“You’ve got visitors.” Dalton frowned as he marched back in. “Two of them. Shall I let them in?”
“That entirely depends on who they are and how long they intend to stay.” The only people who called on Christmas Day were either family, which he did not have, or do-gooders rattling the collection plate for charity. Or carol singers, he supposed as he bit into a sublime square of shortbread, which he wouldn’t mind at all. Especially if they were atrocious.
“They wouldn’t give their names nor state their business neither, but said it was a matter of grave import that they had to deliver to you in person.”
Then they were definitely do-gooders. “Grab my purse and I’ll allow them to rinse me of all my coin before I depart.” This was the season of goodwill, after all. “As they are bound to be after money.”
“They’re after something, that’s for certain, but my instincts tell me it’ll be more than a few shiny coins these fellas want. If you want my opinion…”
Giles stayed him with his hand. “I really don’t.”
“They’re a pair of ne’er-do-wells. That’s why I left them stood on the doorstep and locked the door behind me.”
“I sincerely doubt ne’er-do-wells work at Christmas, Dalton, any more than you do. You’ve clearly been spending too much time with Miss Diana if you are suspicious enough of a couple of gentlemen callers to batten down the hatches on a day like today.”
“I never said they were gentlemen neither, Your Grace, and I’ll fetch my pistol alongside your purse, if you don’t mind, just as a precaution. One of them, the younger one, talks with the same funny twang as Lord Fareham’s father-in-law, Mr. Peabody.” Hepulled a ferocious face that warned he expected skulduggery just for that.
“Last time I checked, being an American wasn’t a crime, Dalton.”
“Says the man who didn’t have to fight the blighters in 1812!”
“Of course I didn’t have to fight them in 1812!” Sometimes his manservant’s strange logic made absolutely no sense. “Because I was only…” Giles did a quick sum on his fingers. “Seventeen and still growing up in Shropshire! And you didn’t fight them, either, because I know for a fact the navy pensioned you off after Trafalgar.” He pointed to Dalton’s scrimshaw leg. “You’re unfit for service—naval or otherwise.”
“Shows what you know because I was a merchant seaman for the East India Company during that war, and part of the crew of theNautiluswhen those damn Yankees on thePeacockcaptured us. They locked us in the brig, even though the blasted war had been over for six months. Killed a couple of my shipmates in the skirmish. I’ll never forgive them for it. But that was in 1815, not ’12. Same war, though—technically.”
“And one of my visitors was on thePeacockand murdered one of your friends?” Thanks to his late night, Giles was struggling to follow.
“I couldn’t say, but I recognize the older one from somewhere. I might forget where I put my leg each night but never forget a face.” A fascinating insight into his butler’s strange mind, which frankly boggled his.
“Right, then…” Giles huffed as he frowned, completely confused and bemused by all the kerfuffle. “Why don’t I go speak to them and find out for certain before you shoot someone on mydoorstep?” Perhaps then he could enjoy his biscuits and what was left of the morning in peace.
He marched out of the dining room with Dalton limping behind him, flung open his front door expecting to confront a couple of plate-rattling do-gooders, then froze.
Because he recognized one of the faces, too—but only in paint.
“Well, if it isn’t my long-lost nephew.”
The face was older than the one in the portrait, quite a bit fatter, and the once golden hair dulled by time. But the likeness was unmistakable.
“Uncle Gervais?”
Olivia had been right. They were the coldest eyes Giles had ever seen. Bright blue but flat. Like the dead eyes of a corpse or the menacing stare of a shark. His gaze flicked to the younger man. He couldn’t be more than twenty, but his golden hair and good looks matched those of the portrait hanging in Harpenden Hall, branding him as this man’s son despite the green eyes. Intense green eyes that swirled with enough emotion for the both of them.
“I am indeed, Giles, and this is your cousin Galahad.” AnotherGfor the Sinclair family tree. Diana would find that amusing. “We came to visit your father at Christmastide, but alas, it seems we were too late… my sincere condolences.” There was nothing sincere or condoling in his scathing tone.
Without being asked, Gervais Sinclair stepped over the threshold and swept his gaze up and down over Giles. “You’re the spit of him. A mirror image of dour old Gerald in his prime—you even have his height.” Stood too close, he craned his neck up to smile at him while he scrutinized his face. “Yet I see nothing of your mother in you. Nothing at all. Odd that, don’t you think?” And just like that, Giles knew why the man was here.
“Is it?” He feigned nonchalance even though his mind was racing. “Don’t all children favor one parent over another?” He made a point of staring at the cousin he had not known he possessed. “Young Galahad here is the spit of you in your youth. Or at least he is the spit of the only portrait of you we have at Harpenden Hall.” He was being too jovial. Too defensive. So he held his ground, pulled himself to his full height and folded his arms. Became the duke this unwelcome visitor apparently knew he wasn’t. “I believe my father had all the others destroyed after you absconded from justice because he couldn’t bear to look at you. Kidnap, wasn’t it? Of an heiress, too, which I believe is a capital offense? Has that outstanding warrant been canceled?”
Gervais’s expression hardened. “All scurrilous lies and falsehoods that would have been dismissed had your father intervened as he should have and defended my good name.”
“Perhaps he knew he could not defend the indefensible?”
“More like he was too tightfisted to hire me a lawyer and wanted an excuse to cut me off without a farthing.”
“From what I have heard, you were disowned by my grandfather long before that.”
“For youthful high spirits? For sowing my wild oats?” Gervais smiled as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. “From what I’ve read about you, you’ve done much the same. So did Gerald, of that I can attest. But he was hard like that, your grandfather. Cruel, callous, and unforgiving. Even my pompous brother struggled to meet his ridiculous expectations of how a Sinclair should behave.” Which beggared belief when the duke had clearly been a chip off the old block.
