Luc was convinced that the attack on him originated with Townsend’s gaming losses at his hands. If, as was suspected, Nolles was underwriting Townsend’s gaming, then both men had a reason to resent what had happened that night with Harlan. His lips curled. Townsend was too cowardly to take action against him, but Nolles ... Nolles was a different story entirely. Nolles didn’t like losing—anything—and violence was his second nature. Luc’s hand tightened around his snifter. Giving him a vicious thrashing was exactly the sort of action Nolles would take against someone who had cost him money, and for Nolles there was the added incentive of gouging a finger into Barnaby’s eye.
Thoughtfully, Luc wandered around the shadowy room, aided by the flickering light of the lone candle on the sideboard. So how, he wondered, did he handle Nolles? And Townsend?
Townsend, he decided, would be the easiest, and he knew just the method. Gambling. The squire was a decent gambler, but he wasn’t Lucifer, and Luc knew he could ruin him in an evening if he chose. But did he want to? Emily’s face floated in front of him and he winced. Townsend was her cousin, and though she loathed the man, how would she feel if her cousin were booted out onto the street with the clothes he wore on his back his only possessions? Luc made a face. Odds were she’d not turn a hair, applaud his actions in fact, but he didn’t want to take the chance that his actions might bring her pain. No, for Emily’s sake, he couldn’t leave the man penniless, but he could take the squire closer to the brink of ruin... .
Which would, he decided with a satisfied expression, enrage Nolles—especially since, if gossip was correct, the majority of the money Townsend was risking belonged to Nolles. Luc paused in his meandering about the room. Infuriating Nolles would be simple, but having achieved that goal, what did he do next? It would depend, he concluded, on how Nolles reacted to Townsend’s losses... .
Nolles was capable of murder, and he had any number of men who would cheerfully dispatch a problem for him. Luc stared at the drop of amber liquid remaining in his snifter. I’d do well, he told himself, to remember that fact.
But thinking back to the night he was attacked brought something sharply in focus for him. Nolles and his men had been waiting for him ... they’d
known
he would be riding home from High Tower... .
He frowned. His dinner at High Tower hadn’t been a secret, any number of people had known about it, but how had that news come to Nolles’s ear? It was unlikely that his acceptance to dine at High Tower would have been passed on to Nolles by the three or four people at Windmere who had known of his plans for that Friday night. While it was possible that one of the High Tower servants had mentioned the dinner while at Nolles’s inn, Luc didn’t think that was what happened.
A fragment of the conversation with Mrs. Gilbert came back to him ... something about Stanley Ordway and Lord George Canfield being seen with Nolles and Townsend... . Luc’s eyes narrowed. Either one of those two men was the most likely source, but had there been an innocent transference of information during conversation or something more sinister?
Shaking his head, he walked toward the oak sideboard. He could think of no reason why Stanley would want him beaten, but Canfield ... Canfield didn’t like him, but was that dislike strong enough to have him ask Nolles to attack him? And why would Nolles do such a thing for someone he’d just met?
Stopping in front of the sideboard, Luc snorted. Nolles would have leaped at the opportunity to strike at him without any request or prompting from anyone. Setting down the snifter, he headed for his bed. Either Ordway or Canfield had passed on the information, but he had to believe that it had been an innocent act—not some nefarious scheme. But for the time being, he thought, as he climbed into bed, I will take care around both men.
Determined to begin his search for suitable living quarters, the next morning Luc met with Barnaby in his office. Barnaby was behind his desk, Luc taking the leather chair Lamb had occupied the day before.
After Luc explained why he had come to call, there was a brief silence, Barnaby sitting with his fingers steepled in front of him. After a moment, he looked over at Luc and asked, “You’re certain this is what you want to do? Buy some property of your own?”
Luc spread his hands deprecatingly. “I can never thank you enough for all you have done for me since I arrived half-dead in England, but don’t you think it’s time I stepped out from behind your shadow?”
“Damn it, Luc! You have nothing to thank me for,” Barnaby growled. “If our father had been a fairer man, we would have shared in his estate, and if you weren’t so stiff-necked, you’d have allowed me to split Green Hill with you as I wanted to do. The money I
lent
you was as good as your own.” He sighed. “You and Lamb! Both of you as bullheaded a pair as I’ve ever come across.”
“Lamb and I have created quite a dilemma for you, haven’t we?” Luc asked, sympathetic, yet amused.
“Yes, you have.” Barnaby eyed his older half brother wearily. “How do you think it makes me feel to have been blessed with great fortune, yet the two men I hold dearest to me ... the two men who have as much right to that same fortune, refuse to allow me to share with them?” His black eyes bleak, he asked in a low tone, “How would you feel if our positions were reversed? Would you be happy knowing that your brother and your uncle had been denied even a portion of their birthright while
all
of it came to you?” Barnaby’s fist hit the desk with frustration. “You both were raised as Joslyns. You
are
Joslyns, yet the pair of you allows pride to stand in the way of what is rightfully yours. Lamb plays at being my manservant and you pretend to be a heartless gambler yet nothing is further from the truth. I cannot,” he said heavily, “undo what our father did to you or Lamb, but every time you refuse my offer of help you burden me with the guilt of his doing.”
Taken aback by the misery in Barnaby’s voice, Luc stared dumbstruck at him. If positions were reversed ... He swallowed with difficulty, aware for the first time of how his refusals wounded his brother. Unable to stare at Barnaby’s unhappy face, his gaze dropped. He’d never once thought of Barnaby’s feelings; he’d been so involved in flaunting his pride like a priceless golden cloak that the consequences to Barnaby every time he tossed Barnaby’s offers back into his face hadn’t ever been considered.
Mon Dieu!
What an arrogant, selfish swine I’ve been.
“Forgive me,” begged Luc, his azure eyes full of regret as his gaze met Barnaby’s. “I would never willingly cause you pain and I never meant to hurt you—in any fashion.”
Barnaby ran a hand through his black hair. “I know that.” He half smiled. “You’re a thoughtless bastard, but not a cruel one.”
Luc grimaced. “Thank you.” He fidgeted in the chair. Reluctantly, he said, “How do you propose we solve this dilemma?”
From under his brows Barnaby regarded him. “Are you serious?”
Luc nodded. “At the moment, yes.” He made a face. “Allow me time to think about it and I may change my mind. When it is the only thing you feel you have, pride is a hard thing to discard—even if only for your brother.”
Barnaby hesitated, then reached into his desk drawer and removed some papers. He cleared his throat. “There is a small estate, Ramstone Manor, on the eastern edge of the Windmere lands, that came into my hands when I inherited the title. Our great-uncle, the previous viscount, had lent the owner, a Mr. Benton Coulson, a substantial sum of money several years ago that was never repaid. Coulson died without heirs last summer, and the estate, over five hundred acres, which includes a half dozen or so farms, became mine when I took the title.” Barnaby pushed the papers toward Luc. “Lord knows that Windmere doesn’t need to expand, although I did think about keeping the place for a younger son, but that’s decades in the future—
if
I am fortunate to have more than one son. In the meantime, I’m merely a caretaker of the place.” He smiled. “I could sell it, but I’d much prefer you as a neighbor than some stranger.”
Luc studied him through narrowed eyes. “Tell me,” he said, “do you also have a similar property that you’re holding until just the right moment for Lamb?”
Barnaby looked guilty. “Lamb will need, want his own place eventually,” Barnaby mumbled.
There was a time when Luc would have stormed out of the room, wrapping his pride around him, but he realized that to do so would only wound Barnaby ... and he’d be cutting off his own nose to spite his face. He thought a moment and then he said slowly, “I will buy it from you.”
When Barnaby looked like he’d object, Luc held up a hand and said, “I suspect that the amount I can pay you will be woefully less than the place is actually worth, but at least allow me to salvage some of my pride.”
Knowing it was the best he was going to get, Barnaby nodded, thrilled at the outcome. They haggled over the price, and a half hour later a dazed Luc walked out of Barnaby’s office, the new owner of Ramstone Manor. I own a house, he thought stunned. A house. And land. And farms.
Sacristi!
I am indeed becoming respectable.
Shaking his head in disgust, he headed for the stables, intending to ride to Ramstone Manor and see what his money had purchased. Next thing you know, he thought irritably, I will want a wife and a nursery. Gillian’s face swam in front of him and he cursed. Forcing her image from his mind, he mounted Devil and set off to inspect his new estate, but against his will, his thoughts turned to Gillian and events at High Tower.
Life had followed a predicable course at High Tower during the time of Luc’s withdrawal from public. Gillian and Sophia were settling into the house and under different circumstances both ladies would have been delighted with the change in their lives, but Canfield remained an ominous cloud on the horizon.
It wasn’t, Gillian decided, that Saturday afternoon as she, Sophy and Silas sat in the November sun in a sheltered part of the garden, that Canfield had made any overt moves toward her; it was simply that he was
there.
And, she admitted, never far from any of their thoughts. She scowled. How much longer would he remain a guest at High Tower?
Almost as if she read her thoughts, Sophia said, “I wonder how long Canfield intends to visit. He and Stanley have been here for over a fortnight. Surely they must be longing for London or thinking of joining one of the hunts—although I must say I will be sorry to see Stanley go—I’ve enjoyed his company.”
Sitting between Gillian and Sophy, Silas grunted. “Been surprised these past weeks by Stanley myself. Boy seems to be taking an interest in the estate—something he’s never done before now. When we met with my bailiff the other day, he actually appeared to listen. Even asked a few intelligent questions.” Silas looked thoughtful. “Never stayed more than a couple of nights before either. Most of the time, he’d show up on my doorstep with a friend or two, explain his latest shortage of funds, and once I’d given him the money, after a polite interval, off he’d go until the next time he fell into the River Tick.” He frowned. “Don’t remember Canfield being one of his friends, though. Not even in London. Stanley’s friends have always been untried cubs ready for any lark, but there was never any harm in them.”
“I agree,” said Gillian, nodding. She stared off into space. “Stanley has been ... different these past weeks. We have frequently been in each other’s company of late—but most telling of all—without bickering. I cannot say that we are close, but like Sophia, I have enjoyed being around him.” She dimpled. “He even escorted us into the village the other day to buy some lace and thread at the draper’s shop and not once did he complain.”
“Extraordinary!”
“Yes, it was,” said Sophia. “He seems to be taking his role as brother and cousin seriously.”
“I wonder,” Silas murmured almost to himself, “if that talking-to I had with him in London at the end of the Season about the way I came to own High Tower has anything to do with the changes we see in him.”
Both women looked at him. “What do you mean?” asked Gillian. “How would the way you acquired High Tower affect him?”
Silas looked uncomfortable. Both women waited for his answer and after a few moments, he sighed and said, “It’s a sad, unpleasant story—not for the ears of ladies, but since you’re living here, better you hear it from me than someone else.” He grimaced. “Not that there are many around who remember the tragedy.”
“What tragedy?” demanded Gillian.
Silas took in a deep breath and quietly told them of the Bramhall family and Edward Bramhall’s suicide from the tower that gave High Tower its name. When he finished speaking, there was silence for several minutes.
“I blame myself,” admitted Silas. “I was too pleased with myself by winning such a plum estate that I never thought of Bramhall—or what it would do to him.”
“But it wasn’t your fault,” protested Gillian, while sparing a thought for the tragic Edward Bramhall. “How often have we heard of grander estates and fortunes changing hands at the gaming tables?” Her lips drooped. “I do not hold you responsible, but this is exactly why I hate gambling. Gamblers never think of the pain they cause.” Realizing what she had said, she gasped and flashed Silas an unhappy smile. “Oh, Uncle! I am so sorry—and after all you have done for me. I did not mean to offend you.”
Silas patted her hand. “You didn’t, my dear. I don’t disagree with you. Gambling is a wicked vice—but remember that no one forces a gentleman to sit down at that table and throw away a fortune. The harsh truth is that anyone who gambles more than he can afford to lose is a fool.”