Unfortunately, a few steps outside the room, Agatha’s displeasure with a footman became apparent. And she had no idea who was waiting for her in the hall.
Twenty-One
GRAYSON HOUSE, LONDON - JANUARY 12, 1814
KATE
Hughand I entered the drawing room first and were met with the sights and sounds of Agatha berating Timothy.
Behind me from the doorframe I heard something like a scuffle. I turned in time to see Weston offer a grin and a saucy wave before closing the doors behind Michael.
He surveyed the room quietly, taking in the situation with calculating eyes—eye. I could see the moment he marked the changes I made to the room. His expression was still unreadable, careful.
Agatha caught sight of me and shifted her ire from Timothy to me. “I suppose in the backwater county you hail from, they eat out of their hands like rodents?”
It was preferable to her abusing innocent staff, but the insult to my home smarted. She hadn’t noticed Michael, hovering near the door, not willing to entirely abandon the exit. I bit back a retort for a moment, waiting for Hugh.
Any hope I had that the protective, possessive gesture from the hall would carry into the drawing room vanished. Hugh had made his way to the sideboard, pouring a drink, entirely refusing to acknowledge his mother’s vitriol.
Instead, it was Michael who came to my rescue, stepping into the room, drawing Agatha’s attention. “Good evening, Lady Grayson. It’s a pleasure to see you again. I hope you’re in fine health.”
It was a far more deferential speech than the woman deserved, especially with what I was given to understand about their relationship. Her eyes abandoned me and slid to his person with utter revulsion. They narrowed, as though he was an insect crushed and oozing under her shoe. Instead of the usual lemon-pursuing, her mouth twisted into a snarl. Her brows were drawn over beady eyes that were shuttered flat, dead, evil.
“What are you doing here?”
Five simple words. It should not be possible to spit so much contempt into five words, but she managed it. Oh lord, I should have warned her, told her. I should not have organized this in the first place. This poor man, here for dinner at my beckoning, was about to suffer abuse beyond what I thought her capable.
Instead of shrinking, as I would have done, or raging as most men would in the face of such hatred, he leaned back against the wall with purposeful casualness. As if such venom were entirely commonplace.
He answered, almost cheerful in his tone, “I was invited.”
And then I realized. Itwascommonplace. It was every day. When had Agatha married his father? Surely, he could not have been more than six or seven years of age… Suddenly my heart ached for the boy this man had been.
She turned back to me, the only conceivable culprit. “Who would do that? Katherine? Did you invite this knave into my home?”
Words escaped me, still trapped in the unbearable sadness for the boy who was no more. Before I could formulate a response, Michael shook his head from across the room.
“I was led to believe this was a family gathering. I am family, am I not?” That was certain to make the matter worse, but he adopted a cheeky grin. He was courting her ire. Encouraging it. Relishing in it.
“You’re not! You’re nothing but a street urchin my husband took pity on. And look how that turned out. A villain stealing the fortunes of respectable gentlemen, praying on their good natures! I should have had you thrown from the house when I first arrived, back to the sewers with the rats where you belong.”
Michael remained unaffected, or, more likely, continued to feign it well. Hugh sighed, for a brief, brilliant second I thought that this—surely this—would be too much, that he would step in.
Instead, he drained a glass of something alcoholic, refilled it and handed a second glass to his brother. He knew. He expected it. And he let me invite his brother anyway. Now, he made no move to check his mother. If he could allow that speech, that utterly hateful, vile speech, to stand… Hugh would never defend me. I was utterly alone in this battle. Always.
Michael, clearly anticipating this reaction, just continued to rile her up. “But they’re so easy to steal from. I’ll do my best not to spread fleas over the furnishings while I’m here, Agatha.”
Though she would not, I appreciated the casual address. The lady herself inhaled, drawing breath for another burst of flames. I could not allow a guest to be spoken to that way in my home, it was unconscionable. Before I could respond, the door flew open and Tom strolled in, casual and unaware, into the midst of a death battle.
His gaze flitted from brother to mother to brother to me. Assessing the situation, the easy smile tugging at his lips did not falter for a second. He greeted us all with his usual affability. It hit me again that he was used to this, too. Playing the part of shield, deflecting blows between brother and mother. Of course, he was so skilled at sheltering me from his mother’s outbursts, which were nothing compared to these.
Suddenly the too-long curls, loose, long limbs, free grin, and easy, enthusiastic manners took on a whole new meaning. This man had single-handedly stitched this family together for his entire life. Before I respected him, but now I was awestruck. He was brilliant.
“What happened to your eye, Brother?” he asked Michael. I appreciated all the more the way he freely made use of relation, the open affection in the tone.
“Satin shortage at the modiste.”
Michael’s response eased the last of the tension from the three of us. Hugh was still determined to find peace at the bottom of a bottle, and Agatha could do little more thanhumph.
