William Voss’s only flaw seems to be his unfortunate sibling, for which he is not to blame. And now you must brace yourself, for it turns out that Rawden Voss, the elder son by six years, who so wickedly mistreated you, has been cast out by his father, and they are to this day deeply estranged. This seems to do with debauched behaviour on Rawden’s account and so grievous as to make it ‘unfit for my ears’ as Lady Granston put it to me. But she briefly mentioned it involved low women, gaming, and even some taint on his parentage. What scandal! One hesitates to be uncharitable to any man, but Rawden Voss is, by most people’s estimation, a veritable monster of a man.
Apparently, the whole of the ton was talking of his appearance at Lady Blanchard's rout, for he rarely comes into society. You were very unlucky to cross that man’s path, though your entanglement with his brother William suggests this is not the last you will see of the awful Rawden Voss.
I hope we shall find a smidgeon of time to talk more, and I wish you the best of luck with William Voss. As a friend, I urge you to encourage his admiration and secure his regard as soon as may be, for he is highly eligible. What a coup it will be for you to catch a rich husband, then you may stay in London and live a fashionable life, and we will be together always.
Your loyal friend,
Harriet
Chapter Ten
Rawden stared across the narrow causeway, a little wider than a carriage’s width. It stretched across a vast estuary of grey-brown choppy water and up to the brooding bulk of Marshgrave House, which rose out of an island of high ground covered in thick woods and shrubbery. How he hated the place.
He kicked his horse onward in haste, for he had but an hour or two at most before the tide crept up and stranded the house from the mainland. He could not afford to linger, for then he would be forced to spend the night. Wind-blown and with dread churning his guts, Rawden crunched up the driveway, and a servant came running.
‘Master, we did not expect you,’ said the man, his mouth hanging open.
‘Where is my father?’ cried Rawden, forced to shout over the wind and the cawing of rooks taking off from the woods in an ill-omened black cloud.
‘He is in his library.’
‘Take my horse and hold it for me,’ Rawden commanded and rushed inside, calling over his shoulder, ‘And I am not your master.’
It was dim and cold inside the house, and he did not expect his welcome to be any different. He reached the library and paused in the doorway. Cornelius Montague Voss, Earl of Harston, was seated in an armchair with a rug across his knees, staring silently into the fire. He had grown thinner, making his sharp features more hawkish, and his hair was more gunmetal grey than Rawden remembered but still thick.
Rawden took a deep breath and rushed in. When his father spotted him, his face fell.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he snarled.
Rawden ignored his bitterness. ‘Do you ail?’ he said, looking at the blanket.
His father stood up quickly and tossed it aside. ‘Oh, you would relish that, wouldn’t you, Rawden?’
‘More than you could know, Father.’
The earl’s face twisted in contempt, and his grey eyes locked to Rawden’s, and in them, not one flicker of kindness, warmth or even humanity.
‘If you are here with your tail between your legs begging for money, Rawden, you have come on a fool’s errand. I’ve a good mind to have you horse-whipped and sent on your way.’
‘The days are long gone when you could best me in a fight, Father. We both know that. And I have no need of your money. I have come about Will.’
‘What of him?’
‘Do you know he has purchased a commission in the Hussars?’
‘I might,’ said his father smugly.
‘And you allowed this?’ snapped Rawden.
His father rushed over to him. ‘You seem shocked. Are you not privy to all of Will’s confidences since he moved to London? My son seeks to polish the family name by gaining glory, unlike you, who tarnishes it with every breath you take.’
‘This is madness,’ snarled Rawden. ‘Will is not suited to a military life. He is soft and green and foolhardy, and yet you would have him in the vanguard of a cavalry charge.’
‘Nonsense. He can strut and preen about London in his pretty uniform and learn some discipline. No doubt, a military life will make a man of him, as it has done for many others.’
‘He will not be a man for long. Napoleon is on the loose, and England is heading to more bloodshed.’
‘Bah. They will find that broken fool and drag him back to Elba, where he will be left to rot.’
