Julian indicated the rows of bottles and stepped back, indicating that Harper was free to continue. Harper bowed.
“That is most generous. I can assure Your Grace that I will not take your invitation literally. There are many bottles worth as much as this house without any exaggeration. I will select a modest port, I think.”
“As you wish,” Julian forced a smile.
It felt unnatural, as did the attempt at small talk. He was unused to conversations with anyone that were not entirely pragmatic. There had been long talks with Crammond over the years, over firelight and good ale. But since becoming Duke, their relationship had changed, Crammond maintaining a distance as he felt appropriate. There had been no one else that Julian would wish to or know how to talk to at length.
He turned away and ascended the steps once more. Initially, he walked past Ester, allowing her to follow him but not stopping in case Harper was watching or listening. When they were out of earshot along the corridor, he turned to her.
“Did you hear that?” he asked.
“I did,” Ester whispered.
“I wanted to throw him out by the scruff of his neck. Sniffing around my cellars like he owns them. The nerve of the man,” Julian raged in a hushed voice, “but at least Kingsley is not hereyet. He will get short shrift from the magistrate when he asks for the arrest of a village girl named Emily Granger. I hope there is no such person.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Julian paced the length of his study, burning firelight casting flickering shadows against the velvet-draped walls. Ester was securely locked away in a secluded wing of the castle, one long forgotten to time. He had entrusted her the master key which unlocked every door in the house. Crammond and Mrs. Grypes had their own copies of it. His instructions to her had been unwavering: under no circumstances was she to open the door for anyone but him.
Reaching his escritoire, Julian yanked the bellpull with ferocity, unable to dislodge the brewing anger inside. Anger at the way Ester had been treated. Anger at howhehad been treated. Kingsley had been laughing up his sleeve at Julian, played him for a fool—if even a fraction of Julian’s suspicions were confirmed. Laughing even as he destroyed lives with the efficiency of a bouncing cannonball. How many more would fall victim to that blackguard's insatiable greed?
A knock at the door snapped Julian from his thoughts.
“Come in, Crammond!” Julian barked before the third knock.
Crammond entered the room. His gaze flickered from his master to the hearth, before settling on Julian’s hands, which rested bare on his knees, devoid of the ever-present gloves. He hesitated for the briefest moment, before shifting his focus just beyond Julian’s shoulder. Looking at him without looking at him.
“I see the question in your eyes,” Julian murmured. “Out with it.”
Crammond cleared his throat. “It is only that… Your Grace, you have always insisted—never without the gloves.”
Julian’s lips curled into a humorless smile. “Hmm. I only now realize I never asked. Didyouever believe in the curse, Crammond?”
“Not for a second,” Crammond replied immediately, his voice steady. “But Your Grace did. And that was enough for me.”
Julian let out a bitter laugh. “Ester does not believe it. And she seems hale and hearty despite being a victim. Proof enough that the curse is nothing more than a myth conjured up by my father’s whimsical imaginings.”
“I should say so. Common sense, I’d say,” Crammond stated plainly.
“We shall see,” Julian muttered, his tone growing darker. “Has His Lordship Viscount Kingsley returned to Theydon Mount?”
“He has not, Your Grace. But I have been keeping a close eye.”
Good old Crammond. He had not yet been made aware of the full extent of Julian’s suspicions but could deduce that something was afoot and acted accordingly.
“If it pleases, Your Grace, I must prepare to receive His Lordship's presence shortly.”
“Of course,” Julian assured. “Ah, I called for you to ask if you might kindly request that Molly bring me another decanter of port, my last two are empty.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” the butler bowed, before exiting the study.
Not typically one for strong drink—especially not in the daylight hours—Julian felt the undeniable need for its artificial fortitude. Something to steel him for the confrontation to come.
A few minutes later, Molly appeared with a decanter of rich, dark port and a crystal tumbler, setting both on a small side table before quietly retreating. Julian poured himself a generous measure, downing it in a single, burning swallow. The heat did little to calm his turbulent thoughts.
He leaned back, contemplating the conversation to come with Kingsley. How he would restrain himself from physical violence. The alcohol, in hindsight, may not have been the wisest choice.
His gaze was drawn to the flickering flames of the hearth. It made him think of his father. Windermere Castle had been a cold, dark house. His father’s pathological fear of light made it so. Despite that, many of his esoteric rituals involved flame. Julian could not see an open fire without remembering the bizarre occult ceremonies with which his father attempted to conjure demons or commune with the dead.Harold Barringtonhad been an eccentric, to say the least. An outcast who was spoken of in fearful whispers by those who lived in the villages around Windermere Castle. Now, that mantle had passed down to Julian by the simple fact of his self-imposed isolation. A role he had accepted as no more than his lot in life.
