Chapter 28
Fitzwilliam drew rein at the stone gateposts of Hopton Hall, the road from Ashdale still on his boots. Beyond the rise, Wirksworth’s church bell struck the hour. He dismounted, handed the reins to a waiting groom, and watched him lead the horse away towards the stables.
A steward met him at the door and bowed, lips tight. “This way, sir.”
The corridor smelled of rosewater and wax. Somewhere a clock marked the seconds. The steward opened a door at the end of the passage and stepped aside.
The billiard room. The table gleamed beneath a fall of rose silk; the cues stood in cream and gilt racks. Even the balls looked wrong, each on a tasselled cushion as if apt to bruise. Footmen waited along the walls.
Langston bent over the table, cue in hand, the picture of indolent defiance. He sighted, struck hard. The ball spun off the cushion and brushed a footman’s shoe. The man flinched; Langston smiled.
“Another triumph,” he murmured. “Though the target had the bad sense to move.”
He chalked, drew again, and struck with greater force; the ivory cracked on green baize. The footmen stiffened. Langston grinned wider.
“What say you, brother? I improve.”
“In aim, perhaps. Not in judgement.”
Langston looked up. “Ah, he speaks. Shall I hazard another?”
A white-gloved hand caught it. “That will do, my lord,” the footman said, voice stiff with borrowed authority.
Langston stilled. He straightened, every line of him dangerous. “Will it?”
Fitzwilliam took the cue-ball and threw. It struck the panelling an inch from the man’s head; ivory burst and scattered. Silence fell.
“That,” Fitzwilliam said, “is your sire.”
No one breathed. The footman lowered his gaze. Langston laughed; the bright sound carried to the corridor.
“Enough,” Fitzwilliam said.
Langston surrendered the cue with a flourish. “As you command, dear brother. You have come to rescue me, I presume? Then by all means, let us begin.”
He indicated the nearest chair. “You know they will not leave.”
“Then we shall pretend they do.”
He crossed to the table, turned the cue in his hands, and set it carefully in the rack. The room held its breath. Outside, the bell of Wirksworth tolled the quarter, and the sound carried faintly through the glass.
Langston settled back, his voice light. “You know, Father swears I grow calmer by the month. The physician attributes it to confinement. I attribute it to boredom.”
Fitzwilliam drew a chair opposite. “Boredom can be fatal.”
“Ah, then perhaps I am halfway to freedom.” Langston smiled thinly. “Tell me, did our father send you as gaoler or confessor?”
“Neither.” Fitzwilliam sat. “Burton said you were failing.”
Langston gave a short laugh. “Failing? I thrive on captivity. Observe—pink drapery, porcelain saints, and a quartet of mute witnesses. The doctor would make a nun of me.”
“You have never been that.”
Langston’s gaze slid past him to the curtained windows. “No. I was the future gone wrong. You, the spare in reserve. Does he continue to deny you?”
“Yes.”
“Ah.” Langston tilted his head. “We are two prisoners. One idle, one gilded.”
Fitzwilliam nodded.
“Shall we conspire together?” Langston’s smile returned, sharper now. “Yes. I approve.” He rose. A throat cleared. He sank back down. “Tell me, what form shall your liberation take?”
Fitzwilliam shrugged.
Langston waited.
Fitzwilliam did not fill the space.
Langston’s smile thinned. “Very well. There is only one solution left.”
Langston looked to the ceiling, tapping his lips with a forefinger. “You must be removed from the inheritance chain.”
Langston looked at him. “Do you disagree?”
Fitzwilliam did not speak.
“Now,” Langston continued lightly, “we may discuss the manner.”
“Is death required?”
“Do not be obtuse, old man. Think.” Langston assumed proper posture, both feet flat, arms on the chair arms. Fitzwilliam matched him.
“Tell me.”
“I know of a family of poseurs who might provoke a necessary retaliation.” He lifted a finger. “They will speak our sisters’ names.” He let the finger fall. “Not kindly. And not only once.”
“That will wound them,” Fitzwilliam said.
“Yes,” Langston replied.
Fitzwilliam’s breath caught. Water filled his mouth. Cloth pressed. He counted—once—and forced the air back in.
“That is the price,” Langston said. “Will you pay it—or shall I choose a cheaper coin?”
Fitzwilliam’s jaw set. Langston’s smile faltered. Just for a moment.
His brother had become Keller.
“Done.” Langston clapped his hands together. “You will show the ton what tying one’s garter in public—without remorse—can amount to.”
He leant back. “The earl will have no choice but to send you off in a scarlet coat.”
Fitzwilliam did not answer.
Langston laughed once, sharp and breathless, then addressed the ceiling. “My brother will leave now. He will stand. If you value your limbs, do not impede him.”
The viscount flicked his hand in salute. “Happy hunting.”
Fitzwilliam rose and stepped towards the door.
“Oh, brother dear?”
Fitzwilliam turned.
“Do you suppose,” Langston said, leg thrown over the chair arm, his hand half-raised as if conducting an orchestra, “that one day they shall tell stories of the Fitzwilliam twins, men grown—one mad, one merciless?”
Fitzwilliam adjusted his gloves. “If they do, let them argue which is which.”
Behind him, Langston laughed—once—then again.
* * *
Matlock House, November 1807
From the landing he heard Smythe’s voice below.
“The Waltons, my lady.”
A pause. Then his mother’s calm: “Show them in.”
By the time Fitzwilliam crossed the corridor, the parlour door stood open. His sisters rose to greet their guests—two sleek young men and a girl who hid behind a fan like a veil. The women curtseyed; his mother inclined her head. Polite laughter—thin, dutiful—followed.
He passed on. There was no reason to linger. He had business in the mews with Bill—one of the bays had gone light in the near fore, and Tattersall’s next auction would settle whether they replaced or bred.
When he returned some minutes later, the air had changed.
The laughter was gone. Through the half-open door he saw Eleanor motionless on the sofa, Phoebe rigid beside her.
Their faces bore the mark of something that could not be unsaid.
The Walton brothers were making their bows, smiles too long, too smooth.
Miss Walton’s eyes flickered between his sisters and the carpet.
He halted in the shadow of the corridor. The door remained open. The silence that followed was alive.
Then his mother’s voice, cool and exact: “That was a very poor showing. You scarcely spoke.”
Ellie answered, wavering. “Mama, they said—”
Phoebe cut across her. “They said we were too gentle to hold a gentleman’s interest.” A sharp breath. “That softness was fit for other purposes.”
A brittle pause.
“I beg your pardon?” Lady Matlock’s tone snapped like steel.
“They spoke of our hands,” Ellie whispered. “They said softness was best proved where no one need see.”
Another silence. He could almost picture his mother’s fan opening, the controlled breath before reprimand.
“That was not courtship,” she said. “That was licence. You were not meant to answer it.”
“How can we not?” Phoebe’s anger flared. “They meant to insult us.”
“They meant to unsettle you,” came the reply. “Their sister fights for consequence she does not possess, and those whelps imagine mischief will raise her higher. Do not grant them the satisfaction.”
Ellie’s voice broke. “But must you let it stand?”
Fitzwilliam’s jaw tightened. This was Langston’s doing. Seeing it was different.
The cost stood in front of him.
He stepped from the shadowed hall. “It shall not.”
Lady Matlock turned so abruptly the fan slipped against her palm. “Richard—? You are not expected.”
He crossed the threshold gloves in hand. “No, Mother.”
He met her gaze. “I was meant to see this.”