Obsession (25 page)

“And the wife? Is she well?”

“Oh, yes.” His head bobbed so hard the spectacles slid to the end of his nose. “Quite well, she is. Very well. I’ll tell her you asked about her. She’ll be chuffed for sure.”

He placed a stack of papers on Jacobson’s desk and regarded me with a strangely sympathetic expression.

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

“I…” He cleared his throat and averted his gaze. “We just expected to see you long before this, is all. Your grandmother had informed Jacobson last autumn to expect you.”

“Did she.” I frowned.

The door opened and Jacobson entered. His face beet red and perspiring profusely, he waved Woodruff away as he dropped his rotund frame into the chair behind his desk and glared at me.

Woodruff offered me a slight bow and exited the office.

“Right, Salterdon. Sit down and let’s get on with it.”

I raised one eyebrow and looked down my nose at him. “You forget yourself, sir.”

His face turned a deeper red and his jowls quivered. “I do beg your pardon.
Your Grace,
please make yourself comfortable.”

I sat and crossed my legs.

He cleared his throat. “I have a clear conception of the reason for this visit.”

“Do you? Then by all means, enlighten me.”

“Your grandmother informed me that you would no doubt come demanding proof that you and your brother are, in fact, illegitimate holders of title.”

I stared at him and clenched my teeth.

“You want proof, of course. So be it. It is your right.”

He shuffled through files and finally thrust two papers to the edge of the desk. “The one here…” He pointed to one. “This is the original certificate of your birth. Your birth father, the duke himself. The duchess’s station was secured by this record, which was kept by this office since that time. Your mother was one Isabelle Pinter. She was a house servant. Dead now.”

Jacobson cleared his throat and shifted in his chair in a manner that roused my suspicion. Knowing what I now knew about my sordid birthright, I would not have been in the least surprised if the dowager duchess was at the root of Miss Isabelle Pinter’s demise.

He then pointed to the accompanying paper. “This other is the
official
certificate proclaiming you and Basingstoke to be the offspring of the man who was to, and indeed did, pass as your father.”

A moment passed before I could contain my anger enough to speak. As Jacobson settled back in his chair, his expression smug, I felt my face burn with humiliation.

“You do realize,” he said, “that should you desire to go public with this information—”

“I understand perfectly the ramifications of such actions, Jacobson. Bastard I may be, but I’m not an idiot.”

“And you understand perfectly the ramifications that should transpire regarding your daughter.”

I stood from my chair and leaned upon the desk, my body shaking with anger and hate.

“You son of a bitch. I’m fully aware that my daughter is deceased.”

He blinked and sucked in his breath.

“You have my permission to tell the bitch to go straight to hell. I’m on to her, Jacobson. Completely.”

He blustered and shoved his chair back against the wall with such force the windows rattled.

The door was flung open behind me and Woodruff rushed in, frantically wringing his hands.

“Is there a problem?” he asked.

“No problem,” I told him, took a deep breath, and settled back in the chair. “I was just about to discuss my reasons for coming to London with this…gentleman.”

I looked over my shoulder at Woodruff and gave him a flat smile. “Truly. All’s well. I have no intention of snapping your employer’s fat neck, unless he intends to provoke me further.”

The little man looked at Jacobson, then me, his lips parting as if he would speak, but then thought better of it.

“Get out,” Jacobson snapped.

“Yes, sir. Of course.”

Woodruff scuttled from the room, not quite closing the door behind him.

“Now down to business,” I said, my gaze boring into Jacobson, who continued to quake as if in the presence of the devil himself. “I intend to purchase the Warwick mine adjacent to Thorn Rose.”

He swallowed and adjusted his suit coat. “I’m aware of the mine, of course. I handle the Warwick—”

“Shut up and listen. I take it Warwick has no intentions of opening the shaft again, since he hasn’t already.”

“Correct.” He nodded. “The company had intended to sell off the property before the catastrophe. The profits were such that it was hardly worth the bother—”

“I intend to buy it.”

“In risk of irritating you further, Your Grace…” he shifted his hulk in the chair before adding, “just how in blazes do you intend to pay for it?”

“I’ll mortgage Thorn Rose.”

His jaw dropped. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me correctly, Jacobson. I expect you to take care of the necessary legalities and locate an appropriate source of funding.”

“Are you insane, man? You would risk your last holding on a collapsed lead mine that is unlikely to produce a pittance of what Thorn Rose is worth?”

“I was always a gambling man, Jacobson. I’m willing to wager Thorn Rose on the chance that the mine will ultimately make me a very wealthy man…again.”

“And look where your gambling has gotten you.”

“We all eventually are dealt a winning hand, Jacobson.”

“Your grandmother would never approve.”

My eyes narrowed and my lips curved. “Do you think I give a damn?”

He swiped the sweat from his brow, then nodded. “Very well. I’ll contact Warwick immediately. I believe he’s in the city at the present, and I’ll call on him this afternoon. If he agrees to sell the property, I’ll draw up the necessary papers and see what I can arrange financially.”

He looked into my eyes and smirked. “I doubt it will be hard to find a financier. Any man of intelligence would realize that you won’t last six months.”

I left the office, closing the door soundly behind me. I sank against it, my eyes closed and my stomach churning.

“Your Grace,” came Woodruff’s gentle voice.

Wearily, I lifted my head and found him near.

“I wish you luck, Your Grace.”

“Are you a religious man, Woodruff?”

“Yes, Your Grace. I am.”

“Then say a prayer for me, will you?”

“Of course.” He smiled.

As I turned to exit the office, he said, “Your Grace?”

“Yes?”

“I…couldn’t help overhearing your conversation. All of it. Regarding your daughter.” He glanced toward Jacobson’s closed door. “I…” He averted his gaze. “Never mind. I’m sorry. Dreadfully sorry for all of it.”

I exited the building. Outside, the stench and noise of the city bore down on me, as did the miserable humidity of an impending storm. I stepped into an alley and vomited.

B
Y HALF PAST EIGHT IN THE EVENING,
I
HAD
been turned away from three clubs. Politely as possible, of course; monies owed and all that balderdash.

I arrived at Brookes’s at Sixty St. James Street with little hope that I would be allowed entrance. I stood in the rain for a long moment, staring at the entrance before knocking.

Again, the attendant regarded me first with complete discomposure and a stuttering of garbled apologies. Then a voice—recognizable and sending fresh pain through my gut—spoke up behind me.

“He’s my guest tonight.”

I looked around into my brother’s face.

“No thank you,” I told him.

“Don’t be an ass. It’s cold and raining, and we both need a drink.”

He took hold of my arm and ushered me into the club. I inhaled the welcome aroma of tobacco and liquor. The boisterous conversation of gamblers roused my constant hunger for Hazard and Faro, and I felt like an alcoholic too long without a drink.

“Do you have a private room available?” Clayton asked the attendant.

“Of course, m’lord. Will you be dining tonight?”

“Yes. My brother looks like he could use a decent meal.”

“Pheasant preferred?”

“Pheasant is pleasant.”

Clay grinned and we followed the man into a small, plush room where a fire roared in the hearth. I removed my sodden cloak and dropped onto a high-backed chair, my teeth clenched from chill and the aggravation that, once again, my brother had come to my rescue. We had hardly settled before a waiter appeared with our normal snifters of port and brandy.

I closed my eyes with pleasure as the port warmed my insides.

“Fancy meeting you here.” Clayton slouched slightly in his chair without looking at me.

“What the hell brings you to London?”

“This and that. A quick visit with Grandmother. Business.”

“How is the old bitch?”

“Do you really care?”

“No. I don’t.”

“Then why ask?”

“Simply hoping you would tell me she is on death’s door.”

We drank in silence for several minutes. Then Clay put down his empty glass and looked at me at last.

“I spoke with Jacobson this afternoon.”

I froze and stared at him over the lip of my glass.

“You’ll be happy to know that he spoke with Warwick, and he’s willing to sell the mine at a reasonable price. Far less than Thorn Rose is worth.”

I felt wooden as I placed the snifter aside and left my chair.

“Sit down,” Clayton demanded in a cold voice.

“I think not. I don’t intend to listen to you harp on about my stupidity…again.”

“Quite the contrary. I’m happy to see you finally motivated by ambition.”

I barked a laugh and leaned over his shoulder. “What? The saintly and all-knowing samaritan refrains from reminding me what a loser I’ve been all my life? No lecture that my sudden ambition is the final straw, and that I’m certain to fail and lose the estate that’s belonged to the Salterdons for six generations?”

“No.”

I moved around the chair, my gaze locked on his. I braced my hands upon the chair arms and sneered, “Why?”

He locked his jaw and glared back at me.

The sick and dreaded realization hit me like a brick.

“You son of a bitch.”

“It was the rational thing to do, Trey. If you think for a moment that I would allow you to gamble away our family’s last estate—”

“Damn you!” I twisted my hands in his coat, hauled him from the chair, and flung him against the wall with such force he groaned and winced. “If I wanted your bloody money I would have asked for it!”

“No, you wouldn’t. You’re too goddamn proud for your own good.”

“Damn you!”

I flung him away. We circled one another like fighting cocks.

“I won’t do it,” I said through my teeth.

“You have no choice.”

“The hell you say.”

“Warwick is a friend of mine. A very good friend. I spoke to him this afternoon, with Jacobson. Unless you allow me to finance this deal, Warwick will refuse to sell you the mine.”

I swung at him.

He ducked, grabbed me by my collar, and drilled me into the wall, one arm braced across my throat, cutting off my breath.

“Why do you hate me so, Trey? Why, dammit, when I’ve sacrificed so much to help you?”

I closed my eyes and tried to shove him away, but I was too damn tired.

“You,
sacrifice? A pence here and there to satisfy my gambling debts, followed by your humiliating chastising? You arrogant bastard, you don’t know what sacrifice is. I lost the only woman I will ever love because of goddamn sacrifice.”

“What the hell are you saying?”

“I wished to God I hated you, Clayton. I thought I did, for most of my life. Perhaps I did. I don’t know any longer.”

“Explain yourself. Just what the devil sort of sacrifice have you ever made for me?”

I turned my face away, the truth a barb on my tongue. I longed to confess the sordid details about our parentage, but what the devil difference would it make?

“You’re right,” I finally said. “I’ve done nothing remotely benevolent my entire life. Not for you, or anyone. Never have. Most likely I never will.”

I shoved him away and straightened my coat.

“Enjoy your pheasant,” I told him.

I
DIDN’T BOTHER HAILING A CAB TO THE
S
ALTERDON
town house in Mayfair. The old man, my father, had first purchased the abode for his wife: a gift, he said, though everyone knew it was actually a place to park her relatives—all of whom he despised—when they came to visit in London. I had often heard him grumble that he couldn’t abide sleeping under the same roof with her parents.

Eventually, after his wife’s parents had died, he had utilized the house for his own pleasures—afternoon dalliances with the mistress of the moment, or lovely little strumpets like Isabelle Pinter.

I had entertained my own share of those lovely little strumpets there, as had my brother, before he met Miracle.

I walked, head bent against the rain, while rancor ate at my insides and I constantly waged war in my mind, wondering if I should tell my brother to go to hell and forget all hopes of reopening the mine.

But the memory of Thomas Whitefield’s words kept gnawing at me.

“The vein is there. A big one. Enough to keep these men secure for the rest of their miserable lives.”

I couldn’t shake the haunting image of Thomas in my mind—his eyes bright with the burning fires of the smelt; the hope—nay, confidence—that had vibrated in his voice as he whispered of the mine’s potential.

I had never been a dreamer, yet now a dream pounded within me, harder with each beat of my heart.

Approaching the apartment, I cast only a momentary glance at the street, where a cab was parked next to the curb beneath a gaslight. As I mounted the steps, fumbling in my cloak pocket for the key, a voice stopped me in my tracks.

“Your Grace?”

Turning, I looked through the downpour.

Ernest Woodruff stood outside the cab, rain running in runnels off his hat.

“What the blazes, Woodruff?” I said.

“Your Grace.” He gave me a quick bow and stepped closer. The nearby gaslamp caused his damp face to shimmer like molten gold. “A word with you?”