That Scandalous Summer (41 page)

“I don’t understand,” Alastair said flatly.

“This is a legal action drawn up by Smythe and Jackson.” The solicitors had accepted him as a client yesterday, agreeing to draw their fees from his winnings. “If you will not surrender the allowance vouchsafed to me in our father’s will, then I will take my request to the courts. In addition, I am suing for your removal from the hospital’s board of directors. You overstepped your bounds in ordering its closure. I have asked Weston to replace you. Hollister may come aboard as well.” Michael had spoken to both men before leaving Havilland Hall.

“Interesting,” Alastair murmured. He cast aside the papers, his hand fluttering down to rest anemically atop them. His signet ring hung loosely on his finger, sliding all the way to his knuckle. “Yet I doubt they have any interest in funding your efforts.”

“As to that,” Michael said, “Weston has offered a sizable amount, and both men support my proposal to expand our services to patients of the middling class. Fees from the new clientele will support our charitable operations.” He had gone over the budget last night. Provided the bourgeoisie would consent to be treated at a charity hospital, it might work. He was not overly hopeful, of course. But it was a chance, and that was more than he’d had three days ago.

Alastair’s smile was slight, and faded so quickly that it left the impression of exhaustion. “I would not count on Hollister remaining involved. I have been a great friend
to him, as you may know.” He pushed the papers toward Michael. “And I do not appreciate men without loyalty. Indeed, I tend to make sure they repent the lack of it.”

Michael gritted his teeth. “Funny thing, that. Until recently, I had imagined that
brotherhood
might entail loyalty. But I see your understanding of the term is a far match from mine.” He shoved the papers back toward his brother before coming to his feet. “And now, I’ll bid you good day.”

“Wait.” Alastair stared up at him. “You . . .”

Michael waited impatiently, trying to ignore how his brother’s eyes seemed to be sinking back into his skull. Alastair looked more and more like a death’s-head.
“What?”

“You really mean to do this,” Alastair said. “To take
me
to court.”

Michael called up his grimmest smile. “A fine irony, is it not? And here you wished to keep your name free of scandal.”

A muscle flexed in Alastair’s jaw. He started to stand, and—
Christ,
but he had to use his hands to do it; palms down on the desk, he shoved himself up with visible difficulty.

His jacket hung limply from his shoulders. There simply wasn’t the flesh to fill it anymore.

And despite his best effort to remain cold—for Alastair deserved nothing from him;
nothing
—Michael felt his indifference crack. “Good God,” he said. “Good
God,
Al. You are killing yourself. You—”

But what was there to say that he had not said already?

There was one thing. “I love you,” he said with difficulty. “That has not changed. My God—you and I were
in hell together as children. And you were
everything
to me. My only ally. My dearest friend. My protector and support. If I emerged whole, it was only because of you. How can I ever forget that? You will
always
be my brother.”

A scowl was dawning on Alastair’s brow. “And how nobly you show it,” he said. “This
brotherly affection.
”

“You leave me no choice.” Michael shook his head. “Alastair, you have become the man you once sought to protect me from. You are our father reborn—but I am not our mother. God knows,
you
raised me better than that. So, yes—I will show you no mercy. I will take you to court and fight for what is mine, and I will win. And I vow to you, that day will mark the end of our connection. Though it grieves me, I will leave you to our father’s fate—for by your own hand, you will have earned it.”

Alastair stared at him for a long, unblinking moment. And then he laughed, a laugh that sounded like the rasp of dry leaves. “Very dramatic,” he said. “But I fear you misunderstand my disbelief. I only wonder at your foolishness. You’ll win, will you? No. I will crush you. So easily. So easy to suborn Weston and Hollister! And I have solicitors on retainer who specialize in ending these cases quickly . . . and always,
always
to my opponents’ detriment.”

Michael sighed. “Right. You forget now to whom you’re speaking. I’ve had years to witness your operations. But if it cheers you to dwell on what power remains to you—for all of London whispers now that you’ve run mad—then by all means, dwell on it. And exercise it against me as you must.”

Alastair narrowed his eyes. “It is not
me
whom society will mock.
You
are the one who once again will make us
the object of ridicule. And for what—some
woman
? What do you imagine people will say? De Grey makes a spectacle of himself, bankrupts himself for a hussy who sells her photographs for money; who collapses at balls from too much drink; who, by all reports, has taken lovers who—”

“Enough!”
Michael stepped backward lest he lunge
forward
; lest he smash his fist into his brother’s face. “I would hit you,” he said through his teeth, “only I think it would kill you, in this pathetic condition you’re in. But listen to me carefully now: that
woman
is the woman whom
I love
. And unlike my love for you now, what I feel for her is
earned.
” A black laugh escaped him. “And you would judge her based on the tales your
spies
collected?
You,
who saw how eager the world was to believe the worst of our mother? My God, I would ask you where you’d misplaced your sense of shame—but I expect you left it where you left your sanity! I wash my hands of you, Alastair. But I vow, if you raise
one finger
to trouble her, I will change my mind. I will come back here and strike you down like the wrath of God.”

The words had been washed out of him by a red wave of rage. He stepped back again, for the rage had not abated; it wanted to tug him forward, to make him do something he’d truly regret.

But he controlled himself, and saw at last his brother
react
as a human might. Alastair blinked very rapidly and all but fell back into his seat. He looked, finally and at last, shaken.

Michael did not let himself hope, though. He was through with praying that such signs portended a revelation. “I am done with you,” he repeated softly—as much to himself as to Alastair.
Done.

And then he turned on his heel and walked out.

In the hall he passed Jones, who threw him a scandalized look. Perhaps the old scoundrel had been listening at the keyhole. Michael quickened his step, desperate to be out of this house, to drag in a breath of air not poisoned by his brother.

At the top of the stairs, though, he stopped dead. For below, in the entry hall, stood a figure that made his heart turn over once.

By sheer instinct he retreated to the alcove that screened the entrance to the west wing from view. His heart, which had sat in his chest like clay throughout his interview with Alastair, now suddenly came back to life, pounding wildly.

What in God’s name was
Elizabeth
doing here?

Jones passed by him again, oblivious to his covert position. Quickly the butler went down the stairs. He exchanged some murmured conversation with Elizabeth that Michael could not make out. Then, together, the two of them mounted the staircase.

Alastair was
receiving
her?

His muscles contracted, his pulse beating harder yet, his entire body tensing as though in preparation for battle. It took his last shred of will not to reach out as she crested the stairs, to stop her from entering that study. His brother was not a man to be trifled with. If Alastair lifted a hand to her—Christ, if he so much as
raised his voice
—

He waited, barely breathing, as Jones returned again, alone, to descend the stairs.

Not wasting another moment, Michael stole out from his hiding place and raced silently down the hall.

The door to the study stood closed. But there was indeed a keyhole for spying. He knelt and put his ear to it, dimly aware of the indignity of the position, not
giving a damn about it. At the first sign of goddamned trouble he would burst into that room and—

“Forgive my presumption,” said Elizabeth. “I know we have not been introduced. But I have a matter of great urgency to discuss with you, and it could not wait for the usual niceties.”

Michael knew that his brother’s appearance must shock her—and that Alastair would be eyeing her with steely distaste. But she sounded utterly composed, if a touch cool.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Alastair replied, “for as you may imagine, it is my fondest desire that we remain perfect strangers.”

“Then the polite thing would be to thank you for the kindness of receiving me,” she said. “But I won’t thank you. I see no reason to be mannerly with a man whose recent actions toward his brother rightfully deserve only my contempt.”

Michael exhaled. It was a curious thing to hear her defend him. A curious and . . . misplaced pleasure, in such circumstances.

What was she
doing
here?

“That is frank,” said Alastair.

“Yes,” she said, “I am known to be frank. And I will be franker yet. You see—”

“Did you encounter my brother on your way up?”

This idle question was answered by the briefest pause. “No,” she said. “Is he . . . here, then?”

Michael dug his nails into his palm.
That
notion clearly rattled her as his brother’s words had not. By God, but he wanted to see her—

He schooled himself with a long breath.
Patience.
He had to know why she was here.

“I suppose he has left already,” said Alastair. “Well, make it quick, then. I do not have time for women such as you.”

Her laughter was low and dark. “Then your standards have risen considerably of late—and certainly since these letters were written.”

A longer silence now. Michael peeked through the keyhole. Her back was to him, but she had handed Alastair a bundle of papers. He was leafing through them with a good deal more energy than the legal documents had merited.

“Where did you get these?” he said then, and his voice might have been cut from glass.

“From one Mr. Nelson,” she said. “He tasked me to bring these to you, and to beg, in return, your sponsorship of his bid for a barony at the least. And I was to ask a bequest of my own, perhaps eighty or ninety thousand pounds, the better to pay off my debts—which he will be glad to advertise, when he learns that I divulged his part in this scheme. But instead I have a different proposition for you entirely.”

Michael shook his head slightly. Nelson had
blackmailed
her? Threatened to reveal her impoverishment?

He was going to kill that bastard.

“Nelson,” Alastair said.

“Charles Nelson. Your wife’s lover. One of them, at least. As you see.”

“Barclay,” his brother muttered. “And Patton!”

“Yes,” she said, “and Huston as well. The late duchess was quite busy, wasn’t she? One wonders what
you
were doing all this time. Ah, yes—I remember now: you were playing politics, and promoting your favorites. But it seems your wife disagreed with your politics, for her affections
favored the opposition—and they seem to have profited greatly by it. Why . . . your grace, I daresay that your
wife
was something of a kingmaker as well!”

Michael sucked in a soundless breath. Now it was clear to him. The letters she’d handed over were connected to Margaret.

Somehow Nelson had gotten hold of Margaret’s private correspondence.

Christ. Nelson had been one of her lovers.

In his disbelief, he nearly laughed, a wild laugh that would have exposed him in an instant. Instead he bit down hard on his knuckles and strained to hear their next words, even as his mind raced.
Why had she not told him?
Why had she not come to him?

“These are the originals?” Alastair asked.

“A sampling of them,” she said. “I will hand the rest to you later. Yes, I know—there are more! Imagine that. Very prolific, was your wife. But before you receive her collected works, first you must do me a particular favor.”

Michael’s breath stopped. Why, with this leverage over his brother, she might demand . . . anything from him.

Abruptly he stood. He did not want to hear this. No wonder she had not told him of Nelson’s threat—for she meant to blackmail Alastair, just as Nelson had done to her. He could not breathe, for a great volcanic rent seemed to be opening in his chest. It was a disappointment, a
betrayal,
beyond all endurance—

No.
She would not do this. Not to his brother.

The next second, he
knew
she would not do it. She would never disappoint him. Never betray him in such a way—or in any way so fundamental.

The certainty of this belief unwound through him so
rapidly and powerfully that it nearly crushed the breath from his lungs.

Why, he had no doubt of her.
None
. And this certainty, which he had once believed,
known,
he would never feel for any woman—why, it did not seem so miraculous, after all. It felt . . . natural. Trusting her was the most natural and simple thing in the world. He had no choice in it; his faith in her was like his breath, steady and involuntary.

For so long he had been afraid to repeat his parents’ tragedy. But
this
was love: not something separate from trust, but
woven
of it.
This
was what his parents had lacked.

His parents’ story would never be his.

Feeling dazed and strangely weightless, he knelt again, just in time to hear her say, “You will reopen your brother’s hospital. That is my favor. And you will resume—whatever it was you did for his work before. I want your promise in writing, drawn up by my solicitors, that you will fulfill your bargain to
him
for as long as he requires it.”