Freeman stated plainly that Damon reviewed every line of every ledger. He knew where every pound went, which is likely how he discovered Oakhurst’s thievery. But why not confront Oakhurst sooner? Why allow him to do more damage? And while Alexander was grateful for his uncle’s oversight and appreciated his counsel, Damon wasnotthe Duke of Roxboro. The estate did not belong tohim. Roxboro was Alexander’s birthright.
And I mean to make it my own.
“I promise you, Uncle. Should I suspect Sophia of any deceit, you will be the first to know. I’ll have her drawn and quartered on the lawn.”
“This isn’t a jest, Alexander.”
“I am quite satisfied in my marriage.” An edge of command bled into his words, unintended, but there all the same. You could dictate to a sot, but not a duke.
Damon’s face reddened. “You don’t mean that.” He placed a hand to his forehead. “This is the same as Charles. Again, I must relive it. Marianne had him convinced as well of her affection. Do not be stupid, Alexander. The girl has ambitions.”
Alexander’s lips pressed together, afraid of what he might say. “You will not disparage Sophia to me. I realize I’ve given you every reason to treat me as a child, but I am no longer your libertine of a nephew who stumbles about inviting disaster. I am not stupid. Cease behaving as if I can barely feed myself without your direction.” He slapped the arm of the chair.
Damon fell back, sputtering.
Interesting. I’ve never seen him at a loss for words before.
Damon had raised Alexander as his own. Given him Aunt May, Violet and Rose to be his family. But Damon had also kept him isolated save for Oakhurst. Ignorant of matters Alexander should be familiar with, out of the need to protect him. He understood, he did.Damon had loved his older brother Charles and despaired endlessly that he had not stopped his murder.
But Sophia was not Marianne.
“No, of course not. It is only that—” he turned away. “I do not wish to lose you as I did your father. It would be the end of me, Alexander. I couldn’t bear it. You are…my son.” His face fell between his palms. “I simply could not bear it.”
“I know, Uncle.” Alexander stood. “But I am the Duke of Roxboro, and it is time I behaved as such.” He placed a hand on Damon’s shoulder. “I would be lost without you and your guidance, but I have matters well in hand. I’ve met with Freeman.”
Damon lifted his chin. “Freeman? He came to The Pillory?”
“Yes, and I’ve explained that I will be handling my affairs with your guidance. I don’t want to—disregard everything you have done for me. I am deeply appreciative. Nor could I continue without your help,” Alexander said in a rush. “I am not my father, Damon. Nor is Sophia Marianne. Besides, stepping back from my affairs finally allows you the chance to pursue your ambitions in politics, which you have put aside on my behalf for far too long. Lord Canterbell can be a useful ally, don’t you think? Prime Minister Viceroy has an excellent ring to it.”
“It does,” Damon agreed, pouring another glass of brandy. “I—suppose it’s time. If you’re sure.”
“I am,” Alexander insisted. “Now, your rooms are ready. Barstow will bring you something to eat. We can talk more in the morning.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Sophia wandered outinto the gardens, grateful to be away from the house and dark cloud of Lord Damon’s presence. He was polite to her, of course. Smiled. Said mildly charming things. But those gestures were only meant to hide his obvious dislike of Sophia from Roxboro. The last few days had been uncomfortable to say the least.
Thankfully, Damon was returning to London today.
“Not a moment too soon,” she said into the breeze. “He is like the plague hovering over Alexander.”
Damon had received the news that Alexander was taking up his own affairs with a thinly veiled smile, less than eager to give up control of the estates he’d managed since the Duke of Roxboro was an infant, but Sophia’s husband would not be dissuaded. She’d caught Damon, more than once, deliberately trying to entice Alexander to share a brandy. Which her husband resisted. He seemed firm in his belief that the attack on the duke’s carriage had been two desperate thieves and nothing more, suggesting Alexander hire more footmen.
“Yes, well,” Sophia said to herself. “When your nephew is a sot, it is easier to maintain control over him and his wealth. Dictate his days. You’ll have to find something else to occupy your time, Lord Damon.”
A squirrel ran across the path, stopped, chirped at her, then veered to the left, a part of the trail that had fallen into disuse, overgrown with weeds and brush.
“See,” she said after the squirrel. “Even you agree. I suppose youthink I should go this way.”
The squirrel circled a tree a few steps to the left, pausing every so often to chirp at her. He started up the rough bark of the giant oak, watching Sophia with the small black beads of his eyes, tail twitching. Then the squirrel moved, revealing a scarred portion of bark. It…looked like letters.
Sophia approached, hands running over the gnarled tree which looked to be nearly ancient. Branches stretched overhead, enveloping her in a canopy of green.
M and Cwas carved into the bark. Along with a crudely drawn heart.
She stretched to trace the letters.
Marianne and Charles?
