“To whom was he speaking?”
“I don’t know. The shrubbery was thick. I tried to work my way through, to give the appearance of being well in my cups and innocently stumbling upon them, but by the time I made it to the area where I thought the voice might have come from, only your father was there. What I remember most was his silhouette, head bent, shoulders slumped as though he carried a great weight. But I continued on as though inebriated, weaving and giggling and acting like a ninny until I fell against him, and he caught me. Believing me sloshed, he kindly escorted me back to Podmore’s residence and then to his carriage so he could provide me with a ride home. I took advantage of the journey to begin to establish a rapport. By the time we arrived here, he seemed quite smitten and asked if he could take me to the opera. As I mentioned last night, he never made any sexual overtures that I had to fend off, but then we had only a little over two months together before he was arrested and subsequently hanged.”
“You could have misheard. It might have been someone else speaking behind those bushes. You could have been wrong about him.”
“I wasn’t wrong. It was your father whom I overheard discussing murdering his sovereign. Was I to ignore it and hope he didn’t have the wherewithal to succeed in his endeavors? Short of inviting him to my bed, I was determined to endear myself to him so he might take me into his confidence and confess more.”
He loathed her at that moment for her certainty, and despised his father for his actions that had ruined so many lives. “Go to the devil.”
With a purpose in his stride, he marched across the room.
“Where are you going?” she called out after him.
He ignored her, fought to ignore the pain tearing through his soul, shredding it until he feared it might disappear completely. He stormed out through the front door, slamming it in his wake. He had to get away from her, away from the truth of his father.
He walked and walked and walked. In spite of the late hour and the miscreants about, no one bothered him. He suspected he had the look of a man on a rampage, ready to do bodily harm. He had a strong urge to strike something. If he still had a membership in a club, he’d go to one with a boxing ring and pummel someone, be pummeled. Give blows. Take blows. He wanted to punish, be punished. What a fool he’d been, all this time holding out hope that he was on a gallant mission to save his family’s honor when there was no honor to be saved.
He reached the Fair and Spare, closed up for the night, except for a dim glow coming from a solitary window. His brother’s office. Searching the ground, Marcus found a couple of pebbles and tossed them at the glass. Soon after Griff, haloed by lamplight, looked out, then disappeared. A few minutes later, he opened the door and stepped onto the stoop. “What’s wrong?”
“He was involved. Father. In the plot to kill Victoria.”
“You doubted it?”
“Did you not?”
“I was the spare, not his favorite son. He never liked me, and I never liked him. That he might be involved in something so atrocious did not surprise me. I thought you wanted to find the others responsible, see them pay.”
“I was hoping in discovering them, I would determine he wasn’t truly part of it.” More fool he. Even as his hopes regarding his father’s innocence had begun to dim under the onslaught of information, he’d held on to the tiniest shred of belief.
“You look like you could use a drink. Come on up.”
“I shouldn’t.”
“No one is going to see you this time of night or learn that we’ve been in contact.”
“I suppose one glass wouldn’t hurt. If your wife’s not waiting for you.”
“She’s at the cottage. I’ll be heading off to be with her once I’m done here.” Griff had ensured Kathryn acquired her grandmother’s cottage by the sea in Kent, and they spent a good bit of their time there.
“One drink.” He followed his brother inside and up the stairs to his apartment. Griff had made something of himself and something for himself. He had a fulfilling life and a woman who loved him. Marcus was glad Griff had found happiness.As had Althea. He suspected it was a state that would always elude him.
He took the glass Griff offered and settled into a chair near the window while his brother took the one opposite and studied him thoroughly before asking, “So how did you confirm he was involved?”
“She overheard Father talking with someone about the plot.”
“She?”
“Esme. The one who left me the missive.”
Griff arched a brow. “You mean Father’s—”
“She wasn’t his mistress,” Marcus interrupted because he didn’t want to hear his brother associating a crude word with Esme. Strange how he suddenly felt an overriding need to protect her reputation. “Yes, he kept company with her, but they were never intimate.”
“Then why did he say she was his mistress?”
“We can only speculate but assume it was to keep others off the scent of what he was truly doing. If he wasn’t about, where did you think he was?”
Griff clenched his jaw. “Withher. Do you think Mother knew the truth of it?”
