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Chapter Thirty-Nine
The quality of mercy is not strain’d. It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath: it is twice blest; it blesseth him that gives and him thattakes.
—Shakespeare,The Merchant of Venice
Half an hourlater, Nicholas and Catherine stood at the top of the stairs. Sadie had been waiting in Catherine’s room when he’d gone to grab a gown. He was grateful for her assistance. As much as he knew how to undress a woman, he was not entirely sure he’d remember all the items required for one to be fully clothed nor where to find them all.
Catherine’s head ached slightly, so she had not wanted her hair piled. It flowed down her back, her burgundy tresses shining after Sadie’s careful, meticulous brushing. The locks far too tempting to resist, he reached out, caressing a tendril. Love warmed her eyes to its deepest foliage. She reached up and placed her hand on his.
“I remember Isaac from our childhood,” she said quietly. He tried to pull his hand back, but she grasped it tightly. “You do too. Don’t deny it. He adored Daniel even then.”
The thought was revolting. He yanked his hand free. “Don’t try to—”
She pressed warm fingers against his lips. “I’m asking you to listen. That is all. In memory of our youth. All of us—you, me, Daniel, Laurence…and Isaac. Listen before you pronounce judgment. Please. It is all I ask.”
A single tear escaped, trickling a path down her delicate cheek. He wiped it away, then stared down as he rubbed the moisture between his thumb and forefinger. Catherine had cried too many tears, for too many men. He could halt these ones at least.
“For you, I will listen.”
“Thank you.” Her sigh of relief was worth whatever effort it was going to take not to strangle the damn canary.
She refused to be carried again, so he held her arm firmly while they descended the stairs, pausing every few steps to allow her a moment to catch her breath. He was as relieved as she was when they reached the marble atrium. Lights shone from the library, but it was silent. He steered her to its doors.
At the threshold, they took in the scene. Thornwood stood by the terrace windows, staring out. Nicholas had no doubt he kept an eye on Isaac’s reflection in the window. Thornwood was no fool to leave himself unprotected or a man unguarded. A large fire crackled, casting ample light on the blackguard himself. Isaac heaved a theatrical sigh and lifted a glass to his lips.
Anger percolated through Nicholas. He released Catherine and stormed into the room, ripping the glass from Isaac’s hand and throwing it into the fireplace. It shattered satisfyingly, and the brandy ignited a small fireball, releasing a blast of heat.
“You let the damned coxcomb drink my brandy like some guest?” His temples pulsated, ready to burst.
Thornwood turned, unperturbed. “He was incoherent. I merely sought to cease his hysterics.” He looked pointedly at the man sitting passively staring at the fire despite Nicholas’s own dramatics.
Embarrassment met anger, and Nicholas’s cheeks heated accordingly. He strolled to the table by the bookcase, where the brandy had been amply replenished, and poured two glasses. He moved to Catherine, who had settled on the sofa. She slid off her slippers and tucked her feet under her skirts, leaning back into the corner of the settee, sitting oddly ramrod straight. She took the glass, a quick smile of gratitude softening her worried features.
He leaned against the mantel, staring at the man who had killed his brother. A bloody cherub sent from the devil. The popinjay’s baby blues looked up at him at that moment. Self-pity soaked in tears.
“Master Nick,” he started, his eyes watering.
What kind of man put on such a show? Well, Nicholas was not Daniel. He would not fall prey to sympathy. Where had it gotten Daniel? Dead at Isaac’s hands, that was where. He could cry a waterfall, and Nicholas would remain unmoved. By rights, Isaac should lie lifeless in the woods.
Nicholas looked to Thornwood, who just cocked his head to one side in question. Apparently he was as confused by their catch as Nicholas. He sank to the sofa beside Catherine, glaring at Isaac, who sat in the chair only recently occupied by Thornwood.
“Why?” It was all Nicholas could think of to ask. Isaac did not move or indicate he’d even heard Nicholas. He simply stared at the fire.
“Why,damn you?Why?” His voice rose despite his desire to temper it. Catherine gripped his arm, squeezing tightly.
“Tell him,” came Fredericks’s voice.
Nicholas had not heard Fredericks enter. Nan stood by his side, wringing her apron. Langdon flanked the other side, his arm held tightly to his chest by a sling.
“Sit down, man, before you fall down.” Nicholas gestured to the other chair, and Langdon sunk into its plush depth.
Fredericks continued to stare at Isaac, not glancing at anyone else. Nan watched Catherine, her apprehension written on her face.
“Tell him, Isaac. All of it. Let God’s will be done.” The old man’s face remained passive, his tone neutral.
Isaac looked up from the fire, into the eyes of his grandfather. Fresh tears trickled as he held his gaze. He visibly shuddered and then turned to Catherine.
“I am sorry, my lady, for any harm that has come at my hands.”
