She threw her hands in the air. “What of it? I agree it’s hardly laudable to use their daughter’s marriage to a wealthy member of the peerage as a means of financial gain, but neither is it beyond the pale. Not to mention, you can afford it. Sterling, Annabelle’s peace of mind is worth far more than any moralistic high ground you might take by ignoring their request to make a point.”
“I wish to make more than a point,” he clipped out. “Annabelle’s father wishes to barter his daughter’s good name for…” he broke off with a low curse. His temper had him running off at the mouth. He had not planned on sharing details with either Annabelle or his sister. “The compensation her father demands is not financial in nature, and he’s willing to play dirty to get it. Not that it’s any of your business.”
Her self-righteous air gave way to wary curiosity. “Whatever do you mean?”
He set the letter from steward aside and contemplated the second, unopened missive. It took a moment for him to recognize the name as belonging to the local magistrate in Fenwick with whom he’d corresponded about the missing guide.
The hair on the back of his neck stood on end as if someone had walked over his grave, as his grandfather would have said. He flipped the folded parchment and thumbed off the wax seal.
“Caroline, Annabelle recounted a conversation to me once between you and your betrothed.”
“Sterling, do not attempt to fob me off by changing the subject. I fail to see how any conversation from months ago—”
He glanced up with impatience. “The discussion pertained to Gaston’s desire to join me at my club. Do you recall?”
She went quiet. “A discussion during which Annabelle was present…Yes. I do recall. You had just returned to town, and he asked if you planned to attend White’s. When I explained that you would go that very night, but that you had planned an evening with our grandfather and would, therefore, not be open to expanding your party, he became”—her expression hardened—“annoyed.”
“Entitled prig,” he muttered, unfolding the parchment to reveal a brief, penned note. He scanned it. Then scanned it again. Then carefully refolded the sheet.
Jack Blackwell, the guide who had gone missing, was dead. Found murdered.
“Well, sir? What has this conversation to do with Annabelle’s father?”
He needed to think. He’d misjudged the situation. He’d concluded the guide had murdered Annabelle’s maid and fled. He’d been only partially correct.
Good God. All this time Annabelle had been blithely going about her business while a killer roamed the streets. His overreaction last night had been anything but.
“Sterling, I asked you a question.”
He no longer had the time to indulge his sister’s curiosity. “Caroline, I will cut to the chase as I have pressing matters to attend.” He glanced toward her, hearing her sound of exasperation.
Her dark eyes flashed. “What is more important than taking care of your wife?”
Nothing. Absolutely nothing.“The bottom line is this: Gaston wanted anentréeinto White’s. A foot in the door, so to speak, because he had been assured by someone who knew beyond a shadow of doubt that he wouldnotbe offered membership, period.”
Her brows furrowed in confusion. “Someone? Who?”
“Lord Montrose.”
Her eyes widened. “Hisfather?”
He issued a brief nod.
She paled. “Was it because of something heknew?Does this have something to do with what happened that night? Wh-what Gaston attempted to do?”
He gazed at her very steadily. “That night? Again, no. Thinkothernights—plural. And not Gaston.”
“Sterling, explain yourself.”
“I am not versed in all the sordid details, but from what our grandfather once told me about Lord Montrose, we can conclude that the apple did not fall far from the tree—at least as far as the men are concerned.”
Dawning horror splashed over her pretty features. “You mean to say Gaston’s father…”
“Has a reputation that precedes him. One that made him apersona non grataat White’s or any other upstanding gentleman’s club in London. He was blackballed long before achieving membership at a gentleman’s club was even a consideration for his son.”
Her hand fluttered to her throat. “I see. But how does this pertain to the present day?”
“Lord Montrose, it seems, would very much like a membership at White’s.”
