“Are you sure you would not like to make yourself comfortable, Your Grace?” he said, putting mockery onto the title.
Cecilia was beginning to feel foolish in her refusal to sit and nodded curtly, going to the chair opposite Thorpe’s own and sitting.
“I did not intend to harm Arthur. Which I suppose you know given your willingness to face me despite the fact. Though the man did not like me and did not care to hide it. That was rude of him I always thought. But then he was taking his lead from my younger brother, was he not?”
“I’m sure they had their reasons. Arthur did not take against anyone for no reason. Nor have I observed Lionel doing the same,” Cecilia replied.
Thorpe’s eyebrows rose. “So, you know that your husband and I are brothers? Which means he knows it too. So that is why he came for me tonight.”
Cecilia could not react quickly enough to hide her surprise and sudden interest.
“Came for you?” she queried.
Thorpe smiled, an expression that held a lot of wolf. “Did he not tell you his business tonight?” he asked softly.
Cecilia did not reply and Thorpe laughed again.
“So, he does not trust you with all his secrets, it seems.”
“I did not come here to discuss my husband,” Cecilia said firmly.
“Well, this is my house and I wish to discuss him,” Thorpe replied, smile slipping.
It was like seeing a wolf wearing a mask and dropping that mask to reveal the slavering predator beneath. Blue eyes were suddenly cold and hard, mouth pulled tight with the suggestion of teeth beneath. He leaned forward, eyes wide and intent.
“I had assumed you were merely the tenant,” Cecilia began carefully, probing for a weakness in Thorpe’s armor, seeking to draw the blood of anger.
Thorpe sat back, looking around, eyes narrowing. “Of course, I am the master here. I do not rent other men’s houses any more than I share their wives.”
“It is just that this house has the look of a place newly occupied. So many empty spaces on the walls. And on your bookshelves. I had assumed you were yet to fully unpack your possessions. My mistake, my lord,” Cecilia said, looking around innocently.
Thorpe growled in his throat, suddenly hurling the glass aside where it shattered against a bookcase.
“Do not think that you can insult me without consequence,” he growled.
“Do I insult, Lord Thorpe? By admitting to being in error? I do apologize if that is how you took my words. I was merely observing the unfinished state of your house. Our servants had Bruton Street fully prepared for our arrival.”
“This shambolic pile of brick is my property, purchased with my money. But the house you brag of in Bruton Street should have been mine too. It is mine by right of being the eldest son of Charles Grisham!” Thorpe roared. “I am forced to live in this modern rubbish while my younger brother claims my birthright.”
There was madness in his eyes and spittle flew from his mouth. Cecilia felt the first twinges of fear. She had believed herself safe enough from a rational, if objectionable man, in the middle of London and a house full of servants. But, if Thorpe was not rational? She instinctively understood that showing any sign of weakness at this moment would be her undoing. So she returned his stare stolidly, unmoving in her chair.
“I came here to discuss my own home with Sir Gerald Knightley. You suggested that you disagreed with his purchasing of the property?” she remarked, as though they were discussing the weather.
Thorpe stared at her for a long moment, then visibly restrained himself, swallowing his anger and steepling his fingers before his face.
“I did. The man has always been impulsive. I believe he wished to use the property as a means to persuade you to sell yourself to him.”
Cecilia couldn’t speak for a moment. Both at the notion and the matter-of-fact way in which Thorpe stated it. As though his only objection to the plan was that it was a waste of money. It said something about his character. But then he was prepared to kill a man he knew to be his brother so that he could steal his title and lands. That alone told her all she needed to know.
An inkling of doubt was beginning to grow in her mind, a wondering if she had gone too far. Her hasty journey here had been driven by her anger at Lionel for breaking his promise. Now, she felt that she had put herself into greater danger than she had at first realized.
“That is an unpleasant notion,” Cecilia replied, keeping her worries locked away beneath the trap door of her calm outward appearance.
“It has a certain dark attraction,” Thorpe added with a leering grin.
“Is Sir Gerald in residence this evening?” Cecilia asked.
“He is not. Sir Gerald is at this moment in the hands of His Majesty’s Custom and Excise. Led by your gallant husband,” Thorpe muttered.
