Wolfsgate (11 page)

Hurrah.

He brushed his hands down his face. He would’ve enjoyed this years ago. It used to be a right party. He stretched out his legs under the table. Even that was painful, blasted knee. No, nothing was the same. Nothing would ever be again.

He had been coming to the Fang & Feather every night this week, but it was not proving to be the diversion he had hoped. In fact it was tedious beyond belief. However, it was a damn sight better than being in that house and seeing his unsightly reflection in the looking glass or staring at the walls, walls that needed maintenance. So much of it needed maintenance, upkeep, requiring his decisions, his commands. All of Wolfsgate waited on him, on his word. And who was he to give it? Ah, yes. Divine heir. Lord and Master.

But something else gnawed at him too. Ever since his discovery of Justine’s former relationship with Blakelock he had been in a pique. Was it humiliation? Or simply the sting of his manly pride having been knocked down a peg or two? He wasn’t sure. Taking Justine in that kiss hadn’t been the cure. Quite the opposite, in fact. It had only caused the vile humors coursing through his veins to simmer and pitch him in an unusual fever. So he distracted himself with riding all hours of the day, hiking over his property, and drinking as much as possible every night, then slinking back into the house undetected. He didn’t want to look her in the eyes. Yes, he knew it was childish, but it couldn’t be helped.

Those eyes.

At noon today Justine had found him in the parlor just having woken up from his spot on the floor, cushions under his head.

“Are you ever going to leave this room?” She had pressed her lips firmly together, her hands at her hips. “How can you possibly be comfortable in here? I will clean your bedchamber today, and you will sleep in there.”

“You will do no such thing.”

“Gaw!” she spat out, her face reddening. She’d marched out of the parlor, but moments later charged back in to face him, planting her feet on the floor.

“Do you not want to use the stairs, is that it?”

“What?”

“You heard me!”

“You obviously have no understanding of physical discomfort, Justine.”

“You’re just being lazy,” she retorted.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Brandon raised himself up.

“And perhaps feeling sorry for yourself?” her eyes narrowed.

“Justine—” he growled.

“Shall I just send for more brandy then, my lord?” She crossed her arms in front of her chest and tilted her head at him, smirking.

Brandon’s shoulders had surged upwards. She swiftly marched out of the room once more, yet this time slammed the door behind her.

She had returned not half an hour later bearing a tray of tea and biscuits. He stood in the center of the room smoothing down his shirt tucking it into his breeches, his gaze locked on her cool one. She plonked the tray on the table as he fastened his buttons, then curtsied at him sweeping out of the room. He stood there riveted. Was he impressed or annoyed? Damn her, definitely impressed. Doors slammed open, footsteps boomed overhead. He had swallowed down a cup of tea, grabbed the biscuits and left.

The tavern was quite crowded and noisy this evening making the fetid air even more insufferable. He rubbed at the side of his face and waved a girl over for another drink. A heavy, burly arm settled on his shoulder, and his head jerked to the side. Davidson, dark eyes twinkling in the dim light, slid onto the bench beside him and plonked his own mug on the table.

“How are you doin,’ sir?” Davidson asked, sweeping a stray strand of his grey-brown hair behind a protruding ear. The girl brought Brandon his drink and hovered over him, a smile pasted on her shiny face. Davidson shoved her off, swatting at her with his hand. “I heard ye been here most nights.”

Brandon only gave him a dull stare and leaned his back against the wall. He took his pipe out of his coat.

Davidson leaned his arms on the table. “How is your wife?”

Brandon let out a dry laugh and drained his mug.

“Lady Graven had told me how you came to be married on our way to London to get you. I imagine it must be difficult for you to deal with the wrongs your uncle and cousin have perpetrated against the two of you.”

Brandon only averted his gaze and filled his pipe with tobacco.

Davidson leaned closer to Brandon. “Lady Justine is a fine girl and not a stranger to you.” “God only knows what those two thieving bastards put her through all these years,” he said. “And she having to live with them alone at that great house once your father passed on. I would see her about on her regular visits to the tenants. A bit elsewhere she was and always doing her best not to look sad. She got good at it, I daresay.”

“Regular visits to the tenants?” Brandon asked.

“That’s right. Always goin’ round bringing food, offering a friendly chat,” Davidson replied as Brandon gulped down more ale. “She helped a lot of families through the sickness a while back.” He let out a sigh. “She was a companion to your father at the end, reading to him, feeding him, listening to his stories. He didn’t want to talk with no one else. And since your father passed, she’s been trying to keep up all on her own.”

“Wasn’t her place,” Brandon said scratching at his prickly arms.

Davidson plonked down his mug on the scarred table. “I don’t think you quite understand the sacrifices she’s made, sir.” The sudden sharp tone of his voice sent barbs up Brandon’s neck. He glared at his steward.

“Her leaving that house and plotting to get you out of hospital was a big risk. If they had known, they would have put an end to it at once, and there’s no telling what they would have done to you or to her, I reckon.”

Brandon’s eyes strained to focus on Davidson. He still couldn’t get the image out of his dazed mind of Justine walking all the way to the tenants’ cottages in winter, in summer, showing kindness to them on his family’s behalf. “What do you mean ‘what they would’ve done to her?’ Has she been in danger from them?”

“I can’t say exactly, but they certainly don’t treat her as they should do a daughter or a sister. Do you think she’s been living the high society life since she’s come of age?” Davidson scoffed.

“Have they been hiding you in the attic, my dear?”
Isn’t that what Charles had said when he feasted his eyes on Justine at the churchyard? He had barely recognized her.

“Pardon my saying, but I wouldn’t put nothing past those two,” Davidson said.

“Well, they got her to agree to the marriage, didn’t they?” asked Brandon. He lit his clay pipe and inhaled the smoke it offered him.

Davidson leaned across the table, his eyes tight. “What’s a sweet girl against the likes of them, eh? She’s never spoken about that to me and I never asked. But I’m sure no one would have been the wiser while they ate through your money. She decided to do something about it, did she not? And she did it.”

Davidson’s dark eyes pierced Brandon’s as if trying to impale his words straight into his master’s skull. “I wouldn’t let her go alone to London, knew she’d be needing help getting you back on your feet. And forgive me for saying, sir, but I have known you since you were a young lad, and here ye are cocking yourself up. Bloody shame that. Bloody waste for all of us.” Davidson drained his mug and slammed it on the table.

Brandon’s eyes jumped. “She shouldn’t have bothered with me as there’s nothing grand left of me or the estate.”

Davidson’s head tilted. “You think that’s what matters to ‘er?”

“Well, I can’t say I know my wife very well.”

“Go home and get to know her!” Davidson exclaimed. Brandon only cast him a dark glance and inhaled more smoke from his pipe, letting it burn in his lungs.

“Oh, I see, this is you feeling sorry for yerself? Drowning your sorrows? Ah, such sorrows!” Davidson planted his hands on the table. “Has she not told you then?”

Brandon’s eyes narrowed as he exhaled a plume of smoke. “Told me what?”

“Oh, damn me.” His fingers gripped Brandon’s arm, and in a quick movement he yanked him closer. Brandon’s eyes flared. “It’s all there and more,” Davidson said in his ear, his voice low. “She’s been hiding it from them for a long while now.”

Brandon’s face twitched. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and gripped the edges of the table to keep himself steady as an eerie lightness rushed to his head. Davidson scowled as he smoothed down the sleeve of Brandon’s frock coat.

“What did you say?”

“‘Bout two years ago when your cousin curtailed my running of the estate, she came to me and asked me to show her how to keep the books,” said Davidson, his voice low, his head dipped close to Brandon’s. “And then a few months later she asked me about the enterprise in Jamaica. She was in a panic.”

Brandon tugged his hands through his hair in an effort to feel pain, feel something, anything. A leaden weight pressed in on his stomach, and that heaviness traveled up his torso settling in his chest.

The other night he had woken up in a sweat and gone into the study with a candle. He had pulled open the desk drawers and found the estate accounting ledgers. Going through them, he was astonished by the sudden drop in income and the great rise in expenditures written out to his cousin and uncle. Nothing significant was noted for maintenance or upkeep or food. And nothing for Justine. His fingers had circled over figures on the paper as his brain tried to make sense of the fact that Justine might possibly be telling him the truth about her role in William’s scheme.

“She’s not told you then?” He stared at Brandon for a long while. “Or maybe you haven’t given her a chance to tell you?” Davidson rubbed a hand across his stubbly jaw. “Stubborn boy! I told her this would be difficult. But this is beyond—” He exhaled through his nose. “I should have checked in on you two, but I didn’t want to intrude or seem forward. More fool am I!” He followed Brandon’s troubled gaze down to the Graven signet ring on his hand and shook his head. “Your wife has single-handedly saved your precious inheritance and your life, Lord Graven.”

“Davidson, help me get home.”

Justine stood on the final step of the staircase, lit candle in one hand. After a long, restless, and unsuccessful attempt at sleep, she decided to get herself a brandy, that is if Brandon hadn’t finished it all yet. She found both the drawing room and the parlor empty, cold, and dark.

The front door grated opened and frigid air rushed into the hall. Brandon stood in the doorway, his face pale and worn, his neck bent to the side, his head leaning against the door jamb.

“Brandon? Are you all right? You look…”

“Terrible, I know,” his voice rasped. Justine set the brass candle holder on the console table and shoved the great door closed behind him. She peeled the heavy cloak off his shoulders, tossed it on the chest of drawers next to her, and led him to the bench in the hall.

Crouching before him, she began removing his boots. “I’m glad you’re in one piece at the very least,” she said, tugging off his right boot with both hands.

“I don’t feel like I am.” His voice was quiet and small. “I feel more like a thousand broken pieces, and I’m not sure what to try to mend first.” She stole a look up at him. Tears streamed down his face.

“One thing at a time, Brandon. That’s all you can do.” Her hands reached up towards his face, but he grabbed her wrists and held them fast, his grip firm despite his fatigue.

“Don’t. I need to feel this,” he said, releasing her hands. He wiped at his face himself. “It’s been happening frequently since the poison cleaned out of my system. Quite inconvenient for a man, eh?”

She took a breath and returned her attention to removing his other boot. His chest heaved for air as if trying to rid itself of the dullness embedded there. The silence fell heavy between them.

“Justine, I need to apologize to you.” A pained expression shadowed his features. “I’ve been such a bastard. Davidson found me at the tavern tonight. He explained a few things to me. Things I wasn’t aware of.”

Justine set the boot aside. “I’ve wanted to explain to you since we came home, but there never seemed to be a good time.”

“I don’t know how can I ever thank you for taking on such a burden for my family.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Yes, I do.”

“It’s all right, Brandon.”

“No, it is not. I’ve been indulging in self-pity and self-absorption at your expense.”

“Well, you’re entitled, after everything you’ve been through,” she said sweeping the hair from his face. “And the after-effects of the opium only make it worse.”

“You deserve better from me, much better.” His voice was raw, barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry I snapped at you. I get carried away at times and—”

His grey-green eyes held hers as his hands cradled her face and drew her closer to him. Her pulse raced as he bent down and touched his cool lips to her forehead. His heavy gaze fell to her mouth and the flutter in her stomach rose through her chest. He bent his head down closer, and his lips brushed hers. She gasped softly at the gentleness of his touch, heat coiling though her insides.

Brandon’s eyebrows knit together as if a new thought suddenly perplexed him. A noise muffled in his throat, and he bent and kissed her again, his hands sliding down around her neck keeping her close. His tongue snaked through her lips, seeking hers, and Justine let out a small cry as she opened her mouth to him.