John pressed his palms on the windowsill and shook his head. The little street urchin was going to get into a bind one day that she couldn’t get out of. Not everyone was as indulgent as he was.
“Why did you close the window? It’s warm in here.” Robert paced across the room, tugging at his cravat.
“This is a private conversation.” John turned and leaned back against the sill. He crossed his arms over his chest. “I want to prevent little ears from listening in.”
“What?”
“Never mind.” John cocked his head, watching his brother. Something about the way he moved was off. Stiff, especially when he turned. “What’s happened?”
Robert shot him a dark look. He pinched his lips together and narrowed his eyes and looked so much as their mother had when she’d caught John doing something he oughtn’t, that John’s chest squeezed.
It had been twenty-six years since her death, but the wound didn’t seem to heal. If she hadn’t died giving birth to their youngest brother, how different their lives might have been. Their father wouldn’t have begun his descent into drink and gambling, and he would never have passed that particular vice down to Robert.
Or so John imagined.
If Robert’s gambling wasn’t inherited from their father, then the blame lay squarely on John.
It had been his experiment, his arrogance, that had scarred Robert, turning his sweet-tempered brother bitter.
“Can’t a man visit his loving family?” Robert asked.
John ignored the sarcasm. “You’re walking stiffly. You’re agitated, or more so than usual. And this is your second call to my house in less than a week. Cut the horse shit. What’s happened?”
Robert paused, breathing heavily. “Fine.” He unbuttoned his waistcoat and pulled his shirt from his trousers. “You wish to see what’s happened? Sudworth has added another scar to my collection.”
Hiking his shirt up over his ribs, he turned, exposing the left side of his torso to the light.
John stared at the fresh wound, keeping his expression level, but inside he was seething. It wasn’t a scar, not yet. But the red and blistered flesh that formed a neat ‘X’ would become one.
“A poker?” Jesus, sometimes the indifference in his voice chilled even him. But John prided himself on maintaining a dispassionate demeanor. Showing the world he cared only gave people a tool to cudgel him.
His brother dropped his shirt and shoved it back into his trousers. “Yes.”
“Why?” John needed to have another talk with Sudworth. This one wouldn’t be as friendly.
His inquiries into Sudworth had yet to yield anything of import. He might have to plant the letter in Raffles’ file as Sudworth wanted in order to discover his game. His list of action items was growing. Retrieve his brother’s deed. Stop whatever scheme Sudworth was up to. And exact revenge for his brother’s injury.
Robert busied himself rebuttoning his waistcoat. “I couldn’t pay,” he mumbled.
John pushed off the window. His body was taut with need. The need to hurt someone, to pound out his frustrations. Sadly, only his brother was available. “Why did you have to pay? You already lost your home.” But a sinking feeling in his gut told him what he didn’t want to hear.
“I tried to win it back, didn’t I?” Robert started pacing again. “I didn’t want to leave it up to you. I thought I could win it back. I should have won it back. I don’t know how he rolled that five. The chances against it were colossal.”
“How much?” John’s jaw ached from clenching it. Of all the asinine, impetuous, imbecilic things to do.
“Five thousand. Not too much.”
Blood pulsed behind John’s eyes. Not too much? He clenched his hand, willing it to remain by his side and not plant itself in his brother’s face. No, John could pay five thousand pounds. He’d already paid twenty times that saving Robert from his scrapes. His businesses had been lucrative through the years, and none more so than the gunpowder mill during the war. He could pay the debt.
But it burned his insides to do so.
“Is there a reason for theX, or merely artistic license?”
Robert flushed. “It’s a cross. He said if I didn’t pay, you might not find my body to bury properly. Marking me with it was a favor to my eternal soul.”
Right. Revenge had just moved to the top of his list. This had to be an attempt to intimidate not only Robert but John, as well. A warning to heed his instructions.
John hated acts of intimidation unless he was the one committing them. “You are going to Stonesworth House,” he told Robert. “Alan Hampson has been in need of a new assistant manager for the smelts there, and you will take that role. We have three months’ worth of chromite ore stored on site, and I don’t want production to be interrupted whilst I resolve our Sudworth problem.”
