* * *
“You care for Mrs. Shaw.”
The words, not accusation but ratherobservation, and issued into the companionable silence which had settled in his study, shook Roland. Jolted him badly. He caught the edge of the decanter from which he had been about to pour on the corner of the mahogany sideboard. The delicate crystal broke, sending whisky everywhere. Relics of Dukes of Northwich past, the bloody crystal and the piece of furniture responsible for the destruction both.
He had never been particularly fond of any Dukes of Northwich he had known. Not his sire. Certainly not his grandfather. Thus, neither the decanter nor the sideboard either. But still, he had made a damned mess, and he had not intended to do so. There was much at stake in the dialogue that was about to unfold. Likely more than he was even aware.
“Hell,” he muttered, staring down at the glittering shards and the growing stain upon the Axminster.
It seemed an inauspicious omen, if nothing else. He cast a glance over his shoulder to find his friend, Chief Inspector Hudson Stone, looming as well. His tall form—half a hand higher than Roland’s not unimpressive height—cast an equally ominous shadow across the chamber.
“Whisky is not necessary, Northwich,” Stone told him.
“I know whisky is not necessary, but it makes some conversations deuced easier. Would you not agree?” He stalked to the bell pull and rang for a servant to dispose of the mess.
“Agreed,” Stone said. “Also, it makes some conversations damned worse.”
The Chief Inspector was a man of few words with an expression as hard as if it had been hewn of granite. Roland had liked him from the moment their paths had first crossed years ago. He had been robbed but then aided by another man who had gone on to become a trusted friend as well, Adrian Hastings. Stone had been a bobby then, and he had helped to apprehend the criminal responsible for Roland’s attack. Just as with his friendship with Hastings, so too had Roland developed a camaraderie with Stone.
One that had lasted.
Stone was a brilliant man. Devoted to justice. In time, he had found himself in a position of power and honor. He was loyal. Harsh. Unafraid to pursue anyone. Recently, he had been named Chief Inspector. It was a position which he deserved and also one which could prove beneficial indeed to Roland. Particularly now that his quest to uncover the diabolical deceptions of George Shaw had finally begun to provide him with raw evidence rather than mere suspicion.
“I cannot argue the point,” Roland conceded.
A subtle knock at the study door heralded the arrival of a footman. Roland bid him enter and then directed the man to the broken decanter. Later, his more than capable housekeeper would oversee the cleaning of the carpets. For now, the removal of the broken glass would have to be sufficient. Roland had far more important tasks awaiting him than fretting over the damned Axminster.
The pattern was not a favorite of his anyway, not that he ordinarily took note of something as unimportant as the carpet beneath his feet. The sky above when it was not marred by London fog, yes. The plants growing in his gardens, the passing of the season, animals, and all the smallest signs of life and means of appreciation his mother had taught him—those were things which drew his attention. Life in all its precious, varied stages gave him a sense of purpose and meaning. Societal trappings, however, did not.
And dyed wool tossed over a wooden floor? Hardly worthy of his notice. More proof, he supposed, that he was unfit to be a duke. His father would have blamed Roland’s mother’s blood for such an abysmal lack of concern over proper ducal worries. Too bad for the former Duke of Northwich that he had only been blessed with one son.
A son of disappointment.
And tainted blood.
But a son, nonetheless.
And the current duke.
Fuck you, Father.
The footman gathered up the remnants of the glass, and Roland thanked him before the fellow was on his way, the door closing in privacy once more at his back.
“Shall we address the reason for my summoning?” Stone asked into the silence that had descended.
And yes, they damned well ought to. Would have done so by now had not Roland mucked it up. The reason for his start returned, prodding and poking.
Nettling, too.
He met his friend’s stare evenly. “I care for Mrs. Shaw in the sense that she is an old friend.”
That was a lie. Pippa was not an old friend. If anything, she was an old enemy. She was the woman to whom he had given his heart. And she had treated that heart little better than he had the whisky decanter just now. Worse, in fact. She had not just unintentionally destroyed him. She had cast him unmercifully to the coals.
And he had been burned.
But there remained the very real likelihood that his old friend-turned-enemy George Shaw had been responsible for it along with Pippa. She could not be held unaccountable. For she had believed the venomous lies the bastard had spewed, whatever they were.
“An oldfriend,” Stone repeated, his tone knowing.
