Patchahoo colored at the words.
“Not you, Patchahoo.” He took a sip of the whiskey, but didn’t apologize. Bentleywasa prick. A horrid one. Content to allow his siblings to struggle in Dunnings while he lived well on their collective inheritance. The papers from London did eventually make their way to Spittal, though it took several weeks. The reports of Lord Emerson and the latest purse he’d lost on some ridiculous wager or an entire paragraph complimenting the earl’s new carriage were hard to miss, especially when all you were eating was cabbage.
“I admit, I threatened to come to London if Bentley didn’t cough up the amount necessary for the new roof. I imagine that’s why you’re here. Well, you are free to inspect the damage. You tell that selfish prig that I’ve kept my part of the bargain. I haven’t set foot in London. But I will. I don’t care if he is wife hunting.”
Bentley, after an endless existence of pleasure since their father’s death, had finally decided he should wed, stating emphatically that the sight of his ill-mannered half-siblings, the scourge of his existence—
That’s what Bentley called Jordan and his family. Ascourge. As if they were a bloody plague or a band of Vikings.
—would cause embarrassment and harm the chances of his lordship in making a suitable match. Bentley proclaimed, in his perfect handwriting, that it had come to his attention it was time to provide an heir for Emerson. Because he certainly, and Bentley had underscored the word several times, couldn’taffordto allow Jordan to inherit. He couldn’t risk anyone recalling his unfortunate association with theDeadly Sins, else he would never make a match.
Prick.
Jordan had written back that they were living in the very backwater of England. How the bloody hell did they pose any embarrassment to his lordship?
By existing, Bentley had written back.Your very birth taints the Sinclair name. You are the offspring of our father’s paramour, one who is to blame for my mother’s early demise.
Jordan took a large swallow of the whiskey. Well, his mother was dead now too, unable to survive the loss of her husband and Dunnings. Shouldn’t that make him and Bentley even? Jordan drummed his fingers on the table, remembering the whistle of the wind as his mother lay dying, wrapped in every spare blanket they could find at Dunnings. He had been unable to save her.
“My lord.”
“I need funds for the roof. Bentley can’t expect us to sleep in a house with the cold and wet dripping in.”
“I fear this has nothing to do with the roof.”
Jordan took a deep breath; if it wasn’t the roof, the situation could be infinitely worse. “It’s my sister, isn’t it?”
Tamsinhadbested the Earl of Richland’s son in a horse race two weeks ago. She’d been riding astride and wearing leather breeches that had once belonged to Andrew. Horrifying nearly everyone. But the race had been a private one. Only a dozen or so onlookers. Surely, the news hadn’t reached all the way to London. Richland’s son had been a good sport.
“This has nothing to do with Lady Tamsin.”
“Tell my brother, Patchahoo—”
The solicitor slapped the small portfolio he carried on the bar. “I am here to inform you that Bentley Sinclair, twelfth Earl of Emerson is dead. You are the new earl.” Patchahoo took out a handkerchief and patted the sweat from his lips. It was warm inside The Hen.
The glass of whiskey hovered at Jordan’s lips. “You’re joking.” Bentley was too insufferable to die. He’d stay alive purely to keep the title from Jordan.
“My lord—”
“Stop calling me that.” Jordan ran a hand through his hair, disgusted to find a bit of potato above one ear. “Bentley can’t be dead. And do I look like an earl to you?”
“I realize this is unwelcome news.”
The solicitor had no idea how unwelcome. “How?” Jordan downed the remainder of his glass.
“The axle on Lord Emerson’s barouche broke apart. The vehicle was new and not the sort meant to take such sharp corners, especially when driving so fast. The road was narrow and bordered by a stone wall on the right. When the axle snapped, it threw Lord Emerson against…” Patchahoo paused long enough to brush a half-eaten chicken leg off the table. “The stone wall, breaking his neck. If it is any comfort to you, my lord, I do not believe your brother suffered. It was…very quick. I’ve made the necessary arrangements on your behalf, but you are expected in London. The house on Bruton awaits your arrival. I took the liberty of informing the staff at River Crest as well.”
“He hadn’t been to River Crest in years. Not since my father’s death.” Bentley rarely visited the place where Jordan and his siblings had been born and raised. Bentley had evicted them purely out of spite.
“No, my lord. To my knowledge, River Crest has stood empty for some time. There is only a small staff in place.”
Jordan sat back, fingers curled around his glass. Bentley was dead.
He hadn’t seen his brother since the day Bentley sent the entire family to Dunnings, unceremoniously escorting them to a waiting carriage only hours after burying Jordan’s father. They hadn’t even been allowed to return to their rooms, enduring Lady Longwood’s insistence that Malcolm and Drew be searched for any valuables they might have taken. It had been an altogether humiliating experience.
“I’m only surprised Bent was driving himself.”
“I believe Lord Emerson was attempting to impress a young lady.” Patchahoo gave an awkward cough.
