“My wife makes fine sketches, but you sound as if her work should be hung on the walls of a gallery or museum. She’s—”
“Neglected and gifted, that’s a bad mix. Why did you marry such a lovely creature if you intended to leave her for trollops?”
Trollops? “You’re hardly one to discuss fidelity. And I’ve long since given up explaining my life to you.”
His father laughed. “Doesn’t sound like a denial. You’re like me, like my father. A fool who doesn’t know what he has until it’s gone.”
He threaded his hands tighter on the bronzed handle of his black cane. “Perhaps this is my fault. I never modeled marital love; you flounder with an angel.”
“What do you know of love, Tramel? As I recall, Scotland’s liberal laws and your coins eliminated difficulties or difficult women. I’m glad you’re not Henry the Eighth.”
“I know love, son. It’s why I tortured myself when I lost your mother. You nearly destroyed yourself not recognizing your feelings for the late Lady Gantry until it was too late.”
His father knew how to strike a mortal blow. Losing Elizabeth and never expressing his true feelings haunted Felton. She was more than a valued partner. Much more, and she died not knowing his heart.
“Oh, don’t get sullen, boy. I’m here to protect the current Lady Gantry . . . and you. Do you need assistance arranging an annulment or Scottish divorce?”
The man kept visiting Cecilia. They’d formed some sort of confidence. Felton would make it clear he deserved her trust. “I’m very happy and content with my wife. I’ve no need to stray.”
Grimacing, Tramel nodded. He was searching for something or hoping for something. All his training kicked in.
Be calm.
Think through the options.
Plan each step to be executed.
Remaining unbothered would keep Tramel talking and lead to a confession. “You do want me happy, Papa? Happy with Cecilia.”
His scowl deepened, merging with his chin. “Of course, Gantry. Of course.”
“You’ve come down from the country, your idyllic estate. Should I set another seat for dinner?”
The old fool folded his arms across his perfectly tailored onyx jacket. The fellow might be in his early sixties, but he was strong and fit. A most interesting man of his generation. “Please don’t use your tactics on me. They’re tiresome.”
“Then what reason brings you to find me and deliver such a warning? There has to be a reason, Tramel.”
“Just a concerned father, looking after my heir and his happiness.”
If Felton broke into a full laugh, the duke would quiet and Felton would fail. He didn’t like failing, especially to his father. “There is something you aren’t saying. I’ll find out sooner or later. You know what I do for the Department of War and the Colonies?”
“You may not believe me, and the years between us have not been good. I hate that it’s that way. Though he died on his own terms, I regret the last time my father and I spoke it was an argument.”
Felton rolled his palm like an orchestra conductor. “And . . .”
“I want . . . to take care of your household. You’ve gone and made one in London. Keep it.”
“You know where Liverpool is sending me, don’t you?”
Tramel smoothed the handle of his cane. “Grenada. Maybe Demerara too. I have friends who talk. That’s how I know you were almost killed when you met the enchanting Cecilia.”
“Can your connections in governments and shadowy places tell me who killed Johnson? He was the best man. And a good father.”
This time Tramel laughed, bold and haughty. “When you left the military, I thought you ran scared. The family peacemaker couldn’t handle the gunfire, but—”
“Peacemaker? Not by choice. Your wives two and three needed someone to maintain the tranquility of Warwick.”
The man glared at him. “I was going to say you made me proud risking life and freckled limbs for crown and country.”
