“My brother is dead,” Jacob said again, testing the words. They settled as cold as freshly fallen snow.
“Yes, sir.”
He rang the bellpull. “Rogers,” he said as soon as his valet appeared, “some brandy please. Would you like brandy, my good man?”
The constable shook his head, a crease forming between his eyes. No doubt he believed it was too early for drinking.
Well, let him cast his judgement; Jacob had withstood enough of that to be indifferent. It was past noon.
Another thought occurred to him which necessitated the gulp of brandy, when it came. “There is no other heir,” he said shortly. “I am the one to inherit.”
“That’s a matter for your lawyer, sir, but I doubt anyone would oppose your claim to the title.”
“A pity,” Jacob muttered, staring into the amber liquid. He was the next Marquess of Sunderland. A peer of the realm, bound to a name he despised for the rest of his life.
This was not what he was made for—he was not cut from the cloth that made dukes and marquesses and earls, and he had never aspired to be.
His head gave a stab of pain. “Please tell me this is a prank,” he said as he finished his glass. “A joke in poor taste. I will forgive its perpetrator.”
The constable gave him a look of sympathy. “I’m afraid not, sir.”
He poured himself another glass and tossed it back. “Well then,” he said. And again: “Well then.”
The constable bowed. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of such bad news, my lord.”
Jacob waved a dismissive hand at him. “Rogers will see you out.”
The constable nodded and turned for the door. Jacob remained where he was, his mind spinning. There was the burial to think about, and mourning.
I am to be Marquess.
Cecil is dead.
No doubt he would be expected to move into Sunderland Place. Pick up all the slack of owning an estate.
Or, now he was its head . . . he could let the whole place go to hell.
Cecil is dead.
He leant back in the chair and closed his eyes, breathing through the strangely tight sensation in his chest. It couldn’t be grief—he certainly hadn’t grieved when his father had died, and Cecil had been little better. Ratting him out to his father so he could collect beatings like pretty rocks, the scars on his back roping together as he grew older. Pointing out Jacob’s flaws in that supercilious way of his. Always beingbetter. Better loved, better respected, better listened to.
Being the man Madeline chose, and casting her out into the night regardless.
Jacob had hurt Cecil in every way possible after that.
But now there were no more second chances. Cecil was dead. The words might as well have been a tolling bell. That was the end of it.
“For heaven’s sake, Cecil,” he said, speaking into the empty air of the room. “Could you not have waited? Could you not have remained alive even just to spite me?”
The room gave no answer. The brandy was finally hitting his system, and he let the alcohol soothe the absurd disappointment that his brother was no longer here to provide a retort.
“I will not grieve you,” he warned. “You gave me no reason to.”
A log fell lower on the fire, sending a flurry of sparks into the air. Jacob took another drink, willing himself to believe his own words—but even to his ears they sounded like a lie.
Chapter Five
Three months later
