The man pursed his lips, then let out a ragged sigh. “It’s rather hard to put into words. I think it might be better if your lordship came and saw for himself.”
Grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair, Gideon followed the butler out the study.
* * *
The Duke and Duchess of Mowbray’s private apartments were situated on the top floor of Mowbray House. The front windows of the drawing room overlooked Berkeley Square, affording the space abundant light, coupled with a commanding view of the immaculate gardens below. The red-, white-, and gold-striped curtains were rarely drawn.
The moment Gideon followed the butler into the room, he was immediately struck by how dark everything was; there was barely a speck of light. “Why are the curtains drawn in the middle of the day?”
“His Grace commanded them to be closed. I offered to bring some more candles in, but he said he wished the drawing room to remain without light.”
Gideon’s gaze traced the black outline of the door to the adjoining master suite. His parents’ private bedroom. A room no Kembal child had ever been permitted to enter.
“Has my father left his room today?” He not only hated hearing the fear in his voice, but the certainty of the answer he was about to receive.
“No, my lord. He called for pen and paper in the middle of the night. Then, just after seven o’clock this morning, he asked for more paper.”
The duke was writing. That might not be such a bad thing. He could simply have decided that he had business matters which required his attention. It would take some of the weight off Gideon’s shoulders.
Yes, that could be a good sign. He is thinking of something other than wallowing in grief and self-pity over the loss of Mama.
“Why are you so concerned over some letters?” asked Gideon.
The winter’s morning light filtering through the cracks in the curtains, framed the lines of worry on the butler’s face. “As I said, I think it best if your lordship goes and sees for himself.”
Gideon nodded. If there was one thing the past month had taught him, it was to not be surprised at anything which happened. His long-held assumptions about life and his family had already been obliterated. Whatever this latest issue, he had little choice other than to meet it head on. What remained of the Kembal family was relying on him.
“Thank you. I shall go and speak to my father.” He started across the room, headed for the duke’s bedroom, then stopped. “Has he eaten anything this morning?”
“I left him a plate of freshly baked salmon and eggs a little while ago. When I set the food down, he barely acknowledged me. That was when I thought it prudent to come and find you, Lord Holwell.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that you care about my father’s well-being. And your discretion is valued.”
As the butler headed into the hallway, Gideon steeled himself for what lay beyond the door of his parents’ bedroom.I must be strong. The family is depending on me to see us through this disaster.
The drum of duty beat constantly in his head.This. Task. Falls. To. Me.
The moment he caught sight of his father, Gideon uttered a curse against his mother. “You selfish, unfeeling woman. You must know what this is doing to him.”
The Duke of Mowbray was seated on the floor, his travelling writing desk arranged in front of him. The crumpled state of his attire spoke of a man who had slept in his clothes.
Or have you slept?
Gideon narrowed his eyes. Was that the same shirt his father had been wearing for the past two days? The wine stain on the front looked familiar. The duke’s valet must have finally given up the battle.
Clifford Kembal was normally one of the best-dressed men in London. His wife had made it her business to ensure that her husband was always clothed in the finest of fabrics and wearing the latest of styles. Even the legendary arbiter of men’s fashion, Beau Brummell, at the height of his fame and influence, had tipped his lid to the Duke of Mowbray.
The man who sat slouched, pen in hand, was a shadow of his former self. The duke had lost a good deal of weight over the past month. His normally ruddy and healthy cheeks were pale and sunken. Gideon feared for his sire’s health.
How did it all go so wrong for my parents?
His father was busily scribbling something on paper and didn’t acknowledge his son as he came to stand before him.
“Father?”
No reply.
Gideon bent and, placing his hand gently under Clifford’s chin, lifted his head. As their gazes met, the first sign of recognition sparked in his father’s pale blue eyes.
