Passion (9 page)

Blaise often escaped the estate back then and
roamed the countryside. He prodded a long ago memory of when he was
ten and fishing in old Milbank’s stream. That is where Ry had found
him, having been banished from the “adults” who were in the drawing
room. He found that memory quite enjoyable seeing as he recalled
that Ry was no fussy young lad, and had skinned his own pole, and
baited the hook too.

Describing himself, his cousin said, “I’m
five feet and eleven without boots, have curly hair, black as pitch
that ladies love to twine around their fingers, and enjoy robust
health despite the French’s best efforts to kill me—unless I’ve
spent a night of debauchery, in which case, I’m bloody hell when I
wake.”

He had laughed. “To merry old England and due
to a Frenchie who stumbled across a log and landed atop me with his
bayonet, I’m missing one eye. Nevertheless, the one I have left is
a pretty enough blue to please the ladies. And, by sheer luck and a
wild shot, one of my balls went the way of the wind. The important
bits function, thankfully though. I have enough shot embedded in me
that I avoid ships. If I’m ever on one and fall overboard, I’ll
sink like an anvil.”

That certainly made Blaise laugh, which he
had not expected to do much of in this phase of his life. Aside
from that humor, there were those things he did not have to explain
to Ry that made them good housemates—namely, the moments of morass,
which came upon him, when Ry would simply hand him a drink and
leave him to himself.

Recovered was a subjective and ever altering
word, to Blaise. He had yet to define it. However, surrender was
not an option either. He realized quickly, he simply did not have
it in him.

Dressed in his buff and browns, having
awakened early this day, he had his breakfast while the butler,
Henderson, read the papers to him. He had noticed, with much
surprise, that the small staff he did keep, whilst obviously
sensitive to his insistence of not being treated like a “cripple,”
had rallied with enthusiasm to make the transition easier for him
from sight to blindness.

It amused, rather than irritated him, to hear
the housekeeper calling to the maid to put blue iris’s in the hall
vases, have the ivory linens pressed. Or the way the chore boy
would make a point of mentioning which rooms were lit and which
were closed that day for cleaning—or, who was where, doing what, in
the house. The reading of the paper aloud, likely came by Ry’s
suggestion, since his cousin was apt to mention some current event
in his offhand way.

Blaise was finished with breakfast and
passing by the foyer when the knocker sounded. With intentions of
going to his study, he continued on, assuming it was someone with
calling cards, which he ignored.

Society among military families both merged
and was separate from higher circles, depending on rank. He had
attended a few gatherings years before when he was on home shores.
However, even sighted, he found comparisons between himself and
Jules tedious.

it was not as if he did not encounter the
Earl of Stoneleigh on and off In the past, it was more that as the
oldest and heir, exact opposites in most ways, there’d never been a
reason to pretend there was anything but civil formality between
them.

His hand was on the door latch when Henderson
called out loudly, “His Grace, The Duke of Eastland, and His
Lordship, Jules LeClair, Earl of Stoneleigh.”

Blaise let the knob turn and pushed the door
open, but hearing their footfalls coming toward him, he turned.

When they stopped, he bowed. “Your Grace.” He
addressed his father first, catching the faintest scent of pipe
smoke and leather, which he associated with him. When he was a boy
and passed by the study the Duke spent his time in, that was what
he remembered.

Straightening, he scarcely had time to count
and hear the step toward him before his father was taking his hand.
A handshake he was prepared for, but not that the Duke would use
the hold to pull him into an embrace.

Startled, off guard, Blaise felt that free
hand patting his back as Artis offered gruffly, “Welcome home, my
boy. I see you’ve managed to mar that pretty face, but it’s a damn
sight for sore eyes, considering you could be dead.”

“Sir— " Blaise began, not knowing what he was
going to say, since he was still off balance.

“Father,” the Duke corrected. He stepped back
and released him.

It took a moment for Blaise to begin his bow
to Jules, with a murmured, “Your Lordship…” Nevertheless, he did
not get that done either before Jules was shaking his hand.

“You look better than expected, Blaise.”

Disconcerted by the whole thing, Blaise
offered dryly, “I’ll take your word for it, Stoneleigh.” He
gathered himself and waved to the study, “I was about to enjoy a
coffee, will you join me?”

“Yes. Thank you,” Artis said.

As the men passed him, aware that Henderson
would see to the coffee, Blaise said off handed, “I generally come
around the left flank—and to the seating by the fire. So long as
you don’t move anything, I’ll be able to join you in a somewhat
dignified manner.”

He did just that, feeling both men looking at
him, watching, and eyeing him. He wished he could see their
expressions. He would bloody like to see his father’s since that
uncharacteristic greeting still had him taken aback.

The coffee served, he heard the slightest
creak of leather, and guessing that Jules had raised from the chair
across from him—their father between—to hand him his cup, he said,
“At ease, my Lord. Henderson knows where to set everything.”

To prove that, he turned slightly and managed
to pour in the cream and stir without sloshing a drop. Lifting it
and relaxed in his chair—as much as he could manage in the company
of these men—Blaise sipped before deciding he had to ignore the
fact they were going to stare at him the whole time.

“I realize this is an unannounced visit,” the
Duke began. “And whilst I apologize for the intrusion, I hope in
the future, it will not be so out of the ordinary for you and I to
enjoy each other’s company? And your brother, Jules. Have you an
adequate staff? Is there anything I may do for you?”

Whilst still trying to process the first
part, Blaise supplied, “I have enough to suit my needs, yes. I am
used to a life where I travel light, and though I’ve spent little
time in this house, I would do better, I assure you, without an
army of servants underfoot.”

It was Jules who offered, “You must not
hesitate to let us know if you do need something, Blaise.”

His brow rose, though it pulled the scar to
do so, Blaise nodded. “That’s very generous of you, m—“

“—
Jules. Let us drop the
formality, please. We’ve other things to discuss with you, if
you’re up to it.”

“Of course.”

The Duke cut in, “Before we get to Raith, I
want to offer you the same apologies I rendered to Jules.” He
proceeded to explain, much as he had to Jules, and did not spare
himself. Blaise missed his eyesight more in those moments than
ever, so astounding was this transformation.

Artis finished by saying, “As Jules has
reminded me, you are all grown men and have earned the respect you
garner in your respective lives. As I am proud of him, I am no less
of you. Although I know you have served your country and have gone
to war because you were meant to, you seemed born for it. You have
my utmost respect, my boy. I can take no credit for what you have
made of yourself, you alone own that honor. But I am glad to be
your father, and I hope that our future may offer all of us
something we have not had in the past, a chance to be
family—friends.”

Jules added, “That includes Raith. Have you
heard from him?”

“No. I have not so much as laid eyes on him
since he left home. I have not been here much however.”

As Blaise was told of Raith, of his wife’s
murder, he felt awash with both horror and a feeling he did not
expect to, considering they were as good as strangers. He felt a
great grief and compassion, for Raith. True, none of them had what
could be termed affection, but Raith was outright targeted for the
worst. He and Jules, trying to find their own way, still had made
no effort to ease that marked dislike of the Duchess’.

Through servant’s he had always known Raith
was not his mother’s, and he put it all together when Raith gained
an inheritance. By then, he was set on his own course and soon
after discovered Raith had simply vanished.

At the end of Jules and the Duke speaking,
Blaise sipped more coffee and then murmured, “You should check
properties. Does he not have a house here?”

“Yes,” The Duke said as if he had just
thought of it. “Excellent idea…”

“Have you no notion who would send the
letter?” He asked the Duke. “The tone, articulation… Do you think
it was someone of good education and background?”

“I don’t know. One could presume they are of
strong intellect. It seemed to have been written in haste. And it
implies by tone, that Raith will go after this man.”

“As I would,” Blasé muttered.

“Yes. Though we did not know her, she would
be my daughter in law, your sister. It torments me as much as
wondering what Raith’s life has been like, distresses me. His
believing the worst of me...”

After some thinking and silent musing, Blaise
offered, “Ry and myself will do what we can. Although finding him,
and his wanting anything to do with us….”

“But we must try.” The Duke sighed.

They visited awhile longer, time mostly spent
in uncomfortable exchanges. Because, his Grace seemed to have the
need to repeatedly explain, or apologize, for how they were raised,
and their lack of an intimate relationship.

Jules—Blaise could read, probably thanks to
his blindness, since to look at Jules was to see perfect
handsomeness and icy control—yet because he had only his ears, he
heard something in the inflections, a tension he doubted had
anything to do with Raith. It was interesting to say the least that
the cold and aloof perfect heir could be struggling with
anything.

Of course, it could all be due to this rather
stunning transformation of their father. Even Blaise did not recall
the man speaking as many words in all the years they were growing
up. He did not doubt the sincerity, but he had his doubts that
grown men could somehow find a common enough ground to have a
relationship. They were all like night and day.

“Ry and I will do what we can,” he offered
those words again in regards to Raith.

Later, in the foyer, the Duke was a bit
ahead, having a word with the staff. He could deduce his father was
going over his head, likely instructing them to notify him if
Blaise needed anything, and then having what sounded like a rather
jovial chit chat with the housekeeper—Jules had hung back, standing
beside Blaise near the staircase, just before the foyer.

His sense of smell as keen as his hearing was
becoming—and his having to read voices instead of faces, Blaise
detected under the starch of Jules cravat and shirt, the coffee, a
blend of male scent that was expensive in its substance, as it was
unique. He supposed his brother could afford such. He himself often
smelled of sea salt and black powder, more than bay rum. Not
likely, to anymore however, he reminded himself, lacking his
career….

“Quite a transformation in him,” he heard
Jules say in that perfect drawl.

“Stunning.”

“Seems the two years of rustication was good
for father.”

“That and the Duchess dying,” Blaise retorted
deprecatingly.

“She was our mother,” Jules reminded.

“Was she? I often found it hard to imagine
her giving birth to me. I dare say, the servants and tutors could
take more credit for raising us than she.”

“I’ll not argue that.”

“Good.” Blaise turned his face toward Jules.
“Because you’re not putting on some performance for the society you
must please. I know the truth.”

There was a tick of silent moments, and then
Jules offered, “We’re all grown past needing that.”

That, Blaise knew, was mothering or
attention. He returned, “I agree.”

“Just the same, I think father’s point to
both of us is that unless we see how it shaped us, we will make the
same mistakes in the future—and deprive ourselves of happiness as
he did.”

“Are you happy?”

“No.”

He perceived Jules answered before he had
realized it. Therefore, Blaise murmured, “I’m blind, Jules—at least
for now. But I’m not stupid, and far from a fool.”

“I never implied such.”

Smiling cynically at that cool drawl, Blaise
retorted in like accents, “One of the duties one assumes when young
men are under his command is to be able to read what they don’t say
during a stressful situation. Are you in some sort of trouble?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Why, of course not? Because you’ve perfected
that air of untouchability and control?” Blaise snorted and then
turned his head back and shrugged. “Of course I’m blind, so I’m the
weak one of the fam—"

Jules hand landed on his shoulder. “Had you
lost more than sight, Blaise, no one could ever doubt your
strength. I do not. Tis simply that… Father’s coming up to
town…taking on some persona—like a phoenix rising from the
ashes…and this business with Raith’s wife…”

“Um, yes. Quite wrecks your orderly
existence. Begins to reshape the view we’ve always had of him,
certainly.”

“Just so.” Jules dropped his hand. He heard
him draw in a long breath and release it before Jules murmured,
“It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

Never thinking the situation would ever arise
that he would hear himself say it, Blaise told Jules, before
Stoneleigh moved to depart with the Duke, “I have fairly good
instincts, blind or not, and have spent most of my adult years
around men from every walk of life. If you feel the need to
confide…”