A sip of the cool water soothed his dry throat, and he rested until his head felt clearer. Nothing could dim his revulsion of the moment the justice of the peace had stated his news. Gideon knew his only comfort would be in bringing his father’s assassin to the gallows. He had to discover the details of the attack—no matter how painful—and take the purposeful steps to bring the killer to justice.
His regret for the fury he and his father had exchanged would take a longer time to heal.
“Help me to stand, Philippe.”
“No,
monsieur
. You are very weak. You must remain abed.”
“Confound you! I know how weak I am, but I must speak to Sir Joshua. Tell his men to send him word I wish to see him.”
Gideon tried to lift himself, but as he struggled to sit, the room revolved.
“
Mais voilà
, what did Philippe tell you?”
In spite of his pain and dizziness, Gideon gave a frustrated laugh. “You impudent dog! I shall have your tail hacked off for that. If you will not help me to stand, I shall call Thomas Barnes.
He
will obey me.”
If Gideon thought this lie would spur his valet, he was grossly mistaken. The suggestion that a stable servant would be preferable seemed to carry no offence.
“This Thomas will agree with Philippe when he sees
monsieur
be so stubborn
, n’est-ce pas?
”
As if their words had miraculously conjured him from the stable, Thomas suddenly appeared at his bedside, determined, it seemed, to press his master back down onto the bed. “That’s right, my lord, just you let the Frenchy take care of you like he’s done. There’s no call to get riled.”
Gideon was sufficiently astonished to find Tom in his chamber that he easily fell back.
As soon as he found his tongue again, he said, “Tom, I insist upon getting up! What the devil are you doing in here?”
“Waiting on you, my lord, seeing as how the Frenchy needed help whenever you was bandaged—which was more often than you’d think. Though I never expected to say it, he does have a way with that lint and those pots of his. Welcome back to the living, Master Gideon.”
These last words were uttered in a voice so full of emotion that Gideon’s eyes were drawn to his face. A beard of several days growth, dark circles under his eyes and rumpled clothes revealed that Tom had spent the better part of the fortnight at his side. He must have fallen asleep on the floor and only been awakened by the valet’s plaintive tone.
A fresh look at Philippe discovered similar signs of wear, though his valet would never have allowed himself to appear in such a slovenly state. His hair was coifed with almost his usual care, and his face made up, but weary circles beneath his eyes betrayed his sleepless nights.
Gideon said, “It seems I have you both to thank. You should seek your beds now, however. Send a footman up to tend me.”
A meaningful glance exchanged by the two sent him a new surprise. It hinted at a complicity entirely at odds with their former animosity.
“My lord—” Tom, as the servant of his childhood, was the first to have the courage to speak— “those men downstairs, Sir Joshua’s men—they mean your lordship harm.”
“Nonsense. What men? And why should they wish me harm? They have come to give their report, and I wish to hear it. If neither of you will help me, I shall have to find new servants. Which I would be sorry to do since you have served me so well.”
“
Monsieur
—
”
Philippe began in an anguished voice.
With a look of resignation and an unsettling emotion—almost akin to guilt—Tom put an end to the Frenchman’s protest. “Better do as the master says. Likely, he knows what is best.”
Gideon was thrown by this sudden docility from a man who had never scrupled to scold or instruct him. On reflection, he could ascribe it to only one of two possible things. Either Tom had the intention of according him more respect, now that he had succeeded to his father’s honours, or else, he refused to let his lord’s valet see how disrespectful he could be.
Whatever the cause, in spite of his still-considerable weakness, Gideon soon found himself fed with a restorative broth, washed and coifed, and wrapped in a striped silk banyan to receive the officers. He would have argued with Philippe about the choice of garment, but he hadn’t the strength to overcome his wishes. And he would need all his strength to question the men.
Sitting up in bed, he ordered Tom and Philippe to take themselves off, to find a meal and get some rest. They went reluctantly.
Unexpectedly, Sir Joshua himself appeared in his door. He must have received Gideon’s message and come immediately, though his eagerness had not led him to put on a welcoming face. With his short, square wig covering a large head and a frown on his fleshy features, he entered first, followed by a man Gideon did not know. This second fellow, a burly man with coarse, dark curls tied back in a queue, seemed afraid to trespass in an earl’s bedchamber. Gideon made an inviting gesture to put him at ease.
“I am sorry I have been indisposed. You have come to tell me about my father’s murder. Have you found the killer?”
“As to that, my lord, there are questions to be answered before any charges can be laid.”
His unwontedly hostile tone raised Gideon’s hackles. What could he mean by being so damned offensive? An uneasy memory, something that had been said the night of the ball, gave Gideon pause, but he answered tightly, “Surely, sir, the servants who attended my father at Rotherham Abbey could give you a better idea of what occurred than I can. Though painful to me, their account is something I fear I must hear.”
Sir Joshua replied, “They say you quarreled.”
Startled—and surprised—Gideon frowned. “What passed between my father and me is no one’s affair.”
“But you admitted as much at Lord Eppington’s ball.”
Startled again, Gideon took a moment to assess this news. He tried to remember what had happened after he had learned of his father’s death, but that evening was a blur. He wondered why the justice of the peace had come to confront him rather than to inform him of what he wanted to know.
Alarm, from some danger he could sense but not see, threatened to weaken him, when outrage should have been his response. His father would never have allowed Tate to speak to him in this insolent manner, but Gideon was not strong enough at the moment to throw the Roundhead out of his house.
“I was not myself that night. The injury that has kept me abed had started to fester.”
“So your servants have said, my lord. Perhaps you would be good enough to tell me how you came about that wound.”
Gideon related the attack as best as he could recall.
“You could not identify the man you say attacked you?”
“No, he wore a mask. If you wish to know more, ask my groom, Thomas Barnes. He was there, and he carried me in.”
“We have spoken to your father’s servants, my lord. There is some disagreement as to when you received your injury.”
Gideon felt a shock. “There
could
be no argument. More than one servant saw me carried in. There was blood on my coat.”
Sir Joshua’s silence let Gideon know he had no intention of volunteering names. And nothing could force him to. The law did not require him to divulge his witnesses.
The constable—for that was what he was, Gideon realized with amazement—glanced nervously from Sir Joshua’s righteous expression to Gideon’s tense one, from the smug, stodgy figure of the justice of the peace to the lean aristocrat.
“I insist,” Gideon said, losing all patience. “You must tell me the circumstances of my father’s murder. Who did it? When did it occur? And why are you posing these unnecessary questions?”
At Sir Joshua’s continued silence, the constable finally spoke. “Your father was attacked just after you left ‘im, my lord, in a first floor closet they’re callin’ ‘is liberry. There must ‘a been some kind o’ turn-to, ‘cause your father ‘ad blood on ‘is sword.”
It took no more than a second for Gideon to realize his meaning. “You think that is how I got my wound?”
Sir Joshua spoke. “Perhaps you have confused the two incidents, my lord.”
Gideon exploded. “Are you saying that
I
killed my father? That I lied about the attack on me?”
“It is possible, my lord. The coincidence would seem to be remarkable.”
Dazed and incredulous, Gideon tried to shake off the fury that rendered him dizzy again. “That is impossible! Ask anyone.” The very notion that he could injure his father pricked him more than anything Sir Joshua could say.
“There are some who think it probable.”
“Who would accuse me of such a thing?” His anger spiraled out of control, bringing him off the pillows to raise his voice, before weakness made his head swim. “I’ll kill the man who would say it!”
“Perhaps your lordship’s famous temper is to blame. We have proof you left your father’s house in high dudgeon.”
Betrayed by his hasty anger, the first thing he had inherited from his father, Gideon fell back, spent. “That was different,” he said, remembering with pain his last exchange with his father. “My father and I often had words. That did nothing to diminish the strong affection between us.”
“But there are greater attachments than a son’s for his father. Wouldn’t you say so, my lord?”
Alerted to Sir Joshua’s train of thought, Gideon clenched his teeth. “What the devil do you mean?”
Sir Joshua gave him a mean, satisfied look. “It will do you no good to curse, my lord. There are laws against swearing. I only refer to your quarrel on that particular day. We have witnesses who heard it.”
Gideon felt the breath being drained from his body. He recalled his father’s words with respect to Isabella, and knew that Sir Joshua had heard Lord Hawkhurst’s dictate. What a mortification for Isabella if the public were to hear the details of their fight.
“I say again that such matters were between my father and me. They are not to be discussed.”
“But they will be discussed when this matter comes to trial.”
To trial?
Weak and wan, Gideon could not believe his ears, not when this conversation was more twisted than a dream.
He could not combat his frustration now. Nor could he refute Sir Joshua’s charges when he had barely enough strength to raise his head. “You must come back another time. I have talked long enough. Tell me one thing, at least. Was my father robbed?”
“No. Strange, is it not, my lord?”
“How do you know?”
“Your father’s agent insists there is nothing gone missing. It seems that a different motive inspired this killer.”
Gideon could not mistake his meaning. The murder had been committed for personal reasons. And if Gideon were the murderer, he would have no need to rob his father of things he would inherit himself.
Rage, pure and simple, infused Gideon with a coldness he did not know he possessed.
“Go!” Rising up from his bed, he stared furiously into Sir Joshua’s malicious face. “If you wish to speak to me again, you can reach me at Rotherham Abbey.” He forestalled the protest forming visibly on Sir Joshua’s lips by adding, “I plan to attend my father’s burial.”
This proved undeniable, which told Gideon that Sir Joshua could not be confident of his ability to accuse the new earl with impunity.
“Very well, my lord. My constables will attend you, however, and I would advise you not to leave the country until this matter has been resolved.”
Gideon had no desire to leave England. He would travel to his home, uncover the facts that Sir Joshua refused to supply him, find out who had accused him, and bring his father’s killer to justice himself.
It was absurd, he thought, as the two men bowed themselves out. Absurd to fear them. They could not possibly bring him to trial for a crime he had not committed. The government would not stand for a peer to be so mistreated. How dare they make these false accusations?
But as Gideon’s rage played out, so did his strength. Impatient with himself, he leaned back against his cushions and waited for his pulse to resume a normal pace.
Damn
, but he was weak! How could he pursue his father’s murderer when he could barely lift his head, much less a sword?
But he must. It was clear Sir Joshua had formed his suspicions and had no intention of looking further. Who could have put such an impossible notion into his head? Someone who hated Gideon, that was sure.
But it was also true that Sir Joshua’s prejudice against his family would dispose him to use any tool in his power to bring an Earl of Hawkhurst down.
Gideon tried to recall when the animosity between the Tates and the Fitzsimmons had started. It was long before his own birth—something to do with the execution of Charles I and the Restoration. The Fitzsimmons had been Cavaliers, the Tates firmly on Cromwell’s side.
Skirmishes over property and elections had been common during Lord Hawkhurst’s and Sir Joshua’s youth, resulting in suits and counter-suits between their parents. Gideon had been taught to despise his Whiggish neighbours. Though having no particular love for Sir Joshua or his Puritan family, he had still possessed too great a knowledge of his father’s intolerance to be completely swayed. Sir Joshua, however, seemed determined to carry on with the hatred passed to him from his.
Was this hatred so deep as to lead him to commit murder?
The thought nearly brought Gideon to his feet. If Sir Joshua had been his father’s assailant, he would have a powerful motive for throwing the blame on Lord Hawkhurst’s own son. Gideon knew he had to ride to the Abbey as soon as possible. The question—who the killer was—had begun to eat at his aching heart.
By tomorrow, he insisted, he would be strong enough to travel. Meanwhile, he would see what he could do to discover what nonsense had led to Sir Joshua’s accusing him.
A large handbell had been left beside his bed. He rang for a footman, but an anxious Tom answered the summons instead. He had done nothing more than change his clothes before returning to the corridor outside Gideon’s room.
“I thought I told you to rest.” Gideon frowned as Tom bent his knee.
“I did rest a bit, milord.” His obeisance completed, Tom showed no expression as he moved to plump Gideon’s pillows. He added, “Never could sleep in the middle of the day, milord.”