“How was I to know that you—?”
Phillip put up a hand. “Enough. Now, I expect you and all of your belongings, anything not purchased with Harlowe monies, to be out of my properties by week’s end.”
“But…my new things,” Hugh blustered. “You cannot mean—”
“Leave anything purchased with my money. If I cannot return them, I’ll hold an auction of my own.” Phillip gave his cousin a pleasant smile.
Fuming, Hugh stood and smashed his hat back on his head. “You’ve always hated me,” he barked. “I was merely protecting our family name and you’ll see me ruined for it. You’re mad!”
“Perhaps,” Phillip replied calmly, inclining his head toward his cousin, “but I’m back. And we’ll do things my way from now on. By the by, you should know that my priority is ensuring my brother’s death is fully investigated.”
Hugh froze and turned slowly to eye Phillip. “What? Malcolm died of an attack of the heart.”
“So they say,” Phillip clipped.
Hugh narrowed his eyes at Phillip. “What is that supposed to mean? Dr. Brigham said so himself,” he insisted.
Phillip kept the smile pinned to his face. “Take it however you’d like.”
Eyes blazing dark fire, Hugh turned and stalked from the room. He’d only been gone a few moments before Bell and Clayton pushed open the door from the adjoining salon and stepped inside.
“That was well done of you,” Clayton commended.
“It was also quite interesting, I thought,” Bell replied. “That bit about Vining.”
“I thought so, too,” Phillip replied, bracing an elbow on the arm of his chair.
“Tell me. Does your family have any past connection with Lord Vining? Any reason for him to dislike you?” Bell asked Phillip.
“Not that I’m aware,” Phillip replied. “But I suppose it’s possible he and Malcolm had a falling out.”
“Hear anything about that in Parliament, Clayton?” Bell asked the viscount.
Clayton pursed his lips and rubbed his chin. “Hmm. Nothing comes to mind. Vining isn’t much of an authority in Parliament. He’s more of a toady for the Tories. Same lot as Sir Reginald Francis. He’s always seemed to be something of a clod to me.”
“Sir Reginald? That blowhard?” Bell replied, rolling his eyes.
“One and the same,” Clayton replied. “Tell me, Harlowe. Did your cousin seem guilty to you? After speaking with him, do you believe he had a role to play in Malcolm’s death?”
Phillip shook his head. “I honestly couldn’t tell in the few minutes of our conversation. He did seem surprised when I mentioned I’d be investigating Malcolm’s death. That was unexpected.”
“That could have been out of fear as much as surprise, if he was involved,” Bell pointed out.
A sharp rap on the salon door was immediately followed by Humbolt stepping inside. He was holding a silver salver with a folded piece of vellum on it. “My apologies for the interruption, my lords,” the butler said, “but I was told to get this message in the hands of the duke as quickly as possible. It’s from Sir Roger Payton’s household.” He hurried over and offered the missive to Phillip.
Phillip stood and pulled the paper off the salver. He quickly broke the seal with his finger, unfolded it, and scanned its brief contents. Once he’d read it, he dismissed Humbolt, and turned to his friends.
“It’s from Sophie,” Phillip announced. “It says, ‘Hugh was just here and refused to admit he no longer holds the title. He told my father and Valentina it wasn’t over yet and asked them to give him a few days. I believe you may be in imminent danger.’”
Chapter Twelve
Sophie shouldn’t have come to the Covingtons’ ball tonight. She’d told Valentina she didn’t care if everyone was gossiping about her engagement, but once they’d entered the room, the loudness of the whispers behind hands and fans became a near cacophony. Every step she took involved eyes following her and each time she glanced at anyone, they quickly diverted their gaze. It was tedious. If balls were a location where one could find the ridiculous, tonight she was the object of ridicule.
Sophie wore a light blue gown with a sarsenet underskirt and the pearl earrings and necklace her mother left her. Two of the few pieces of jewelry she’d been able to keep from Valentina’s grasp.
Sophie wished someone—anyone—would have the temerity to come up to her directly and ask if she still considered herself engaged to the Duke of Harlowe now that Hugh was likely to lose the title. She would commend them for their audacity, at least. Everyone else was avoiding her as if she carried plague.
After Hugh had left this afternoon, Sophie had been summoned to Papa’s study, where her father and Valentina had sat Sophie down and told her they were ‘considering their options’ when it came to her engagement. They didn’t want to make a hasty decision, they explained. Whatever that meant. Sophie had been flabbergasted. Why in heaven’s name wouldn’t they choose to call off the betrothal immediately? She did not know, and she didn’t dare ask. She didn’t care for the ambitious gleam in Valentina’s eyes. Instead, Sophie had retreated to her bedchamber, where she’d quickly fired off the missive to Phillip (delivered by one of Papa’s footmen) to warn him that something seemed amiss. She’d no idea how Phillip had reacted, but she hoped he’d keep himself safe.
