“Previous dealings?”Dear God. What the hell had Armswell done?
Bartholomew gave Florian a pensive look before nudging him aside so he could get to the brandy behind him. “He was young.” Speaking over his shoulder as if they were having a casual discussion, Bartholomew refilled his glass. He turned, paused to take a sip and then crossed the floor to reclaim the armchair he’d vacated earlier. “His father had tasked him with proving his worth by refusing to give him more than five hundred pounds of the family fortune. Sink or swim, he no doubt told him. Trouble was, Armswell had no sense for investment or any other means by which to replenish his coffers. Marrying your mother was an excellent solution to his financial troubles, albeit a temporary one. And since keeping up appearances was of the utmost importance...” He spread his arms and it all came together.
“You lent him money.” The notion was too awful to contemplate and yet so obvious, Florian wondered why he’d never suspected it before. An answer came swiftly: because his mother had fed him a story that he’d believed without question—a story in which Bartholomew would be the only villain.
“And since I do not appreciate it when those indebted to me refuse to pay, I must find some means by which to punish them properly. So... I took your mother and did my very best to ensure that Armswell would have to lay claim to a cuckoo.”
“You ruined so many lives.”
“And yet I am not the one to blame. Armswell is.” Bartholomew finished his drink and set his glass aside. “Had it not been for his stupidity, greed and lack of honor, none of this would have happened. You would not have been born, a fact I have largely ignored, though curiosity did compel me to seek you out on occasion. But, I would have left you alone, the victim of Armswell’s lapse in judgment and your mother’s fierce determination to do whatever she had to in order to save your brother. Now that you’ve crossed me, not once, but twice, I can no longer pretend you do not exist.”
He’d proven this by hurting Armswell and Lowell. “What will you do?” Florian asked while doing his best to hide his concern.
Bartholomew’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Excellent question.” The amusement faded until he remained the face of all seriousness. “Pushing Guthrie out of St. Giles and claiming the territory for myself proved unsuccessful, but perhaps I should make one final attempt.” He gave Florian a pointed stare. “Have Carlton Guthrie arrested tomorrow by noon, and I promise I’ll leave you alone from this point forward.”
“But I cannot simply—”
“You’re a duke now, Florian. Congratulations, by the way. A man as powerful as you can no doubt see that this deed is done in a satisfactory manner.” Rising, he brushed his shoulders with his fingers, as if removing lint, and strode to the door. “I expect you to meet with success, or face the consequences.”
“And if I refuse?” Florian tried. “As you say, I am a duke. As such, I could decide to use my power on you.”
Turning just enough to meet his gaze, Bartholomew sniffed and opened the door. “You might want to consider what the world will think of you if they discover how you were conceived. And if that’s not enough to convince you to help me with this, perhaps I’ll decide to be a little harsher with your loved ones. Just to dissuade you from issuing threats, hmm?”
Bartholomew closed the door to the parlor as he left, leaving Florian alone in the silence that followed. Scandal would be unavoidable, the gossip and the social destruction relentless if the truth about him ever came out. Florian’s reputation would be destroyed while everyone related to him would bear the stigma of his disgrace, or worse, suffer annihilation at the hands of Bartholomew.
Chapter 22
A soothing piece of piano music sifted through the air, lending an atmosphere of casual elegance to the Red Rose. The exclusive club was one of few allowing both men and women to acquire memberships, but as Henry had said when he’d opened the place, “In my experience ladies enjoy spending money more than men. It would be foolish of me to deny them entry.”
Arriving at the door to his brother’s office, Florian gave it a couple of raps and entered without bothering to wait for a response. Henry, seated behind his desk, stood the moment he saw him. “Florian! Thank God you’re back. I cannot tell you how relieved I am to see you looking well.”
Florian nodded and met his brother’s gaze. “We need to talk,” he said.
On the way over, he’d decided the best course of action from this point forward was absolute unwavering directness. Cutting across the floor, he dropped onto one of the black velvet chairs across from where Henry sat and regarded him closely. His handsome face, comprised of smooth princely lines, a full lower lip and raven-black hair, ensured he looked nothing like Florian. That no one had ever suspected they might only be half brothers was actually rather strange.
“I’m still not sure who’s behind the attack on our father or—”
“I am,” Florian said, cutting him off.
“Really?” Surprise was evident in Henry’s expression.
Inhaling deeply, Florian clutched the armrest, ignored what his revelation might lead to and spoke with absolute candor. “It is time for you to know the truth about me, Henry.” He paused, aware that this was his last chance to avoid the facts. Now was not the time for cowardice, however. Not when his family’s reputation and possibly even their lives were at stake. He needed council and after what he’d just learned from Bartholomew, he wasn’t sure he trusted his mother or Armswell to provide it. “You and I are only half brothers, Henry. Armswell is not my real father.”
A moment passed, one in which awkwardness swept aside any lingering feelings of comfort.
“What do you mean?”
The disbelief in Henry’s voice was overpowering. He blinked, grinned as if Florian had to be joking and then, realizing he wasn’t, produced a thunderous expression so at odds with his characteristically charming one that Florian instantly cringed.
But since there was no taking back the words now, the best way forward at this point was through explanation and apology. “Our mother was forced to lie with Bartholomew years ago.”
“The villainous blackguard who allegedly lured the innocent into prostitution and had the Duchess of Coventry stabbed last year?” Henry’s voice rose, accompanying his increasing outrage. “ThatBartholomew?”
“I am afraid so. Yes.”
Henry stared at him for a long, drawn-out moment before heaving a sigh and sinking back into his chair. “If the bugger was not dead already I would kill him myself.”
“If you don’t mind, I would like to have the honor of doing so.” When Henry gave him a quizzical look, Florian explained, “Bartholomew wasn’t executed last year. Some other poor bastard was hanged in his place.”
