“Are you able to come with me this morning, Christopher? I would like this to be over and done with as soon as possible. Then I can go home to my wife.”
And forget about my father.
Christopher rose from the sofa. “I shall get my coat. I have a personal interest in this sad and sorry state finally coming to an end. The sooner the earl knows you, his son and rightful heir is alive, the sooner he will stop badgering me. Flynn, I want you to be able to live your life as you so richly deserve, and that means never again suffering under his violent hand.”
His cousin left the room.
Flynn got to his feet, and his uncle came to stand at his side. Charles put a hand on his shoulder. “Take care when you go to see my brother. I don’t expect he planned for you to do a Lazarus and come back from the dead. Your reappearance will likely be problematic for him.”
Life on the hard streets had taught Flynn some cold lessons. The first being that one should always be prepared for the worst. For enemies to suddenly appear out of the darkness. And for friends to turn false.
He patted the right side of his coat, checking that the short blade was where it should be, readily at hand. The knife had been a gift from Matteo, who, having seen the small weapon Flynn had been carrying for protection, had decided he was in need of a better, sharper one.
In his left jacket pocket lay the other knife. The one which had saved his life on more than one occasion. The new blade might be the more elegant weapon, but Flynn knew this knife like an old friend. An effective, deadly friend.
Besides, two lethal weapons are better than one.
“I will protect myself if my father seeks to finish his dirty work.”
He was hoping that if the earl saw that he was accompanied by Christopher, he might stay his hand. But Flynn wasn’t taking any chances.
ChapterForty-Nine
His reception at Bramshaw House was as he expected. The butler, who was at first shocked to his boots at seeing Flynn, quickly regained his composure and refused to let him in. It was only when Christopher put his boot in the door and offered a charming smile that the servant finally relented and stood aside.
“Thank you,” said Flynn, marching inside and heading for the stairs. He didn’t give a damn if the butler went in search of the earl. He didn’t intend to linger in the house for a minute longer than was necessary.
Christopher went to follow, but Flynn stopped him. “If you go and speak to the earl, you might be able to buy me some precious time.”
His cousin nodded and hastened after the butler.
Flynn reached his old bedroom and stepped inside. The door wasn’t locked. The air in the room was dank and musty. From the look of things, the fire hadn’t been lit in a long time. The jacket he had left on the bed, intending to mend a hole in the pocket, was exactly where he set it down a year and a half ago. Nothing had been touched.
It was as if his father had simply closed the door on his son’s life and put it all in the past.
He paused for a moment, taking in the room. There was a thick layer of dust on the mantlepiece, and he dragged his finger through it. “Was this meant to be my tomb?” Without a body to bury, his old room had been left as a shrine. But this was a place at which no one had visited or prayed.
Stirring from his thoughts. Flynn hurried to the dresser. After pulling the drawer open, he snatched up a few books and an old, broken pocket watch. He silently cursed himself for not having thought to bring a satchel or bag. Not that there was much for him to carry.
He had just picked up his old journal from the side of his bed when the door crashed open.
“What the devil are you doing? Who are you! Thief! Robber! Fiend!” The earl stormed into the room. In the hallway lingered the dogs. They had the good sense not to follow their master.
Flynn rose to his full height. “My lord, I am here to collect a few meager possessions of mine. I won’t be but a minute, and then I shall be out of your house. And your life.” He still addressed his father in the same manner he always had, but he no longer feared his sire.
Their gazes met, and as they did, an evil grin appeared on the earl’s lips. “This is my son’s room. My son, Flynn, who was most cruelly murdered. Who are you to come into my house and try to steal from the dead?”
A tired sigh escaped Flynn. “You didn’t succeed in killing me. I would suggest that you let me finish here. If you do, I shall try and forget that you are a foul beast.”
The earl let out a roar and lunged for the fire poker. In one swift motion, he had picked it up and smashed Flynn across the chest. Flynn staggered back.
“My son is dead. You are an imposter. Die!”
In the past, Flynn would have yielded. Would have taken the beating. He’d had years of it. His father’s thrashings. Berating. Abuse.
The earl was right about one thing—the night he had stabbed his son, the Flynn Cadnam of old had died. The man who now stood in his place was stronger. Braver. And not prepared to yield.
As Earl Bramshaw swung the poker a second time, Flynn caught it. He tore it from his father’s grasp and tossed it behind him. It fell to the floor with a clatter. “Leave me be. As I said, I will be taking my things and going. If you let Christopher and I depart without further violence, this can all end here and now.”
