Mr Wilton made a final, uneasy bow and hurried out. Sebastian granted him a curt nod—unfairly sharp, perhaps, but he could not wholly smother his irritation. Surely the man could have advised his father against so reckless a clause.
The door closed. Silence settled.
Sebastian’s shoulders sagged as he leaned against the desk. At last, he could drop the mask. He reached for the chair behind the desk, then paused. His father had always sat there. The memory of that stern face—those hard, assessing eyes—rose so vividly that Sebastian let the chair be. Instead, he crossed to one of the plain wooden seats by the window and sat heavily, staring out.
The garden lay unusually dark, though it was not yet six o’clock on a summer evening. Low, leaden clouds pressed over the grounds, casting deep shadows. The glass reflected a pale version of his own face—hollow-cheeked from lack of sleep, lips—not thin, like his father’s, but fuller—set in a hard line. He looked as haunted as he felt.
“There must be some way out,” he murmured.
He would not—would never—permit his father to govern him from the grave. The man’s tyranny had suffocated him while alive; he would not endure it in death. The mourning coat felt like a shackle around his shoulders.
He rose and paced to the south-facing windows. Long legs, lithe with muscle from hours of riding—one of his favourite pursuits—carried him to the other window. He stared broodingly out as memories of his parents flooded into his mind.
It all came back to him: arguments in whispered tones that he had witnessed, despite their attempt to hide them. His mother’s cold rage; his father’s anger like a festering wound. He recalled the continual bickering that had robbed all of them—himself, Gemma, and Nicholas—of ease and peace on every occasion, even Christmas.
“No,” he said softly in the silent study that still smelled of his father—like leather, and the dry, parchment-like smell unique to him. “No. I will not do it. I do not want that for myself.”
Sebastian had resolved early in life that he would not marry, and had kept himself aloof through all the balls and Seasonshis mother insisted upon—until he grew old enough that even she could no longer compel his attendance. After that, he simply remained at the townhouse, reading, while Nicholas was occasionally pressed into attendance.
The memory prompted another thought: a good book was precisely what he needed now.
He moved toward the door, intending to go to the library. None of the family—save Nicholas—understood why he spent his leisure hours buried in Shakespeare. But to Sebastian, Shakespeare encompassed every human truth: love and passion, jealousy and obsession, remorse and redemption. There was no feeling a man could harbour that did not find its echo somewhere within those plays. As a youth taught to suppress every strong emotion, he had found in Shakespeare a guide to all he felt yet dared not express.
He reached the study door and was about to open it when a knock stayed his hand. He stiffened instinctively, but relaxed as soon as a familiar voice followed.
“Sebastian? It’s me.”
He opened the door at once. Nicholas stood there, his pale face arranged in anxious concern.
“Is something troubling you?” his brother asked before Sebastian could speak.
Nicholas glanced down, then met his gaze again, his dark eyes searching. “Are you quite certain you are well? I did not like leaving you alone.”
Sebastian sighed. “Yes, brother. Truly, I am well. I thought to fetch a book from the library.” He gestured toward the corridor.
Nicholas inclined his head. “I have been thinking… about the matter of the will.” He wetted his lips awkwardly—always hesitant, yet seldom this unsure of offering an opinion.
“Yes?” Sebastian prompted gently.
“I wondered whether you might seek another solicitor. Someone unconnected to the family. Not Wilton.” He paused. “My friend from Cambridge—Alexander Stowe—is an excellent man. You could consult him. Ask for his view of the clause?”
Warm appreciation stirred in Sebastian’s chest. “That is a very good idea,” he said softly. “I may indeed do so.”
Itwasa good idea, he reflected as he stepped into the hall beside Nicholas. Perhaps Wilton’s insistence that the clause was ironclad stemmed from loyalty—to their father, or to their mother, who had always known how to bend men to her wishes.
“It is worth a try, is it not?” Nicholas said with a small, hopeful smile.
Sebastian nodded. “Yes. It is worth a try.” Already his thoughts turned to the short ride into London from Brentfield Estate, lying only a few miles from the city.
There may be a solution. Theremustbe.
Chapter Two
Evelyn stood at the great desk that had once been her father’s. The windows before her looked out onto the grey, rain-slicked London street. Her big, dark eyes travelled over the familiar room—the shelves crowded with books, the low fire glowing in the grate, the two worn leather chairs beneath the window. She drew a steadying breath.
“You are trying to tell me it is worse than you first imagined?” Evelyn asked carefully. She heard the tremor in her own voice and tucked a loose strand of brown hair behind her ear.
James—her elder brother, now Viscount Calperton—looked up at her, his dark eyes clouded.
