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CHAPTER4
Slade handed the reins of his horse to a young ostler as he pulled up in front of the door and was met by Cain. “Can you see my horse is fed and watered?”
“Yes, my lord,” the footman returned.
Taking the steps to his home two at a time, he opened the door before Norman could do so.
“My lord, welcome home,” the tall greying butler said, accepting Slade’s caped coat with white-gloved hands. “His Grace wishes to see you, my lord. And there was a missive delivered for you an hour ago.”
“A missive?” Slade wondered if it was from Latham.
“Yes, my lord.” The older man picked up a silver salver from a hall table and held it out for Slade.
Slade glanced at the sealed note before tucking it into this waistcoat pocket and proceeding up the stairs. “Are my mother and sister at home?”
“They are, my lord. I believe they are enjoying tea in the solarium.”
“Thank you, Norman.”
As he reached his brother’s apartments, he realized that Graham had not moved his things to Father’s rooms yet. He knocked on the door.
“Come in.” His brother’s voice was weaker than normal. Slade was grateful he was awake. He might not have woken him otherwise.
“Slade, it is great to have you home, brother,” Graham said, sitting up and trying to fix his pillow behind him.
“Your Grace, allow me,” his valet said. The man fluffed up the pillow and removed the tray of soup and toast Graham had just finished.
“Did I interrupt your midday meal?” Slade asked.
“No, as you can see. It held limited appeal. Bone broth and toasted bread. I needed to eat, or I would not have bothered myself. You know I hate soup.”
“I do,” Slade said slowly. He studied his brother, his forehead furrowed with worry at his brother’s weak appearance. When Graham lifted his hand, Slade noticed it was with great effort. “I have only met with Wortle, and the man is not exactly forthcoming with any actual information. I am afraid I exacted my temper on him.” He turned to his brother’s valet, who was anxiously wringing his hands. “That will be all, Conners. I will ring you when I leave.”
“Very good, my lord.” The man picked up the tray of food scraps and departed the room, closing the room gently behind him.
“Conners is worried about me,” Graham said, as the door closed. “He fears my injuries are great. The man is fussier about my health than I would want to credit him. He can exhaust me,” he said with a slow exhale.
Slade recognized frustration and fatigue on his brother’s face. Conners had been with him for years. “How do you feel?”
His brother turned and looked at the drape-covered windows for a minute.” Honestly, I have never felt this bad in my life. The surgeon removed a piece of metal that had pierced my gut.” He motioned towards his stomach. “I cannot recall much.”
Slade’s heart lurched. Stomach wounds were always dangerous. Graham looked very banged up. “Are you running a fever?”
“I cannot seem to get beyond one. At night it is worse.” The duke fidgeted with the edge of his covers as he spoke. “Have you spoken to Mother?”
“I have. She misses Father and is anxious about you. I was glad to hear she and Tabetha were taking tea in the solarium. That’s a good sign.” Worried about his mother’s ability to accept the death of a son on the heels of her much-adored husband, Slade struggled with how to approach the discussion with Graham. “She looks frail.” After a moment of silence, Slade cleared his throat, determined to discuss what Graham wanted to avoid. “Wortle showed you intend to fake your death.” He narrowed his gaze. “Mother may not be able to handle that. What has you convinced it is the only way to draw out the killer?”
Graham’s face paled. “I worry about Mother, as well. But we must convince the cutthroat I am gone. My gut tells me Father was targeted, although he had no enemies of which I am aware. Outside of our household, no one knew I would be in that coach,” Graham rasped.
“Father did nothing to deserve such a brutal attack. The villagers loved him. Like you, I cannot think of any enemies he had. Could it be an enemy of yours—someone from your past?” Slade arched a brow.
“Father knew of my work, and so you know, I had resigned. I have racked my brain to think of anyone that could want the duke dead. It makes no sense. I will do this horrible thing only because I have no suspects.” His brother sounded exhausted.
“So, you plan to go through with this.” It was not a question. “Are you sure the nightshade is reversible?”
“Doctor Fellows says it is. He plans to monitor it closely. My wounds are grave on their own. It is a risk, I admit. But I could die from these wounds.”
“I am not a fan of the plan—especially of not alerting our mother. You sell her short if you think she cannot convey adequate mourning. She just lost Father.” He was silent for a moment. “Your death would make me duke,” he said with a visible shudder of revulsion. He tried to be positive. “I suppose I could do it for a week. No longer. This had better work.”I will tell Mother, though. I cannot lose her from grief.As duke, he would make that decision.
