’m just standing here defending myself.”
Sheridan came over. “What has Grey done now?”
Mother’s irate expression softened. “Nothing. Today he can do no wrong.”
A lump stuck in Grey’s throat.
“That’s good to hear,” Sheridan said blandly. “Because I need to steal him for a bit.”
Mother tightened her grip on Grey’s hand. “Must you? He just arrived.”
“I’m afraid I must,” Sheridan answered. “But you’ll have plenty of time with him later. He’s planning on staying at Armitage Hall for a while.” He fixed Grey with a hard look. “Aren’t you?”
Damn. “I am now.” Grey narrowed his gaze on his brother. “So tell me, how long am I staying, exactly?”
“We’ll discuss that.” Sheridan gestured toward the door. “Shall we?”
With a quick squeeze of his mother’s hand, Grey said, “I’ll be back soon, Mother. Keep a chair warm for me, will you?”
Then he followed his brother out the door and down the hall to what had been Maurice’s study when he was alive.
After Grey took a seat, Sheridan went to pour them both some brandy and handed Grey a glass. When Sheridan then stood there staring down into the amber liquor, Grey asked, “Is this about the family finances? Because I’m happy to pay for the funeral and offer you a loan at whatever terms you—”
“It’s not about money. Not yet, anyway.” Sheridan sipped some brandy, then faced him. “It’s about the manner of Father’s death.”
“By drowning.”
Sheridan met his gaze. “Yes. But not an accidental one, I don’t think.”
“What in God’s name do you mean?”
“I believe Father was murdered.”
Grey took a healthy swallow of brandy, then another. “And what exactly brought you to that conclusion?”
“A few things. First of all, there are the details of his death. He drowned when he apparently fell into the river from the bridge near the dower house—”
“There’s a dower house?”
“It’s where Bea and her brother Joshua have lived ever since my grandfather died.”
Grey had assumed that Miss Wolfe was at the hall only for the funeral, but apparently she was a fixture hereabouts. Odd that he hadn’t met her on his two previous visits.
“Where exactly is this dower house?” Grey asked.
“A few miles away, at the other end of the estate. Grandmother and Bea lived there for most of the period when Joshua was serving in the Royal Marines. He’s a major, you know. After he was wounded and consequently discharged, Uncle Armie proposed that Joshua reside there and serve as head gamekeeper for the estate. Which he’s done for a few years now, since before Grandmother’s death.”
Grey frowned. “Gamekeeper? A duke’s grandson? For God’s sake, that is hardly a gentleman’s profession.”
“I agree, but I gather that his choices were few after his return. It took him some time to recover from his wounds, which left him lame. As a result, he walks with a cane. He has trouble in crowds, and some fear his mind is . . . well . . . disordered. For one thing, he has a vile temper. Indeed, he’s prone to violent outbursts.”
“War can do that to a man.” Then the entirety of Sheridan’s remarks registered. “You’re not saying you suspect Joshua Wolfe of—”
“Yes, I am. I fear that my cousin may have murdered my father.”
Chapter Four
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