Chapter Twenty-six
Ramsey watched as Grace fled the scene, and his body relaxed slightly. Now that she was safe, he could focus on dispatching Lord Westhouse, or Julian, which was his first name. He’d always hated that name, or rather he’d hated Westhouse and associated the name with him, so it all went together. But as he studied him, he saw afresh all the details that should have made the truth come to light sooner.
He was shorter, that much was true, but the height had come from his mother’s side, not his father’s. But Westhouse had their father’s nose, the same shade of walnut hair, and the same severe streak in temperament that made him a total ass.
No wonder he’d hated Westhouse from the beginning. He’d been a copy of his father.
Good Lord, the world didn’t need a replica, that was certain.
“I can’t believe it took you so bloody long to figure that out. Here I was anticipating some great secret, and it seems the only one who didn’t know was you.”
Westhouse hitched a shoulder as if it didn’t matter, but Ramsey knew it did. It had to matter. Or else why would he have taken always to seeking out Ramsey for ridicule, why would he have targeted him in school? The question was, why?
And what bloody part did Grace play in all this? She didn’t fit anywhere in the equation.
“As I said, my father never mentioned you. Or your mother,” Ramsey replied, repeating the earlier statement. It seemed to have met a mark earlier, and he wanted to push it further now that Grace was safely away.
“I don’t believe you.”
At this, Ramsey laughed. It wasn’t a joyful sound, rather a cynical, hard noise that was a result of years of dealing with his father’s silence as well.
“What have I to hide? He’s dead; your family is as well . . . what will lies get us? Nothing.”
“He may have never mentioned me to you, but he said plenty to me regarding the disappointment that you were to him,” Westhouse remarked with venom.
At this, Ramsey felt a punch to the gut. He’d always known it, his father had often said it, but hearing it again, it broke open the still-healing wounds from earlier.
Not who Iwas . . .
Ramsey repeated the words in his mind, for once the pain not festering, but instead, it disappeared and the next words didn’t hit the same mark.
“He always said it was a pity that he couldn’t allow me to inherit.” Westhouse shook his head as if he pitied Ramsey. “But with my father dead, and the world, mostly, believing that I was his heir, I couldn’t rightly be heir to both men.”
“So your mother was a whore,” Ramsey remarked, watching as Westhouse’s face turned bright red. Perhaps it was a low blow, but since Westhouse wasn’t holding back anything, neither would he. “But my father hated scandal so he would have paid her well to keep silent. That probably paid for your education at Eton.” He took a step closer to Westhouse, murmuring. “I heard that the coffers were somewhat low. Perhaps you were after an heiress?”
Ramsey angled his words to try and ferret out the truth regarding his interest in Grace. He was growing less concerned about whatever forsaken situation he had in familial ties with Westhouse, and found it more important to keep Grace free and clear of him.
“The coffers are quite full, thank you. Though I’m sure you are fully aware and simply trying to bait me. You and your spy, what’s his name, John? Sniffing about my business. Are you not man enough to simply inquire yourself?
Ramsey didn’t even reply to such a baiting statement. “Miss Grace was easy prey, is that it?”
“Ah, yes,MissGrace. Odd how now you use her proper name. I suspect you’ve had rather improper moments with her, however.” He grinned wolfishly, tauntingly, and all the control that Ramsey had been tightly reining in snapped. His fist tingled, his arm flexed, and before he could even understand the temptation, he was shaking his hand from the solid roundhouse he’d delivered to Lord Westhouse’s right eye.
Westhouse stumbled back, swearing epithets at Ramsey and wiping the blood from a cut near his eye. “Bastard.”
“Actually, that would be you,” Ramsey remarked heartlessly.
Westhouse swore, then flexed his fists. “You just can’t stop creating scandal, can you?”
Ramsey’s blood chilled at the words. It was as if his father were speaking to him from the grave. Those very words had been hurled at him constantly after the holy wreck that was his marriage, and the resulting fallout. His father had spoken them over him like a curse, like a prophecy, and the weight of it settled back on his chest.
“You can’t deny it,” Westhouse spat, taking a step toward him. “Your disaster of a marriage that made your father a laughingstock in front of his peers, and tarnished your title forever. He told me, you know. I may not have carried his name, but he treated me like the son he never had . . . even though he had you. He never wanted you, but he needed you. You were a tool for him, and one that never performed the basic function he wanted you to accomplish. You failed him in every way,” Westhouse continued, hurling the words like arrows.
Ramsey replayed a thousand conversations with his father, all sounding the same, all a repetition of every word that Westhouse said. “You think you’re saying something that I never knew?” he remarked after a moment, regaining himself a little.
“I don’t doubt it, but I just wanted you to remember. And when I walk into the ballroom, everyone will see me, and know.”
Ramsey was about to ask how, but Westhouse reared back to punch him. Ramsey dodged the blow, but only nearly. Holding up his hands, he waited for the second attempt. He blocked the majority of the blow but it grazed his lip, and he tasted the salty flavor of blood. Watching his opponent, he waited for another blow, but Westhouse just stepped back. “That should be enough.”
