Which was when Sebastian realised.
He shouldn’t have given the man the satisfaction, but he couldn’t help himself asking. “This wager. I remember now. It was you who started it.”
His uncle’s mouth curled in mocking delight. “Aye. To throw the Pariah in your way. Do you think I didn’t see the way you looked at her at that old Fishbourne goat’s saloon? She was the perfect lure.”
“To stop me marrying Lady Frances? So you could have her all to yourself?”
His uncle shrugged. “To ruffle your feathers. To delay things. I’m far from tired of her yet, you see.” He lay a hand on her shoulder, and she flinched away. Sebastian’s fists clenched.
“I think the lady might be tired of you.”
“That’s for us to decide. Run along, Sebby. Your uncle has business to finish.”
Lady Frances was pale, but her voice was steady. “I can handle this, Cote.”
“I’m sure you can. But I can’t help but feel a degree of responsibility. The manisfamily, after all. For the time being.”
He smiled at his uncle, and for the first time, the man seemed uncertain.
“Lady Frances,” Sebastian asked, “exactly how loyal are your servants?”
“Very.”
“Excellent.”
It took Frederick the footman’s help, and the maid keeping the coast clear, but a few moments later, the hastily dressed major was frogmarched down to a quiet backstreet. Frederick restrained him on one side, Sebastian on the other, his hand clamped firmly over the man’s mouth.
He held it there a moment longer as the major struggled.
“You are nothing,” Sebastian said into the man’s ear. “You have no one. When I see you next, it will be the cut direct.”
The man stopped struggling, eyes wide, pleading something into the palm of Sebastian’s hand.
“My father is divorcing your sister. You are not family. I do not recognise you. Retaliate, and you know I will do ten times worse. Only your connection to my family has kept you safe from persecution for the crimes you committed in Portugal and elsewhere. A dishonourable discharge is the best you can hope for, but I’d rather see you hang. One word is all it would take.” He squeezed the man’s jaw with the hand clamped over his mouth. “Do you understand?” He gave him a rough shake when no answer came. “Do you?”
His uncle’s shoulders stiffened, a last breath of resistance, then he slumped. He nodded.
Sebastian pushed him away then turned, wiping his palm clean, not even bothering to watch the man’s hasty escape. He deserved no more of his attention.
He nodded his thanks to Frederick, then went to retrieve his hat and gloves. He had another call to make.
Lady Pemberthy’s footman ought to be in a museum, but Sebastian was pathetically glad to see his ancient face and even older wig. Even the smell of mothballs and decrepit wool couldn’t stop the corner of his mouth ticking up.
“Lord Cotereigh for Mrs Ardingly,” he told the man, who stepped aside, ushering him silently into the cluttered hall.
He didn’t know why he was smiling, not when snakes knotted in his gut and the violence of his pulse caused his hands to tremble as he pulled off his gloves. He took a deep breath that tasted of dust, steadying himself with a disapproving glance at the piled boxes and bags of donations in the hallway, the mismatched and shoddy furniture, and the cobwebs in thecorners. He couldn’t blame the maids. He doubted they could evenreachthe corners, not with all this chaos in the way.
But as he followed the footman and set his foot on the first stair, he saw the bundles in his own hallway—the items Madelaine had returned—and his step faltered, the writhing snakes giving a bite.
They were all cleared away. All those bundles. His staff had followed his somewhat incoherent and bitten off orders toget them out of his sightbutput them somewhere safe.
She would wear them again. Or he would buy her all new dresses. He didn’t really care—whatever she preferred. He just hadn’t been able to order them out of his house.
Wasn’t that pathetic? He held the stair rail as he followed the footman’s slow, rheumatic steps, his hand tight. His palm was damp. Goddammit. He wished he had a drink. He ought to have returned home, had a glass to steady himself, changed his shirt, his necktie, made certain he looked exactly as he ought. For all he knew, he was rumpled from his altercation with his uncle, his coat creased or marked, his skin flushed, and maybe the mad glitter of panic in his brain was visible in his eyes. Was there a mirror? The footman led him inexorably on to the same study where he’d first spoken to her, here at the back of the house. He cast around the hallway as he walked. There were oriental plates on the wall, and a tapestry, and for some reason, an old, lacquered fire screen hung up for display, but there was no damn mirror—
“Lord Cotereigh, my lady.”
Sebastian’s heart thumped all the way to his teeth. He set his jaw, ran a hand down the front of his coat, heart still thumping in a hundred places it shouldn’t be, and walked past the footman through the opened door.
