“Not that good,” Gideon said shortly. “Not good enough to overcome dismissal on the spot for the grossest misconduct, and no reference from Cubitt’s, and the endless damned gossip.”
“Oh God.” Zeb had assumed Gideon had found something else easily, because work had always come easily to him. He’d thought he’d lost him a job, which was bad enough. To have lost him his career—“Oh God, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”
“I’m not asking for your sympathy,” Gideon bit out. “I’m telling you I was unemployed for a great deal longer than I could afford. I would not have taken a post with a member of your family if I had had any option at all. But I didn’t have an option, so I took it, and I will not lose another job because of you. Understand?”
“I don’t want you to. Why would I?”
“I don’t know,” Gideon said. “Why did you make me lose the last one?”
Zeb couldn’t find an answer, not with the fuzz of panicshortening his breath and jangling his nerves. Gideon’s face was tense. He’d have a muscle ticcing in his neck, Zeb knew: he’d kissed it and soothed it, before.
“I haven’t come to make trouble for you,” he insisted. It sounded pathetically weak. “How could I? I had no idea you were here.” Something dawned on him. “But you’re Wynn’s secretary. You must surely have known I was coming.”
“I’ve been anticipating this delightful reunion for several weeks, yes. I’ve heard all about your letters to Wynn. He seems thrilled to have you, and I’m sure you’re thrilled to be here—”
“Are you joking? Have you noticed who else is here?”
Gideon’s jaw hardened. “Given what’s on offer, I dare say you can put up with the company.”
“What’s on offer?” Zeb asked blankly.
“Oh, for God’s sake. I don’t care if you want to crawl for this inheritance. Marry the girl, I don’t give a damn. I doubt either of you will enjoy your bargain, but it’s not my affair. All I care about is that you don’t say or do something that will ruin my life a second time. Is that too much to ask?”
He sounded purely furious, and it took Zeb’s breath entirely away for a second. “Wait. I did not come here snouting for an inheritance. I didn’t even know this Jessamine girl existed till last night, and I don’t want to marry her, or anyone.”
“I’m sure you can force yourself to it, in the circumstances.”
“Well, I’m not going to,” Zeb snapped, on a sudden wave of anger that made his skin feel hot and tight. “And I’ve no intention of speaking about you to Wynn or anyone else, or talkingto you any more than I have to, so you needn’t worry. We can just ignore each other until I leave. That will suit me very well.”
He turned on his heel and walked off, upset and hurt. Who the devil did Gideon think he was, throwing around accusations? Did he not know Zeb better than that? They’d been together for nine months! And yes, Zeb had ruined everything, but he hadn’t done it because he was scheming or acquisitive: the very opposite.
Gideon might believe he was callous or careless or culpably stupid. He had no right to think him a villain who would marry a schoolgirl for money.
Or, Zeb thought as he trudged on and cooled down, maybe he did. After all, he knew Zeb’s employment history and financial situation better than anyone but Zeb himself. And here Zeb was, sacked again, every inch the feckless wastrel Bram called him, in line for a house and fortune if he could win Jessamine’s hand. No wonder Gideon was suspicious.
And, come to that, no wonder he was afraid of Zeb costing him another job. It would only take one indiscretion, one foolish incriminating remark, and Zeb knew damned well he could be indiscreet. He blurted things out without thinking, acted without consideration. He’d spoiled everything that way. He didn’t want to do it again.
Zeb walked on, thinking about Gideon, and the anger in his voice, and of his face the evening before Zeb ruined his life. He thought about that last for some time, and then he reached a decision.
He couldn’t stay here, being reminded daily of what he’d thrown away, knowing the man he’d loved hated him, and constantly fretting that he might do something bloody stupid, which always seemed more likely to happen if he worried about it. So he was going to leave. And if that showed Gideon that he wasn’t interested in the inheritance, and he realised Zeb was truly sorry for the harm he’d done, then he’d probably feel extremely bad about what he’d said, which would serve him right.
So Zeb would go and talk to Wynn right away and let him know. But after breakfast, because he was starving.
He headed back to the house on that determination, made an excellent breakfast—the eggs and sausages were probably local and put London to shame—and went to find his cousin.
That wasn’t entirely easy. The resentful footman, the only servant he managed to track down, denied all knowledge of his master’s whereabouts. Zeb wandered the ground floor, hoping not to encounter any of his other relatives, and eventually found himself in a library.
It was double height, with a spiral stair up to a balcony that ran around the entire room. The ceiling was painted dark blue and dotted with what looked like accurate constellations to his inexpert eye; the chairs were all deep and upholstered with dark green leather that looked blissfully comfortable; the oak shelves were laden with books. Zeb turned on the spot till he felt dizzy.
He was a bookworm of the worst kind, entirely capable of losing himself in a book while gongs sounded, bells rang, and people bellowed his name. His father had used to demand whyhe couldn’t apply himself like that to his schoolwork, which Zeb had always felt missed the point to a baffling degree. There was nothing like an absorbing book; this was a room made for them, and it could be all his if he married Jessamine and inherited the house. For a moment, that actually seemed like a reasonable course of action.
There was only one painting in the room, since most of the wall space was far more usefully occupied with bookshelves. It was a portrait of a man, with a face that Zeb recognised from the frontispiece engraving of several editions, not to mention the picture hanging in his room. It was his grandfather.
Walter Wyckham was portrayed at his desk, with a manuscript in front of him and a globe to one side, turned to display the West Indies. He looked about seventy, bald like Wynn with a fringe of white hair round the sides, his face clean-shaven. He wore a smile that might have been intended to give him a look of benevolence, but Zeb couldn’t see it that way. He saw insatiable hunger in the twinkling little eyes, malicious pleasure in the curve of the lips, cruelty in the curved fingers that clutched the quill.
If Zeb were to inherit this house, he’d burn this picture before he so much as unpacked.
He plunged into an examination of the shelves rather than contemplate his grandfather further, and saw with a thrill that they held real books, not ones bought by the yard. There were plenty of reference works and histories and whatnot, but it was mostly novels. So many novels. All of Dickens, all of Trollope, allof Collins and Eliot and Mrs. Braddon and G.W.M. Reynolds, and that led him on to a remarkable selection of bound penny dreadfuls, and then a magnificent array of Gothic novels. Multiple editions of Walter Wyckham, of course. Mrs. Radcliffe, Maria Edgeworth, Clara Reeve,The Monk,Melmoth. A copy of Horace Walpole’sThe Castle of Otrantothat proved to be an autographed first edition: he held it with reverent care in case the pages somehow fell apart in his hands.
