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The combination of the knife and his rough accent seemed to be enough to temper the stranger’s aggression, the angry flush on his face paling. Arthur was only slightly impressed when the man wrenched his hand away and glared. “You are no gentleman.”
“My parents’ marriage license seems to disagree.” He gestured to another chair. “Do sit and explain why you’ve been harassing my employees.”
The man was younger than he’d initially thought, looking no older than twenty or so. Though his countenance remained grave, Arthur could see the nerves glittering in his brown eyes and wasn’t surprised when he settled into the chair without argument. “Fine,” the man muttered.
Arthur twirled the knife before slipping it back into his pocket and returning to his own seat. He crossed a calf over his knee and leaned back, looking the perfect picture of the disinterested earl he now was. “Who are you?”
“William Tremore.” Mr. Tremore crossed his arms with a petulant frown.
“Another relative, then?” Arthur replied, not managing to suppress a sigh of irritation.
“I was supposed to be the earl,” Tremore replied, glaring at him for all he was worth. So this was the distant cousin Dr. Hatly had mentioned at dinner.
Arthur rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes. A lowborn rat like myself has inherited over your exalted person. A tragedy for all involved.”
“I care nothing for your breeding. My father was a solicitor, and the family resented me almost as much as they despise you.”
“Then why the aggression? Or are you merely enraged at losing the title?”
“Because you don’t care about Renwood at all!” Tremore banged a fist on the table for emphasis, though Arthur didn’t so much as flinch. He’d dealt with far more belligerent men than this whelp.
“Keep your voice down,” he replied icily and glanced about the room. Thankfully, the innkeeper had shuffled off to the yard after handing Arthur the letters, but one couldn’t be too careful of prying ears.
“Why are you hiding it?” Tremore barked.
“Hiding what?” Francesca’s voice sounded from the door, and he looked to see her standing uncertainly on the threshold.
Blast.
**
Francesca stared between Arthur and the strange gentleman simmering in the chair next to him. She’d caught only snippets of their conversation; something about Renwood and Arthur not caring. And then there was that last shouted statement by the unknown man. Whatever the conversation had been about, Francesca had a feeling it was at the heart of the mystery behind Arthur’s presence at Festoon Hall.
“Nothing, Lady Francesca,” Arthur replied smoothly to her question. “The young lad here is overwrought and mistaken.”
Not believing him in the slightest, Francesca directed her attention to the other man, whose glower only seemed to worsen at Arthur’s words. “Who are you, sir?”
He stood and performed a jerky bow. “William Tremore, My Lady.”
“The Tremores of Renwood, I assume,” Kitty concluded from behind her. The duchess stopped beside Francesca, her head tilting in consideration.
“The very same. And you are?” He looked at the two of them with hostility, no doubt due to their obvious association with Arthur.
“That is the Duchess of Ashford you are speaking to, Tremore,” Arthur drawled. His fingers twitched on the table, and Francesca wondered if he was nervous.
Mr. Tremore went red. “Begging pardon, Your Grace.”
Arthur shuffled the letters he’d been holding. “If you two could excuse us a moment, we have some things to settle.”
Francesca wanted to protest, for she suspected the answers to her questions were within her grasp, but there was no reason to pry that wouldn’t upset him. The atmosphere between the two men was far too charged for anything of value to be gained, and so she nodded. Arthur could no doubt handle himself, but worry wormed its way into her, regardless. “If you are sure.”
“We will be fine.” He looked placidly at Mr. Tremore, though the malice in his eyes was chilling to behold. “Won’t we, Tremore?”
The young man jerked his chin, putting on a brave face. “Yes.”
Francesca wondered if it was Arthur she should truly be worried about. but Kitty put a hand on her shoulder before she could say anything. “Let us be off. Best to leave menfolk alone when they are being silly.” She waved to Arthur. “We’ll be heading back to the house. Don’t be too long now.”
“Goodbye, then,” Francesca said, not encouraged in the slightest by the bland wave Arthur gave in return. Their walk to the village had been so pleasant, and she mourned the loss of what had become a wonderful morning.
