A sheepish grin curved half of the butler’s mouth. “I actually first got the idea from the housekeeper, sir. We figured that if I read a few pages each evening at dinner, no time would be taken away from anyone’s tasks and no shame would be incurred for not knowing how to read.”
He dropped his hand, surprise mixing with a fair amount of respect. That Barnaby—and Mrs. Buckner—cared so much about the rest of the workers was commendable indeed. “I must say I am impressed. Not many other households will employ such enlightened servants. What is your first selection to be?”
“Don Quixote, sir.”
Perfect. With his unique traits, Barnaby was as peculiar asthe man of La Mancha himself. Edmund returned his butler’s grin. “Very well. Let me know how it goes.”
“Absolutely, sir. Now then.” Turning aside, Barnaby picked up the big tray laden with tea, a plate of scones, clotted cream, and a knife for slathering on the spread. “Would you like to join your guest in the sitting room?”
“I have a guest?”
“You do, sir, and I’ve kept him waiting overlong.” Barnaby strode off, surprisingly fleet of foot for carrying such a large service.
Edmund caught up to his side just before the sitting room door. “Who is it?” he murmured for Barnaby alone.
“Oh, I think you will recognize him straight off, sir.” A mischievous glint lit the man’s eyes as he stepped aside and allowed Edmund to pass.
He strode in, then immediately grabbed the knife off the butler’s tray, rattling the porcelain and startling Barnaby. Crouching, Edmund clutched the dull bit of metal and faced Gil.
“How did you get here?” Edmund growled.
Gil rose from the sofa, hands in the air, his gaze fixed on the knife. “That’s quite a greeting for your business partner. Wholly understandable, though.” His gaze flicked to Edmund’s face. “Put away the knife and allow me to explain.”
“Barnaby!” Edmund bellowed. “Summon the constable at once.”
The butler merely set down the tea tray and stood placidly by the door. “Hear Mr. Fletcher out, sir, and if you still wish me to send for the law afterward, I shall do so.”
Edmund could hardly believe the man’s insubordination. Had his butler fallen under this devious man’s spell? He eyed Gil, debating if he ought to rush him, take him down before he could spring into action. But Gil stood as calmly as Barnaby. Looking younger. Less haggard. Certainly less wild and violent. There were no bruises on his face, no fat lip, no gash on his head, as if the man hadn’t been in a skirmish in a London warehouse a mere two days ago. How on earth could this be?
Edmund eased his stance but didn’t let go of the knife. “What is going on?”
“I have a story to tell you, one that is best heard sitting down.” Gil gestured toward the chairs near the hearth. “Please, Edmund, may we?”
He hesitated, unsure what to think, and yet oddly curious to hear what the man might say. Nodding, he waited for Gil to sit first in case this was some sort of ploy. He’d neverevertrust this man again.
“As you’ll recall,” Gil began, “in my last correspondence, I said I’d travel here to Price House to discuss a recent development with you once I returned from the Continent at the end of August.”
“Yes,” he said, wary. “Good news, as I remember, and yet you gave me anything but the entire time you were here.”
“That is because I only just arrived.”
“What are you talking about?” He snorted. “I greeted you the very moment you stepped off the coach nigh on a month ago now.”
“That wasn’t me.” Gil loosened his four-in-hand, taking a moment to inhale deeply. “Before I left London—as you know I rarely do—I first stopped off to see that my brother’s needs would be met in my absence.”
Brother?Edmund blinked. That was news. In all his years of dealing with Gil, the man had never once mentioned a sibling. “I didn’t know you had a brother.”
“Not many do. It is a dark family secret that first my father and now I have kept hidden all these years. I made a deathbed vow to my father never to reveal the disgrace that is Stuart, and yet with his recent escape, I can no longer keep that promise.”
Stuart? Escape? Disgrace? So many questions pummeled him that he was glad for the support of the cushion beneath him. None of this made any sense. “I don’t understand,” he admitted at length.
Gil nodded. “Of course not, Edmund. It’s a lot to take in at once. But as I was saying, I visited my brother to let him knowI’d be out of touch for about six weeks. He is used to my regular visits, you see. It is not an easy life at Colney Hatch, even for those kept in the rehabilitation wing, and he looks forward to seeing me for my biweekly visits.”
“Colney Hatch.” He shook his head, which didn’t help in the least to connect all the dots. “That’s an asylum. Are you telling me you have a brother who is mad?”
“One could sympathize with such a condition, but no. There is nothing mentally unfit about Stuart. It is his morals that are decayed. His ... depravity, shall we call it, started at a young age.” Gil hefted a sigh, sorrow in his eyes. “It began with small things, the pilfering of a silver spoon or one of my mother’s earbobs, small but valuable household items that he blamed on others, creating a web of lies. While most lads were happy to spend time with their friends or playthings, Stuart spent his discovering compromising secrets about the household staff and using that information for manipulation. It only got worse from there. But when he ran off from reform school and fell in with the dark side of London’s worst criminals, disgracing the family name by becoming an opium eater, my father had him committed to an asylum to rehabilitate his moral failings.”
Edmund chewed on the information like a bite of gristle, not sure if he ought to spit it out or swallow it. He opted to remain on alert yet lessened his grip on the knife. “If this is so, then how did this Stuart end up at my home—and looking like you, no less?”
