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Chapter 19
Black Jack made excellent time. The jet-black hunter ran like the wind, rarely needing much rest, though Silas made sure to stop for the night at an inn just to the north of London. It was about noon when Silas arrived at the family’s town home in London. He handed Black Jack to the groom, who met him out front.
He planned to stop in, change his clothes, and then head over to the home of the Miss Wildses, in Harley Street. He hoped that his father was in—he would be able to tell Silas the cross streets.
He paused, looking up at the damage from the fire. From the outside, he could tell that part of the home had been destroyed. The third floor, and some of the roof had been burned away. The windows looked like blackened eyes, with the glass smashed. A curtain, half-blackened, was blowing in the wind.
They were lucky, though. Several other houses on the block had been utterly decimated. They stood, like missing teeth, in ruins. It was silent as a graveyard. Usually, this street was busy, with people coming and going. Silas saw no one. Unnerved, he walked to the door, where he was met by the butler.
“Sir,” Mr. Morton said, wringing his hands nervously. “We weren’t expecting you so soon. We had only just sent word.”
Silas frowned. “What can you mean?”
“Your father—he’s dead.”
Silas stared at Mr. Morton. He couldn’t believe what he had just heard. Through his shock, in the part of his brain that was still working, he realized that he was now the Viscount of Thornbridge. It was his duty to take over the viscountcy and to lead and care for the family.
A job that I am woefully unprepared for.
His father had been in excellent health when he had left Thornbridge Manor. Silas had presumed that his father would live at least twenty years more. Perhaps, even thirty.
“What—what happened?” he finally asked.
“There was an accident, sir. Your father was on his way to his gentlemen’s club, and he was run down by a carriage.”
Silas felt all of the air knocked from his lungs. The image of his father being trampled by a pair of horses pulling someone’s Stanhope Gig would torment him for a long while.
“Come inside, sir,” Mr. Morton said kindly. “Let me get you a brandy.”
Silas could only nod. The world was a blur through his tears. He followed the butler inside, like a lost sheep. He didn’t know what to do. He simply couldn’t think.
