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“It might not have been a duel,” Nigel had said later, once they were in comfortable rooms and Harriet had served them crocks of stew. Charles sat on Nigel’s bed as he paced before a small fire in the dusty hearth.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, did anyone see it?”
“Mr. Lester didn’t say.”
“He would have said if they had.”
“I don’t think he has any reason to lie.”
“That is not what I mean,” said Nigel. “Think about it this way—how could you kill me in a duel?”
Smirking, Charles shrugged. “Sometimes, I have wanted to kill you, whether through a duel or in another way.”
Unlike Nigel, he most likelycouldkill someone; after leaving Glasgow, he had ventured south and fell in with a gaggle of cutpurses and a few cutthroats, all of them revolving around the less illustrious areas of London under the auspices of an older gentleman called only “Mac”.
Mac was surely not his real name. He spoke as though he had lived everywhere and nowhere, and wielded authority as a benevolent but harsh grandfather, taking a tithe of sorts from all who allied themselves with him. He knew everyone important who had money, secrets, and pressure points, and made certain to exercise his influence on all three. From Mac and those who worked for or with him, Charles had learned much that traditional schooling would never teach him.
Unlike some, he’d gone through enough education to be literate and able to complete sums, perhaps to the level of being able to help operate a business. That was Mr. Maclean’s favored plan for him and Nigel, with Nigel slated to inherit and Charles meant to help Nigel with the day-to-day business of being a merchant.
At the time, he did not want to be indebted to his mother’s husband, the man who seemed to be accepting him only because of her.
In a manner of speaking, Charles helpedsomeonewith a business, though admittedly not in the way his mother or Mr. Maclean would support. At least he’d had the foresight to do it under a false name. Then he met the prior Duke of Welburn—elder brother of the present Lord Valencourt. Rather than succumb to blackmail at Mac’s hand, the duke had offered Charles a proposition. His service and his silence.
Charles had grown tired of the demimonde. He accepted, only to realize too late that the duke was a cold man whose tastes ran along the more perverse side.
Nigel had laughed and said, “I don’t think I buy the story. What if your father made it up?”
“Why on earth would he do that?”
“I don’t know. I just have a feeling.”
Charles tried to remember their conversation from the night before as Nigel roused him. They did not arrive at any solid conclusions. Nigel was taken with the idea that there had been no duel, no reason for Ullinn House to be haunted at all.
He posited that Mr. Mason had wanted to be left alone.
Yes,Charles wanted to say.He wanted to be left alone because he felt so badly about casting me out.But there had to be more than Charles was seeing.
He acknowledged that. Perhaps Nigel could help him divine it more clearly.
If he was more inclined to think charitably, he would admit that no man would leave property to a bastard whom he hated.
“Charles,” said Nigel. “Let us go and see what Ullinn House is hiding. I wager it is nothing, but the sheer strangeness of it all has me wondering.”
“Fine,” said Charles. He yawned. “Let us go.”
