“You were looking for your wife’s brother, Lord Hollingford.” Quentin’s face turned serious. “When you couldn’t find him, you left. That was the last we heard. Father sent word to all the estates, but you were nowhere. Mother worried that something terrible had happened.”
As far as Stephen was concerned, something terriblehadhappened. The vicious scars upon his chest weren’t imaginary wounds. And yet he had no memory of the pain. Whether they were caused by common thieves or something more sinister, he couldn’t know.
“Someone tried to kill me,” he admitted. “And I don’t know why.”
A flash of concern crossed Quentin’s face before his brother mustered a teasing smile. “I’ll admit, I’ve wanted to murder you a time or two. It isn’t so difficult to imagine.”
“I’m being serious.”
“I could be the heir to all of Father’s fortunes,” Quentin continued, gesturing grandly at the breakfast table as he offered a mischievous wink.
“You are welcome to them.” Despite Quentin’s joking claim, Stephen knew his brother far preferred the freedom of being the youngest son. He himself had known the same independence until the tender age of nine.
“But there’s something else.” Glancing at the door, Stephen removed his coat and loosened his shirt. “Would you have a look at this?” He revealed the tattoo beneath his collar.
At the sight of the symbol, Quentin’s face grew concerned. “What is it?”
“I haven’t the faintest notion. Do I look like the sort to get a tattoo?”
Quentin laughed, but there was uncertainty in it. “Perhaps you lost a wager.”
Stephen righted his clothing. “Perhaps.” But he didn’t think so.
“It looks like an Oriental language. Possibly Sanskrit.”
Had he travelled to India? Or had his attackers done this to him? He intended to question several sources until he learned what it meant.
Stephen turned the conversation to a more neutral topic, and his brother filled him in on the details of a particular shipping investment.
“The profits from the cargo were stolen,” Quentin admitted. “We lost a great deal of money.”
Stephen fetched a pen and paper and began taking notes. “What was the name of the ship?”
“The Lady Valiant.”
At the mention of its name, he’d hoped for a flash of memory. Something that would point toward answers. Instead, there was nothing. He recalled making the investment, but nothing struck him as different from any other ship.
He began jotting down names of the investors who might have been affected by the loss. The Viscount Carstairs was one. Himself.
And Hollingford. Emily’s brother had also invested inThe Lady Valiant. Somehow, he was sure of it.
“Not another of your lists,” Quentin protested. “This is a conversation, not the time for record-keeping.”
“I prefer keeping detailed records.” He’d always liked neat rows of numbers.
“And thank heaven you are the one to manage the estates and not me. If I had to keep the number of lists you did, I should run screaming from the room.” His brother winced at the idea and flopped into a chair beside a cooling cup of tea.
“You would simply pay the bills and not worry about where the money came from,” Stephen said.
“Precisely. As long as you and Father support me, that is all that matters.” Quentin raised his cup of tea in a mocking toast.
Stephen frowned. In two lines he estimated profits and potential losses for each ship, the numbers flooding through him. Thank God for something familiar. Orderly and logical, just as he liked them.
He sobered, thinking of how Emily had taken his orderly life apart. He’d never expected to be responsible for a wife and children. Not so soon.
“Does anyone else know I am married?” he asked suddenly, looking up from his list.
“Possibly,” Quentin replied. “The servants do talk. But Father wants to keep silent about it.”
