Chapter Twenty-Three
P erplexed. Sander staggered to his chamber, perplexed, by Verda’s claim of independence. Who was he if he couldn’t save a person he cared for?
He’d thought a cold bath would cool his ardor, but… no. All it had taken was the warmth of plum-plump lips against his hand then the softness of her cheek against the roughness of his skin to shift his fervor of taking her before the fire to pulling her against his chest and keeping her there for all of eternity.
Had she meant it? Yes . She guarded her independence with the same fierceness Noah protected his infant brother.
But the contents of her father’s missive lodged in his chest. What if she decided Damien was no longer a threat? He was an earl to boot and certainly trumped a mere mister. The thought sickened him as he reached his chamber. He stirred the fire to dispel the chill from the air and dropped on the nearest seat, leaning his elbows on his knees. A sense of despondency banded his lungs. He rested his chin on the back of his right hand to stare into the slow-catching fire. It tingled with the warmth of her cheek that he was certain had seared his skin for life.
His gut tightened with a fear so great, he jumped up and paced his chamber, searching for an answer that couldn’t be found. Not there at any rate. Jesus. The uncertainty was enough to eat a man alive.
“Uncle Sander?”
Sander started. His gaze flew to the door where Lucius stood in the opening, barefoot and nightshirt hanging to his calves. “Damn it, Lucius, what the devil are you doing up at this hour? Come by the fire. You’ll freeze your arse off. This blasted monolith is nothing but an ice tomb.”
Lucius strolled to the fire and held his hands toward the heat. “Papa’s returned,” he said, turning around and facing Sander.
He frowned. “Oh? When was that?”
“A few hours ago.” Disgust covered his features. “He was drunk, as usual. I asked him if he brought me a child to take care of too.”
“Good God. I can’t imagine his reaction…” His voice trailed off.
Lucius rubbed the side of his head. “He boxed my ears.”
Another item he silently added to the list to blast his brother over. Sander nearly rubbed his hands together, actually relishing the confrontation.
“Do you think Father killed Mama?”
Shock clubbed him in the sternum. “What?”
Lucius picked at his nightshirt. “Maybe the question is, did grandfather kill our grandmother?” The words sucked the oxygen right out of the chamber.
“Where did you even hear such a thing?” Sander breathed out. He’d been the only one standing at his mother’s door that night when Sander had been six, listening to his father’s tirade from behind the door. Then the bone-crunching hit followed by his mother’s sudden silence.
But he’d never mentioned it to another soul.
Lucius’s expression again wrinkled in his disgust. “Father’s rambling discourse. I could hardly make sense of him. Was he speaking of Grandfather killing Grandmother? I thought Julius offed Mama.”
“Good God, Lucius. Your father did not kill your mother. She did die in childbirth. It’s a common enough cause for women.” Sander stared at his thirteen-year-old nephew. Lucius may not have liked or appreciated Eton, but certainly some of its polish was taking hold. “Perhaps I require a word with your father.”
“He’s asleep in his study with his head on his desk,” Lucius said. “I thought you might want to know.”
“Thank you. I’ll take a look.” Sander rose and went to the door. “Did you wish to wait here for me to return? You’re welcome to do so, of course.”
“No.” Lucius followed him to the door. “I know Noah is taking care of Julius, but I think I should remain nearby… just in case he needs help.”
“You’re very wise, Lucius.” A smile tugged at him. “I suspect thinking like that is what will carry you through your education.”
Sander watched as Lucius made his way to the stairs for the third level and disappeared. No man could have better nephews than he. He wished Damien could see the same value in his sons. Shaking his head, Sander took the main staircase to the ground floor and found Damien right where Lucius said he’d be.
Damien’s head lay on the desk, on folded arms, his face turned toward the windows. The black coverings had been ripped down and lay in heaps along the floorboards. The room was chilly and Sander tossed more fuel on the fire. He poured himself a brandy and went to the windows. The gloom seeped through to his bones. Northumberland was not for the faint-hearted. He sipped at his brandy and waited.
The wait wasn’t long.
The chair creaked and Sander peered over his shoulder. “He lives.”
“What the devil are you doing, standing in the dark?” Damien’s raspiness scraped over his skin.
“Quit hitting your sons upside their heads or I shall take the same method of punishment to you.”
“You’ve a lot of nerve dictating to me,” he growled.
“Regardless, I’ll trounce you if I catch you at it.”
“He was insolent.”
“And you weren’t coherent enough for an intelligent conversation.”
“There’s that,” Damien acknowledged grudgingly. “Why’s he going to you?”
“Because, and I quote, ‘in your rambling discourse,’ you mentioned our father killed our mother.”
Damien leaned back, pressing his fingers into his forehead. “I believe I could use another drink.”
“You’ll have to serve yourself. Intelligent conversation and all.”
He sighed. “Did I really say that?”
“I don’t know where else he would have come up with such a question.”
“No, I don’t suppose he would.”
Sander moved to one of the desk-facing chairs and sat down. “I hadn’t realized you knew the truth.”
“I overheard Mama’s companion speaking with the midwife that night,” he said. The shadows in his eyes told of other specters haunting him. “So, you knew the truth, then?”
“I… Yes. I wanted desperately to see her. Father shoved me out of the way and slammed the door in my face. I heard him hit her. She didn’t even cry.”
“Dear God.” Damien rose from his chair, his gait unsteady, and went to the brandy decanter. He poured out a couple of fingers and knocked it back. “You weren’t but six.”
A twinge of humor touched Sander. “To your shocking age of seven.” Then, serious. “Yes. I was only six. And terrified.”
Damien’s demeanor firmed. “I don’t want them mentioning Father.”
“Might it not be wiser to share that particular sentiment with the boys? Children have brains. Women, also, as I was recently, and firmly, informed.”
The imposing earl shifted into a pious being Sander didn’t recognize. “One doesn’t share that sort of information with children . Are you bound for Bedlam?”
“I happen to believe the truth is better no matter how ugly. Fewer secrets to loom out of the past at the most inconvenient times.”
But Damien was having nothing of it. “You’ll not breathe a word, damn you. I’ll kill you myself.”
Sander stood and set his glass next to the decanter. “Of course, if that is your desire, but secrets never bode well. Good night, Damien.”