Chapter Sixteen
The day turnedwet and cold as the afternoon drew on, which was a help in putting out the fire someone set in the wood stack against the back wall of Clara’s house. Fortunately, one of the bodyguards noticed the smoke before the flames could take hold, and he used a rake to scatter the mess of twigs and straw that had been piled against the wood. Spread across the cobblestones in the rain, the embers soon gave up and went out.
Someone else must have made the same assumption as the maids—that Allan was living at the address he had given for correspondence. This theory was confirmed late in the afternoon when a thunderous knocking on the door—an attack rather than a request for entry—proved to be Farnham with a letter from the marquess.
He insisted on handing it to Allan in person. Baldwin left him in the cold bare parlor Clara only had heated on the days that she received petitioners from her estates, shops, and manufactories, and came to tell Allan and Melody, who were dressing for dinner.
“It’s Farnham,” said Baldwin.
“Threats?” Allan asked.
“Probably.” Baldwin shrugged. “There is a certain way to find out, and that is to see him. I can always tell him you are not here and demand that he give me the marquess’s letter.”
“No need,” said Allan. “I am here. It will be no secret by tomorrow, after all. I’ll go down and see what he wants.”
“His lordship demands that you return home or face retribution,” Farnham said coldly, in the insolent voice he kept for his master’s sons and disobedient servants.
Mel had insisted on coming to the parlor with Allan, and Baldwin and Clara were present, as well. It was Mel who spoke, her voice meditative. “The marquess is… what? Eighty years old? More? He shall be dead soon enough. Probably in the next ten years. Perhaps much sooner. He has led a dissolute life, after all. And then, Allan, you shall be Farnham’s master.”
“An interesting thought,” Baldwin said. “Farnham, while you are thinking about that, remember that none of the marquess’s sons like you. One of us—by rights it will be Lord Kemble—will inherit the title.”
“Don’t bother,” Allan commented. “Farnham, tell the marquess that the answer is, and always will be, no.”
Farnham sneered. “We know you sent your youngest brother away on the 30th. We knew yesterday that he and Lord Isaac were headed for Liverpool, and a ship to the Americas. The marquess has sent a veritable army after them, and by now they will be in custody and on their way back to London. Surrender now, and Lord Jerome’s punishment will be lighter.”
Good. That old villain believes the story we leaked to London’s gossips. Mel managed not to smile.
Allan examined his cufflinks and then the set of his matching cravat pin, looking thoughtful. “That is a pity,” he commented, after a while. “I trust his lordship does not intend to detain Lord Isaac? He is of age, and bringing him home against his will would be kidnapping. A capital offense, Farnham.”
“He’ll come along right enough when we drag Lord Jerome back,” Farnham blustered.
“No.” Allan looked at Farnham over his steepled fingers, his eyes as cold as the north wind. “No, he will not. And neither shall I nor any of the other brothers. We would, I grant you, have preferred to wait another five months, until Jerome was no longer under his lordship’s legal authority.”
He took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “However, your master made that impossible when he tried to force those ridiculous marriages. Tell the marquess that we are all agreed. If Jerome must be sacrificed, we shall not blame ourselves. We shall place the blame where it belongs, on the marquess. And we shall have our revenge.”
“If that is all, Farnham,” said Clara, “my butler shall see you out.”
Farnham glowered. “Is that your final word, Lord Kemble?”
“I shall not enter any of the marquess’s properties again until I am the marquess,” Allan told him.
“You shall regret it,” Farnham growled.
Clara clapped her hands for the butler. Mel turned her back on Farnham, though listening for his movements. She wanted to show her contempt, but she was certainly not going to allow such a violent, improvident man to step closer to her.
A pity this room was so plain. The contemptuous gesture was satisfying, but she would have liked a mirror to watch his reaction.
“My lady,” said the butler.
“Show this person out,” Clara said, refusing to refer to Farnham with an honorific, a term of respect, or even his name.
Mel longed for the absent mirror, but she held her pose as the footsteps of two men retreated into the hall. Only when she heard the front door close did she turn back to Clara, Allan, and Baldwin.
“That should put the cat among the pigeons,” she said.
“Liverpool,” said Baldwin, and snorted with laughter.
Allan stroked his chin. “We need to warn the others. His lordship will go after whomever he considers weakest.”
