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He growled in frustration, knowing he couldn’t think about that right now.
As he approached the front steps, a groom appeared to take his tired horse, and the massive front door creaked open to reveal Sanford, his father’s elderly butler, who had been ruling the servants of Stonebridge with an iron fist for as long as Drake could remember.
“Master Mandrake,” the old man intoned gravely as he took Drake’s coat. “The marquess wasn’t expecting you. He’s indisposed at the moment. Perhaps he will see you in the morning.”
Drake stared the man down, no longer a child to be put in his place. “I’ve come all this way to speak to him. I won’t be put off until tomorrow. Please inform my father that I am here.”
The butler looked like he wanted to protest further but finally nodded. “It will take me awhile to get him ready to receive you.”
“That’s fine,” Drake said, though he was surprised to hear that. He’d never known the marquess to be abed at this time of day. He’d known the old man’s health was failing but hadn’t thought it this bad. “I’ll be in the study when he’s ready.”
The butler strode stiffly away, and Drake made his way to the room where his father had always spent the majority of his time when Drake was growing up. He was even more surprised to find the room dark and musty, a fine coat of dust covering every surface. His consternation grew. Was his father gravely ill? Too ill to attend to the estate business? If so, it was more important than he’d even imagined to get the old man to agree to have Danbury committed. If the marquess died, and Danbury inherited the title and power that came with it, he’d be unstoppable.
He lit a few lamps and made himself presentable in the mirror, knowing his father wouldn’t care that he’d ridden all day to get here. He’d still expect him to be well-groomed.
Nearly an hour had passed before the butler reappeared, looking even more morose if such a thing was possible. “The marquess will see you in his bedroom. He’s not feeling well enough to come downstairs.”
Drake nodded abruptly, his concern for his father growing. He’d never been close with the man, but the thought of the old man being gravely ill made him feel like the child who’d lost his mother all over again. He’d somehow thought his father would always be here, glowering and disapproving, running their family’s vast empire.
“What is wrong with my father?” he asked Sanford as they climbed the curved staircase toward the second floor.
The butler looked at him askance. “It’s not my place to say, sir.”
Biting back a growl of displeasure for the man’s evasiveness, Drake tried to maintain his composure. “No one alerted me that he was ill. If there’s something wrong, you need to warn me before I go in there.”
“He’s not been well for months,” the butler admitted grudgingly. “Anything else, you’ll have to learn from the man himself.”
How did the marquess manage to engender such loyalty in his servants? Drake supposed it was because he put the estate above all else, even his children.
Realizing he wasn’t going to get anything else out of the butler, he sighed and followed the old man down the corridor to his father’s bedroom. As a child, this room had been completely off-limits. He wasn’t certain that he’d ever seen the inside of the room actually.
As expected for the master of the estate, the bedroom was cavernous, with heavy, masculine furniture, and an enormous fireplace. A fire roared in the grate, making the room oppressively hot. The dark blue drapes were drawn, and besides the fire, only a few oil lamps lit the large space. His father had not thought electricity worth the expense, neither at his country estate nor even his London townhouse.
As Drake edged farther inside, he could just make out a frail form under the blankets on the elevated bed in the center of the room.
“Mandrake,” his father said, his voice still bombastic, even though his frame had withered. “What is the meaning of your visit?”
Crossing to his father’s side, Drake gazed down at the man who he’d once feared so greatly, surprised to find that he’d become an old man. His face was lined and gray, and dark circles ringed his sunken eyes.
“Can a son not visit his father?” Drake asked, a bit stung by his father’s lack of welcome, even though long experience should have made him expect it.
“What do you want?” the old man snapped. “Are you here for money?”
That stung even worse. “When have I ever asked you for money?”
The marquess frowned, obviously still suspicious.
With a sigh, Drake pulled a chair close to the bed and sat down. “I’m here to talk to you about Mortimer,” he said, realizing his father had no use for pleasantries.
A flicker of unmistakable fear lit his father’s eyes. “Why? What’s he done?”
“What do you think he’s done?” Drake countered, wondering why that was the marquess’s first question regarding his golden boy. Had he known about Mortimer’s deviant proclivities all along? He suddenly realized that he probably had. How else had his brother gotten away with this for so long? He could easily see his father making any problems Mortimer had disappear.
“Just tell me why you’re here,” his father groused. “I don’t have time for this nonsense.”
The marquess obviously had all the time in the world, but Drake was already sickened by the conversation. “He’s killing women in London. At least three. Probably far more. They’re calling him The Viper.”
The marquess closed his eyes. “There’s no proof. And they’re whores. No one will miss them.”
