After a brief back and forth over the satin and lace, poor Timothy returned to invite us to supper.
Since returning from my honeymoon, I had maintained an eighty percent success rate in securing my rightful place at the foot of the table from Agatha. I would not fail tonight. Timothy, always on my side, was more determined than usual to ensure I won the battle. I assume Agatha’s berating had something to do with his efforts. He actually turned the chair to me, leaving her to huff and pout to her designated seat. Michael, having witnessed my immature but satisfying display, raised the wine at his place setting in a silent toast to my effort. I was forced to bite back a laugh.
Tom was in fine form, managing the conversation with a deft hand. At least the conversation from Michael and I. Occasionally Agatha would throw out a barely concealed insult. Hugh remained stubbornly silent, drinking his supper rather than eating it.
When the time came for the sexes to separate, Michael chose to beg off. I could hardly blame him after his reception. Instead of separating, Agatha demanded Tom’s attention tonight, and I was able to watch my wretched husband drink himself to an early grave the entire night.
Twenty-Two
GRAYSON HOUSE, LONDON – JANUARY 15, 1814
HUGH
I felt like death.But really, who could blame me, drinking was the only way through that disaster of a dinner. At some point, I fell asleep in my study.
Now awake, my head seemed to be making a valiant effort to leave my neck. I supposed sleeping on a desk would do that. Stevens had been by at some point in the not-too distant past if the lukewarm tea was evidence. He had made his displeasure known quite thoroughly as well—impertinent valet—knocking far louder than necessary, and dropping the tray from a dizzying height right next to my head.
My head was full of wool and the memories were hazy. I recalled a great deal of Michael flirting with my wife. Mother was in fine form as well, that much was very clear.
And before dinner… The ledgers. I finally received documents from the bank, and they match Forsyth’s numbers. Someone was cheating me to the tune of hundreds of pounds. I needed another drink, but the bottle seemed to have wandered over to the bookshelf on its own. Stevens probably helped it along.
In the midst of trying to force down a few bites of dry toast without heaving it all back up on the desk, Tom clattered his way in, throwing the door open until it slammed against the adjacent bookcase.
Could he possibly be louder? “You look like shite.” Or cruder?
“Thank you.”
“I did not come here to compliment you. I came here to tell you off. Last night was badly done.” Oh perfect, a lecture from my baby brother.
“I didn’t do it.”
“You didn’t doanything. You just watched and drank while your mother insulted your brother and your wife both,” he scolded.
“It was bound to be a disaster. I do not know why anyone was surprised.”
“That was worse than ever, and you know it.”
“I did warn her.”
“No one could have prepared her for that. And it didn’t need to be that bad. You could have stepped in.”
“I had other things on my mind.”
“What on earth could have been more important?”
“You do not know anything, Tom. You have no responsibilities. No one to whom you are accountable. You show up when you are inclined and then you leave when you have finished eating.”
“I do not live here, Hugh. What precisely am I not doing that I am meant to do?”
“Nothing. I am simply not in the mood for a patronizing lecture from a child.”
“You are being an arse. Tell me.”
I could not hold back the sigh. I needed to tell someone—the truth was eating away at me. “There’s money missing.”
He blinked slowly, processing. “From where? How much?”
“Thornton. A few hundred, maybe a thousand.”
