Rooney grunted as he took a healthy drink of the brandy. "Aye, you would," he agreed. "But that's not the way of it. They all want to forget." The old man emptied the glass in one swallow.
"What is it that everyone wants to forget? Was he wild and rebellious?"
Rooney shook his head, staring into the soft glow the amber liquid reflected through the glass. "If that was only the way of it, it would have been an easy matter. Such a sad, sad thing."
Zach's fingers tightened around the decanter. "What could be so bad?"
The old man looked up, fixing Zach with bloodshot eyes. "Murder."
Zach leaned against the frame of a tall window that opened onto the balcony outside his room, trying to think. He exhaled slowly, smoke from the cigarette curling about his head.
The empty decanter sat on the table beside the window. It had taken most of the contents to get what he wanted from the stable master. The old man finally had slumped over in a drunken stupor. Zach finished the rest of the liquor, desperately needing something to dull the painful truth.
He inhaled, the tip of the cigarette glowing fiery red. Murder, two sons born of different mothers, childhood resentments that festered into manhood, a favored firstborn son, jealousy, rivalry for a father's love. Then the untimely death of Lord Clayton Barrington.
According to the stable master, some said it was an accident, others claimed it wasn't. There had been a dreadful quarrel, the house servants heard it. Then there was silence and a young servant girl supposedly found Alex Barrington standing over his father's body.
He was brought up on murder charges. The evidence supplied by the servant girl was damning, but there were rumors about her, too. Ah yes, rumors. The stable master knew the girl was caught more than once sneaking out to the stables with young Master Charles. She testified against his brother, then disappeared shortly after the trial.
And the sentence? Servitude and exile.
Because of his place in society Alex Barrington was spared hanging. He was ordered by the courts to serve a minimum sentence in prison and then be sent into permanent exile. In the span of a few short weeks, Alexander Nicholas Barrington was transformed from the heir of one of England's wealthiest families to a convict. His title, his lands, his wealth were all forfeit in favor of the younger brother.
Nicholas Barrington. The words from an old journal his father had kept:
I began this journey into hell. One day I will return and have my day of justice for the crime of which I am accused... I shall now be called Nicholas Tennant.
His sentence became his hell. Nicholas Barrington was a man stripped of family, country, and ultimately his name.
It seemed impossible, yet in his soul Zach believed it.
The connection to the Barrington family had been there all along. Nicholas Tennant and Alexander Nicholas Barrington were one and the same.
I will reclaim my birthright from those who have accused me. I will return and have my day of justice.
The words from the journal haunted him. They were not words of regret or even denial—they were words of revenge.
Was it possible his father had been falsely accused? But why? And who would stand to gain the most if he was dead or prevented from inheriting? Charles Barrington?
The stable master had hinted as much but quickly let the matter drop and then wouldn't speak of it again. And there was the matter of the servant girl who'd testified at the trial, then disappeared afterward.
Nicholas Tennant had vowed to return. And what did it all have to do with Felicia Barrington? Zach rubbed the heels of his hands against his eyes.
He stared painfully into the blood red dawn. His head ached, but the pain helped clarify his thoughts. The hand he raised with a cigarette shook, but not with fear or weakness. The anger came hours ago in the stable and had slowly built until it was like a live animal clawing at his insides.
The mask was gone, as was the rest of his costume shirt. A fine sheen spread across his shoulders and back in spite of the cool night air that lingered. His hair was wild, unkempt, almost afire as the dawn fell in golden waves about his head. There was nothing of the elegant, sophisticatedWilliam St. Jamesto be found.
As the walls seemed to close in on him, Zach threw the cigarette over the balcony and turned back to the room. He had to get away. If he remained another moment, he would go mad. There was nothing more to be done here. These people were powerful and respected. They would keep their secrets because the truth carried too high a price.
Whatever he chose to do had to be done away from here, where the odds were more evenly balanced. He stared at the walls that surrounded him. This had once been his father's home. He might have slept in this very room.
He turned and left, telling himself that Fair View meant nothing to him, held no meaning for him. It was only so much brick and mortar: rooms, hallways, and paintings. It had been part of his father's life, but not his. Those very same walls seemed to throw the lie back at him.
Zach hesitated outside the room at the end of the hall. He leaned into the door, the palm of his hand flattened against the smooth wood, and instinctively he knew. This was her room. Elyse was just beyond that door.
Memories of her in his bed flashed across his mind, memories of sleek, pale skin against his, the heat in her slender body that melted to passion as they came together. The anger that could flash in her eyes, then simmer to another emotion he knew she would deny—desire.
She belonged to Barrington, like one of his ships or Fair View, a possession he'd acquired by a stolen title. Whatever they might have shared began and ended that one night. His hand dropped to his side.
