“Mosely.”
“Your brother has returned.”
Chapter 26
Walter has returned?” John’s stomach dropped, kicking off a ringing in his ears. Thank God for the support of the wall or he might have fallen.
“It seems his death was not as reported, my lord. I mean Mr. Barnesworth.”
Bloody hell. Fuck. Jesus Christ.John had had his suspicions—the emptied bank accounts, the last-minute betrothal, the missing clothes in Walter’s wardrobe. But he’d become so entangled with Charlotte and their quest to save the estates that his brother had slipped his mind.
“Where is he?”
“In your study. I mean his—I meanthestudy.”
Damn. There was nothing for it. He would need to face his brother and find out what the fuck was going on.
The butler looked genuinely fearful. John couldn’t blame him. Walter had driven the estates into the ground, failing to pay his staff or provide proper accommodations for them. It was only natural Mosely be concerned about what Walter’s reappearance would mean.
John clapped a hand on his shoulder. “It’s fine. It will be well. Though, I would appreciate your discretion. If you could speak with Mrs. Blackheath and Mrs. Scott and ask they keep this information to themselves, just until I can work out what the bloody hell is going on.”
The butler nodded, and John strode down the corridor, ignoring the sharp pain in his leg. He pushed open the door to his—the—study. Walter had shoved John’s papers and books from the table in front of the armchair and had his feet resting on top of the lacquered wood. He had a decanter of whiskey next to him, one that Fiona had given to John “so that you can stop drinking pig swill.”
“This is a good drop,” Walter said. “Better than I got anywhere on the continent.”
“I thought you were d-d-dead.” Fuck. He crossed to the chair opposite Walter but couldn’t bring himself to sit.
“What have you done to my study?” Walter gestured to the devices that John had been working on that now lay scattered on the floor. “You’ve left silly little trinkets all over the place. It looks like a child’s playground.”
John worked his jaw, trying to loosen the muscles that had his entire mouth clenched. “I thought you were d-dead,” he repeated, still waiting for a Goddamned explanation.
Walter waved his hand. “That was a misunderstanding.”
“A misunderstanding? The corpse was dressed in your clothing. Wearing your ring.” John tugged at the Harrow family ring until it slid off his finger and tossed it at his brother, who caught it and turned it over in his fingers a few times before putting it on. “Do you expect me to believe it was just a misunderstanding?”
His brother had played him. Whatever narrative Walter had concocted to explain the events would be just that—a story plausible enough that society would accept it and gripping enough to make them forget that when Walter had “died” he’d owed them money.
Walter shook his head as though it were a great shame, but the bastard couldn’t hide his smirk. “It was a terrible accident. The last thing I remember is hitting my head as I fell overboard. When I woke up, it was on the shores of France.”
“Right. And you stayed in France because?”
Walter shrugged. “I lost my memory. I did not know who I was until two days ago, when I slipped and hit my head again. I rushed home, obviously. I have responsibilities here that I must tend to.”
John wanted to cast up his accounts. “Then you’ve returned to London to take my place as viscount?”
A nasty look flashed across Walter’s usually charming face. “It was never actuallyyourplace, though, was it? Not if I was still alive. You were merely an interloper.”
Frustration coursed through John. No, it hadn’t been his place. He’d never wanted the position, but he’d turned his life upside down in order to do the job that was needed, and now his brother came swanning back home to take it all from him.
“You can have it,” John spat. “Take the title and the responsibility and the d-d-d—” Nausea whirled through his belly.
The estates were no longer bankrupt. The sale of the firm had wiped out the debt completely. There was no money from the sale left—every penny had been poured into an estate that John no longer owned. He held a hand to his mouth to keep from vomiting.
Walter hadn’t almost died. He’d left London because he’d had creditors breathing down his neck. If his brother reclaimed the title and everything that went with it, John would be penniless.Hewould be the one who couldn’t pay a household’s wages. Hell, he didn’t have the money to put a roof over his head, let alone purchase a home grand enough for Charlotte to entertain her friends in.
Once Walter reclaimed his position, John would be left with nothing.
“How are you going to explain it?” John asked, hating how his voice came out so strangled. “Do you understand how ridiculous your story sounds? No unconscious person floats to France. Unconscious people drown.”
