“I have been waiting for that question. I had begun to think you would never ask it.”
“I did not think you had anything to say until recently.”
“What changed your mind?”
“Our conversation at the tavern. Your surprise and interest in my pursuit of Lady Clara was different from Langford’s. More complicated.”
“I wondered if I had prodded your attention without intending to. Well, damnation to being right about that.” Brentworth stood. He ran his fingers through his hair, then shook his head. “I would do you no favors in satisfying your curiosity. Nothing good will come of it.”
“I still ask that you tell me what you know.”
Not a happy man, Brentworth aimed for the door. “I need fresh air. I am going to the garden. Follow if you insist on interrogating me.”
It was not an invitation, but Adam followed.
Out on the garden terrace, Brentworth finally halted his determined stride. He assumed the stern, uncompromising expression that made ingénues fear him.
“He was ill. Very ill. I must emphasize that. At such a time, things are said that are old memories, and perhaps not accurate to the facts.”
“I understand that. What did he say?”
Brentworth speared him with a glare. “You have no idea? I find that unlikely.”
“I know what I know. I need to find out what others knew and said, and why. Put yourself in my place, and you will understand why.”
Brentworth’s expression softened. He looked away. His gaze drifted over the perfectly tended garden that covered over two acres. It was a rare indulgence in London, spread on property that if developed into another house would bring in thousands. The last duke had been a man of educated, refined taste, as evidenced in that library and this garden, and an art collection among the finest in England.
“He felt some guilt over your father’s death. Shadows of cowardice haunted him, that he had not objected to the rumors or at least demanded a fair investigation. He was already sick then, of course, but—”
“He of all of them could not be blamed.”
“Yes. Well, he told me that he believed if there had been a real and fair investigation, it would be learned that your father never provided support to Napoleon when he left Elba. Had never helped his new army. Those were his words, Stratton. I was astonished. Those of our generation had heard rumblings about disloyalty, but this was specific, and I gather known only among some of the older peers.”
The older ones, which meant the most powerful ones. The ones in government. The ones who could ruin a man with a raised eyebrow. Adam was astonished too. He had speculated on what the accusations of disloyalty meant, but he had never expected them to be so damning.
“Who accused him of doing this? What proof did they offer?”
“He did not say, and I did not press him. At least as to who made the accusations. He did say that the Earl of Marwood kept stoking the fire, however. He assumed it was because of that old animosity between your families. So you can see why I found your interest in Lady Clara either peculiar, or . . .” His speech drifted off.
He did not need to complete the sentence. Adam knew the rest. Either peculiar or an act of revenge. A small way to even a big score.
Was that all it was? He did not know for certain himself, but he did not think so. There were better ways to take revenge than that. He’d spent years itemizing them. Nor did he feign desire for Lady Clara. He had wanted her since that day on the hill.
He wasn’t even sure yet that Lady Clara’s father had been at the heart of those rumors. Even this new evidence that he encouraged them did not prove he had been.
All the same, he could not deny that more than desire had initiated his pursuit of her. Remaining in her attention allowed him a chance to learn what she knew, if anything, about the matters he now discussed with his friend. And, yes, seducing her would also partially settle the score for the late earl’s old sins, and perhaps more recent ones, he had to admit. He could not deny there would be some satisfaction in that even if he enjoyed a more significant kind too.
If that made him a scoundrel the way Brentworth thought, so be it. It was past time for the son to fulfill his obligations to the father, no matter what that father may have done.
“Do you have any theories about how the supposed disloyalty took place?” he asked Brentworth, since he needed to clarify the accusations if he were to ever finish this.
His friend shook his head, but his expression reflected deep consideration. “I have never put my mind to it. However, if I now do—money, I assume. Money sent to France to finance the new army. Not to Napoleon directly, would be my guess. That would be both difficult and risky. However, to his supporters. It would not have been hard to get it to them.”
“I have combed through the ledgers of the estate and found no large disbursement of money at that time.”
Brentworth shot him a hard look. “So you went looking for it? I think my revelations today are not news to you, then.”
“They confirm conclusions I had drawn. He could not be disloyal in his person, nor was he in his words. What was left but money?”
