Chapter One
William Greydrake, future Marquess of Westlock, lounged on the leather couch in Lethbridge’s London office, watching the attorney shuffle pages. The room, furnished in dark wood, was perpetually gloomy. It suited its occupant.
“Have you any brandy?” William asked. “If I must endure your paper pushing, I should like a drink.”
Lethbridge darted a look at the clock on his mantel. “It’s eleven in the morning.”
“You’re the one who cried urgency. It’s inhumane to drag a man from his bed at this hour, and more so not to compensate for it with a snifter.”
“I haven’t any brandy.” Lethbridge’s words were clipped. He pulled free a page.
“You ought to. The old man pays you enough.”
William could read the frown pinching the attorney’s already narrow features. He’d seen the look often enough, on so many faces, to know what Lethbridge saw. A tailcoat creased from being worn all night. An untied cravat. William’s disheveled brown hair. His still shiny boots, propped on the furniture.
He was the image of an indolent nobleman’s son. Owner of the world. Careless and carefree. It was obvious to anyone who saw William that he’d been out all night, likely gambling, drinking, and enjoying lightskirts. He wore his depravity proudly before the world.
That was how he arranged to appear. His reputation could even explain the occasional black eye. With the marquess’s men watching him, he must jealously guard his true nature, his actual dealings. The old bastard had well-ingrained the price of not conforming to his ideas of what a peer should be.
William leaned his head back on the couch. He studied the ceiling until he properly blotted out the repercussions of falling short of the marquess’s expectations. He dropped his gaze and traced the dark wood paneling with his eyes, skimming over the small door that closed off Lethbridge’s record room.
He adopted an indolent smile and focused on the attorney. “Exactly why am I here?”
“Your father asked me to draw up a list of acceptable brides for you.” Lethbridge proffered a page.
“Brides?” Maybe he really did need that drink. “I have four more years of freedom. The marquess is of the opinion no worthy gentleman weds before thirty.”
“He has changed his mind.” Lethbridge set the page down on the edge of his desk. “He wishes to ensure you marry correctly.”
William drummed his fingers. “Why now?”
Lethbridge drew in a breath, his expression more serious than usual, no mean feat. “Lord Westlock is dying.”
Feet slamming to the floor, William came upright on the couch. “Don’t toy with me, Lethbridge.”
“I assure you, I do not.”
Giddiness swept through him. “Are you certain? He’s sought a doctor’s opinion? A priest’s? We wouldn’t want to be wrong about this.” Could the joyous day finally be at hand? William grinned. A world without the marquess was wonderful to contemplate.
“He is certain, as is his physician.” Lethbridge’s face remained bland, but his eyes went dark with disgust.
“Don’t look at me like that, Lethbridge.” William stood, restive. “The old man is a bastard and a half and you know it. He all but killed my mother.”
Lethbridge dropped his gaze. “Your mother killed his heir, your older brother. She was ill, mentally unfit. The marquess could have seen her hang, but instead he installed her in a facility where she could get the care she needed. I’m sure they did all they could to help her.”
“My mother was not a murderer, or mad.” William’s voice was low as he struggled for an even tone.
“I’m sure you have fond memories of her. You were what, four when she was removed? But I assure you, I’ve seen the papers. A competent doctor declared her unfit.”
“Yes, I know.” A doctor the marquess paid off. “She was violent and unfit. The old man was wracked with grief. Too overcome to set eyes on me, he shipped me, a child of four, off to Mr. Darington in Egypt. Common knowledge.” And all a lie.
“Exactly. It therefore behooves you not to delight in your father’s decline.”
“Tell me this, why was I such a terrible reminder? The world knows I am the image of the marquess. Nothing about me speaks of my mother.” Every mirror a reminder. “While you’re prevaricating, explain as well how the man can have the devil’s own luck with wives. One a mad murderess, one fallen to her death, and a third too ill to remain in England?”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re insinuating. The marquess is a great man and worthy of your respect.”
William ran a hand across his hazel eyes, in an effort at calm. Lethbridge was the marquess’s man through. There was no sense arguing with him. Besides, if the old bastard really was dying, it would soon be moot. His spirit buoyed by the prospect of the marquess’s death, William pulled his composure about him.
