The marquess’s siblings had a lamentable tendency to think he would interfere between them and their attachments. Well, perhaps he would if he thought them unadvisable. At least part of his purpose in coming to Town was to look into the matter of the rich widow who was throwing out lures to Bryght.
Last year, Bryght’s attachment to Nerissa St. Claire had been a problem, especially as the young woman had made clear advances to Rothgar behind Bryght’s back. It was surprising how a clever man could be a fool over a woman.
Rothgar had always handled Bryght with a great deal of care, understanding many of the forces that shaped him. They had an amicable relationship, but it was shadowed. It was shadowed mainly by Bryght’s mother, which would have distressed her.
Gabrielle, Marchioness of Rothgar, had been a charming, generous, warm-hearted woman who had brought joy and laughter to a house shadowed by murder and madness. All the world, including her children, had adored her, but perhaps Bryght—her oldest child—had been closest to her heart.
Rothgar had appreciated his stepmother’s qualities, though he knew he had never treated her with the warmth she wanted. Perhaps, even when too young to understand, he had been responding to her own ambivalent feelings.
He was a child, and Gabrielle reached out to all children, especially sad ones. But he was also the quiet moody son of the madwoman who had murdered a newborn and caused such grief to her husband, and he carried that woman’s blood.
Gabrielle had treated her stepson with as much love and care as her own children, but she had never concealed the fact that she did not think his blood should be passed on. She had raised Bryght to provide the next generation of Mallorens.
That was perfectly reasonable, but it had gone further.
She had wished her stepson dead.
It had only been the once, as far as anyone knew. Rothgar—Lord Grafton then—had been brought home to the Abbey deathly ill of a fever picked up during a rash adventure on the seamy side of London. Gabrielle, his father, and Bryght had been by his bed, and he had known he was dying.
Gabrielle said, “Perhaps it is for the best.”
His father said, “No,” but without great conviction.
Bryght exclaimed, “No! I don’t want Bey to die. Don’t wish him dead.” He had flung himself on the bed as if to protect his older brother from harm.
Perhaps it was duty, but Rothgar thought it was guilt over that death-wish that had driven his stepmother to drag him back from death by will alone. She had nursed him, but more importantly she had berated him, refusing to allow him to slip away. At times he had wanted to beg her to let him go, but he was too weak even for that.
By the time he was strong enough to speak, she was ill herself, for she caught his illness. No one was able to drag her back from death, though the marquess tried. Then he, too, succumbed. Rothgar had risen from his sickbed responsible for his parents’ deaths, and responsible for holding his family together.
He had never let anyone know that he had been aware of that crucial conversation.
However, he suspected that Bryght carried a little of his mother’s guilt, for though he hadn’t wished his brother dead at that moment, he must have wished later that Rothgar had died rather than his parents. Certainly Gabrielle’s clear desire that Bryght marry and produce a future marquess now had the power of a sacred duty.
Rothgar approved, for he knew Bryght was well-suited to marry. He liked women and children, and was generally patient and willing to compromise. There had always been a danger, however, that in his desire to fulfill his mother’s dreams to the letter, he would choose with his head rather than his heart.
At least the Findlayson seemed safely out of the running, and Nerissa was both married and unmasked.
But the new, mysterious candidate for Bryght’s hand was a powerful one.
For as they had gone through the ledgers of accounts and investments, Rothgar had deliberately made several mistakes, and Bryght—sharp-brained Bryght to whom figures and facts were life-blood—had not even noticed.
Rothgar extinguished the candles thoughtfully and left the offices. Despite Bryght’s warning, he would have to investigate matters.
When they entered the hall Zeno gave awoofthat was much sharper than usual, particularly for night-time when he knew he was not allowed to make noise other than to sound an alarm.
Rothgar looked around, but there was nothing amiss.
The dog loped over to the front door and waited there.
Rothgar followed. “Gone out, has he?” He opened the door and looked at the chilly rain. “Are you sure?”
Zeno gave what seemed suspiciously like a sigh and slid out into the chilly dark.
Rothgar closed the heavy door thoughtfully. He’d give a great deal if Zeno could submit a written report tomorrow.
Bryght was on his way to Dresden Street.
He had intended to go to bed. In fact, he was exhausted which was unusual for him, but even as he climbed the stairs, thoughts of Portia had jangled in his mind and he had known he could not sleep until he was sure of her safety. He’d gone to his room to get a heavy cloak and to put on boots, and had then returned downstairs and left the house.
