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Chapter 24
“Is he back?” Marcus said, looking to the door as it opened. Walter stepped through first, followed by Peter and Laurie. They had both managed to dress properly for the day, though Marcus hadn’t got that far. With dawn light creeping in through the windows, he felt stuck in his study, wearing his shirt loose and his trousers barely tucked into his boots.
“No, Marcus, he isn’t,” Walter said, walking further in. Peter followed, and then Laurie closed the door behind him. “I talked to the butler a little more. He confessed that Mr Blake took a trunk with him.”
“Oh, God’s wounds!” Marcus muttered to himself and leaned forward, resting his face in his hands. With his eyes closed, he could all too easily be back in that room with Lady Violette the day before, with her kissing him, remembering the excitement of that feeling. It felt like a world away now that she was gone. “He’s not coming back, is he?”
“He didn’t leave a note, I think it unlikely,” Walter said, sitting down in a chair nearby and flicking his feet onto a stool. “I’m guessing you argued or something, judging by what a state you are in.”
“State?” Marcus said, lifting his head up from his hands.
“Well, your valet would not normally let you out of your chamber looking like that,” Walter said, pointing at him.
“I’m not that bad,” Marcus said, trying to flatten his hair.
“You look like the groundskeeper’s whippet after a bad night’s sleep,” Peter said, laughing as Laurie did too and they both moved toward other seats in the room.
“I am not that bad.” Marcus reiterated, though a glance towards a silver tray nearby where his morning coffee had been placed showed in the reflection that he was quite a mess, with the stubble on his chin growing darker.
“What did you argue about then?” Walter asked.
Marcus couldn’t answer. He looked away from his brothers at the drawings and paintings he had pinned to the walls. There was the one painting he had done of him and Lady Violette escaping the thug at the boxing match. It was a wild picture, with Lady Violette truly looking like a young man. Marcus longed to go back to the happiness of that night.
“It is not easy to explain,” he said eventually.
“I beg to differ,” Peter said with a snigger.
“What does that mean?” Walter asked, turning his attention on his younger brother. Marcus looked up to Peter, seeing the proud smile and the way he folded his arms, Marcus quirked an eyebrow, wondering if it was possible that another knew of Lady Violette’s true identity.
“I’ll be damned,” he said quietly before pinning Peter to the spot with a glare. “You knew, didn’t you?”
“Knew is a rather strong term,” Peter said, chuckling.
“Peter, you…” Marcus felt the keen stabs of anger and jumped up.
“What? I was hardly the problem, was I?” Peter said, still laughing as he ran away to escape Marcus, hiding behind a Bergère settee. Marcus grabbed a nearby cushion and threw it at Peter. It landed squarely in his face with such strength that Peter teetered back on his feet, nearly falling over. “Ha! I’m glad you only opted to throw a cushion at me.”
“Would someone please tell me what is going on?” Walter asked, looking between the two of them with exasperation.
“Why not ask him?” Marcus said wildly, gesturing at Peter. “He seems to know about it all!”
“I do not know about it all,” Peter said, trying to control his mirth. “Let’s just say…I suspected Mr Blake was not…Mr Blake.”
“What does that mean?” Walter said, sitting bolt upright in his seat.
“He said as much yesterday,” Laurie said, pointing at Peter, “but he refused to say anymore.”
“How did you know?” Marcus asked, going to follow Peter around the room again in his fury.
“God, you’re fast these days,” Peter said, still trying to make an escape. He even jumped over a low-lying coffee table to try and escape.
“How did you know, Peter?!” Marcus demanded.
“All right, calm yourself,” Peter said, spinning round and holding out his hands toward Marcus, calming him like a wild animal. “Mr Blake hardly seemed like the most masculine of men, did he?”
“No, but I’ve met plenty of more…feminine men, as you want to call it, in my time. Take a turn in London and you’ll fine dandies ten a piece, with men more interested in their hair than the next woman you meet,” Marcus said hurriedly, then he bit his lip, wanting to take back his words.
“Mr Blake was no dandy, was he?” Peter said.
