“You’re not my uncle . . . Awful woman? The boy’s mother? Where is she?”
Markham’s smile widened, then he turned and walked past the grand pianoforte before stopping. He seemed distracted by the silvered mirror hanging about the fireplace. “Gone, I suppose. Jordan set her up as if she were worthy to be mistress here. The wench even went about redecorating Hamlin as if it were hers.”
So Mrs. Jordan was responsible for the new look. “How could she afford it? My cousin was always in need of money.”
“Yes, he was. But Mrs. Jordan’s father set her up quite well with trusts, plenty of funds to draw upon. I heard she even hid some coins around here. She was suspicious of English banks. Odd foreigner.”
Foreigner?
“Lady Bodonel didn’t think much of her.”
Mother had met her. All he’d seen was a name on paper, Mrs. Jordan, no other accounting of anything, as if she didn’t exist or was an afterthought in the legal papers.
He tapped the desk. “Maybe Mrs. Jordan had a distrust in you. That you or my cousin might seize her money. You two have always been awful in handling finances.”
Markham undid his wilted cravat and started again. “Her money was his, or it should’ve been. I told him to press her for our business concerns, but he refused.”
Some decency remained in Colin, but he always hated asking for help. Busick hated asking as well. He shifted in his chair. “A man needs to fix his own brokenness before he can entangle others.”
“But your cousin wouldn’t have had to die if he’d taken her money.”
“He didn’t have to die at all. That was his choice. Where’s his widow?”
“Mrs. Jordan? Not sure. She was very low in her spirits after the birth. She was a danger to the baby, so depressed, feeling so badly about not helping Colin. Perhaps four years alone in Hamlin with its rumored ghosts twisted her mind.”
The man turned toward Busick. “I often wonder how you’ve kept your head, given all the deaths you’ve seen. Been in a lot of battles, haven’t you?”
Well, well, that was his game, still playing with people’s minds. A woman surviving childbirth and the death of her husband could surely be made a victim to Markham’s schemes. Busick hammered the desk, the goblet wobbled again.
“Where is she? Where . . . is . . . Mrs. . . . Jordan?”
“The woman ran off, Your Grace. If she hadn’t run, I’d have rid the place of her for the child’s sake.”
Abandon a newborn? No, that didn’t feel right. Busick wanted to stand and punch the lies from Markham’s lips, but that would show his injured leg. Instead, he pulled his gun and set it on the desk.
“What have you done with her? Tell me now or suffer the consequences.”
The smile on the fiend’s lanky face waned. “Perhaps if I stayed at Hamlin, I could remember something.”
“Your presence is no longer required.”
“Are you so set in your decision? Your Grace, I’m sure I could prove useful.”
“Out, Markham. I’ll locate her.”
“You don’t want her. She’s a danger to the little gold piece upstairs. We could work together. I could help you manage Hamlin. Maybe help replenish your coffers, the ones depleted maintaining your mother’s household.”
“My purse is fine, but I saw your unkempt lawn, the unplowed paths. I’ll shovel without yourhelp. I could offer you a coin or two if you told me where to contact Lionel’s mother.”
Markham’s eyes widened. “Could always use one of your coins, but I’ll not bring that woman back here. She dangled the boy over the upstairs railing. She’ll hurt the mongrel before the estate is settled.”
Dangled? And everything was settled, wasn’t it?
Or was Markham still trying to wrangle a way to control Hamlin?
Busick clasped his finger on the flintlock handle. “I’ll take up settling the estate with Mrs. Jordan when I find her.”
“She’s dangerous, Duke.”
