“Did you know she was married? To the man she told me was her father? Was I that blinded by lust?”
“Good God, man. You were seventeen. All of us are blinded by lust at that age. And she was an astonishingly beautiful woman. By the time you let on that you’d been seeing her, I didn’t have the heart to say anything. And you know I had troubles enough of my own. I merely assumed it would eventually come to a head, but you’d have had your enjoyment of her.” Stephen removed a pair of spectacles from his pocket and placed them on the end of his nose. “But I’m not certain any of that matters any longer. I received a letter from the steward on Flavion’s estate.”
Marcus wondered at his friend’s abrupt change of topic.
“Waters is in a decline. His health is failing badly.”
Yesterday, hell, twenty minutes ago, Marcus would easily have cheered at such information.
He presumed, anyhow.
His father and he had lived through this icy standoff for a decade now.
And Marcus had always considered himself to be in the right. Felt he held the higher ground. Any man who would have a man murdered and send away his son’s unborn child deserved to be hated. To be reviled. Did he not?
He still had difficulty believing Thistlebum had been alive most of this time. When he’d disappeared, Meggie had been devastated. She’d planted the seed…
And the God damn blighter had not been her father after all. No wonder he’d glared at Marcus with a murderous intent on those rare occasions…
Prescott set a highball half filled with scotch in front of him.
Marcus took the glass of amber liquid and downed it in one swallow.
The flavor, the warmth. The comfort of it reminded him of the woman he’d had the poor judgment to marry.
Had she ruined scotch for him as well now?
Stephen folded his letter before breaking the silence. “Cecily and I plan on leaving tomorrow. I need to take care of some business for my cousin. Why don’t you join us at Kensington’s estate? You can see him without being obliged to reside in his home.”
“What’s ailing him? Did Kensington’s man give specifics?” Marcus stared off at one of the bookshelves.
Books.
Something else which brought to mind the manipulating minx he’d married.
Stephen opened the letter again and scanned the writing. “Ah… Here it is. ‘I feel it pertinent to note that rumors about Waters’ early return from London indicate that the duke’s health has fallen into a swift decline. Likely consumption as it is old age, although I’ve heard tales of Cholera. Either way, it appears as though the devil’s catching up with that one for certain.’” With an unapologetic shrug, his friend folded the letter again and stuffed it back into one of his pockets.
Marcus expelled a deep breath, an odd and unexpected calm settling upon him. He’d meet with his father. His mother would need him.
And he’d speak with his sister, too.
After all these years of silence. Wasted years?
Perhaps he could discover some answers of his own.
After he’d discovered the questions, that was.
“You are leaving tomorrow?” Marcus confirmed.
Stephen Nottingham nodded.
“I’ll join you, then.” He hoped this wouldn’t result in a giant mistake. He’d meet with his family, but he wouldn’t reside there. The Kensington estate was less than three miles from Candlewood Park. From the home of his youth.
He wondered if a great deal had changed. Would the same servants be there? The horses?
But it was time. God help him. It was time.
“And Blakely.” Prescott poured another two fingers of scotch into Marcus’ glass.
