Hiding.
The fact had been festering in him like a piece of shrapnel. Stephan had always said he was too reckless, and, by Jove, he saw that now. But as wild and wicked as he’d been, he’d never hurt someone weaker than he—and, worse yet, run from it like the lowest of scoundrels.
He was no coward. He couldn’t continue like this. Even if his father could snuff out the scandal, something egregious had happened that night—and Sinjin needed to know his part in it for his own peace of mind. To satisfy his honor.
We must act before he awakens.
Surely, that was a clue. A place to begin his quest for the truth.
Voices cut through his thoughts. He returned to the window, looking out. In the distance, he saw two attendants escorting a patient out of a gated villa, one that Mrs. Barlow had expressively told him was off-bounds. The resident was wearing a strait-waistcoat, a contraption that kept his arms strapped at his sides.
In the moonlight, the man’s red hair was glistening wet. He was softly weeping.
A vise clamped around Sinjin’s throat. The scars on his back tautened in instinctive empathy… at the same time that fear flooded him. He strode to the desk, lit the lamp with hands that shook. Fumbling for parchment and pen, he began to compose a letter.
Chapter Five
Five days after Sinjin sent the letter, his papa had still not responded.
With each passing day, desperation mounted in Sinjin. A fear that he didn’t want to give into but which clung to him like fine dust to a traveler. Dark thoughts burrowed themselves under his skin, digging deep, the roots spreading.Papa’s glad to be rid of you. He loves Stephan and Theodore, not you. He’s going to leave you here to rot.
He told himself the duke would come, but he couldn’t convince himself. His thoughts built on one another, a vortex of suspicion that made it impossible for him to relax, eat, or sleep. In the looking glass, a stranger with shadowed eyes and a bristly jaw stared back at him. He knew he needed to rest, but he couldn’t quiet his racing mind, the buzz of energy through his veins.
Bloody hell, he could handle this—but he needed a drink. A fuck.Something.
Perhaps the duke had been delayed because he was trying to locate the man with the deep voice whom Sinjin had wrote to him about. Sinjin tried to calm himself. Not even the locket helped. Frustrated, he flung the blasted thing across the room.
Time slowed, bogged down by restless waiting.
That night, Sinjin’s patience snapped. If His Grace wasn’t coming for him, then he would just bloody leave. At the gate, the two guards had the audacity to prevent his passage. He insisted that he was a guest, here of his own volition, but they wouldn’t listen. When they tried to take his bag, he resisted. When they tried to manhandle him, he used his fists. The hours spent sparring at his boxing club hadn’t been for naught. He took them down and made a run for it—only to be blocked by more guards.
They dragged him, thrashing and shouting, back to the villa and locked him inside.
He spent the night pacing like a caged animal. By dawn, the tide inside him had ebbed, but he could still feel its dark, churning energy. When the door opened a few hours later, he tensed, ready to fight his way to freedom.
His sire entered. Tall, immaculately dressed in iron grey broadcloth, Jeremy George St. John Pelham, the sixth Duke of Acton, emanated an air of command that had grown more imposing with age. Regal silver veined his dark hair, and time had honed the sharpness of his features.
“You look like hell,” His Grace said.
Sinjin experienced a jumble of emotions. The anger and relief made sense but the longing? Pure stupidity. If he hadn’t won the duke’s approval in six-and-twenty years, he sure as hell wasn’t about to do it now when he was accused of assault and hiding in a madhouse.
“Where the devil have you been?” he gritted out.
“I’ve been endeavoring to clean up your mess.” His Grace ran a gloved finger along the table, his expression distasteful as he examined the clinging specks of dust. “I expected better of Mrs. Barlow.”
“Damn Mrs. Barlow. And damn you. They wouldn’t let me leave last night—are you aware of that?” Sinjin injected his tone with scorn, hating the slight quiver beneath. “I’m not a prisoner here. I’m not a bloody lunatic. I never agreed to—”
He cut himself off as Lady Regina, the Duchess of Acton, crossed the threshold. She was followed by her son Lord Theodore Pelham. Both were slender and fair-haired, with high-nosed countenances. Sinjin could not claim an inordinate amount of affection for his stepmama and half-brother; the feelings, he knew, were mutual.
The duchess’ ice blue skirts swirled as she sat in the chair that the duke held out for her.
“Hello, Revelstoke,” she said with a cool nod.
“Your Grace,” he said shortly.
Theodore, seven years Sinjin’s junior, sauntered to his mama’s side. His contrived air ofennuiseemed to be the only thing he’d picked up thus far from his time at Oxford.
“Aspice quod felix attracsit,” he drawled.
