Chapter 26
The next morning, George sat in his study – as he did every morning to go over estate business – unable to stop from thinking of the goings on of the day before.
His visit to Fernworth had not gone as planned.
He had anticipated telling Cecelia the truth, had wished with all his heart to do so, and yet, upon seeing Lord Greystone there and how shaken Cecelia was over her sister’s accident, he had decided the time hadn’t been right.
How could he possibly have placed that upon her when she was already suffering on all sides?
Yet now, he couldn’t help wondering, would his admittance of such feelings really have added to her suffering?
In truth, he wasn’t entirely sure what her reaction might have been, and perhaps that was what had really stopped him, not the fact that Lord Greystone might have borne witness to his declaration or that Lady Westmere might have found some fault in him.
No, it was that Cecelia herself might have rejected every word that came out of his mouth as some vain attempt to try to stop her from living her own life, to stop her from going through with whatever plans she might have towards the viscount.
How might he come back from such a thing? How might he get her to believe him when, in truth, he couldn’t quite believe his feelings himself.
Leaning back in his chair, he exhaled deeply, running his fingers through his hair before holding his head in his hands.
Maybe, just maybe, even after all his heroics at the lake, he really was the coward everyone had claimed him to be all along.
He gritted his teeth, grinding them miserably as he tried to come up with some solution, some plan to stop himself from going utterly insane with lack of action.
Just as he had begun to consider going for a ride to clear his mind, he heard the loud thud of the brass door knocker on the front door rumbling through the house.
A glance at the grandfather clock in the corner of the room told him it was still early, far too early for friendly visitors, and his stomach twisted.
The shuffling of footsteps down the hall told him that his butler was already on his way to the door, and yet, George slipped from his chair and crossed the room to open the study door.
“We must speak with the duke immediately!”
The tone of Walter’s voice made George’s spine stiffen, a cold shiver running down the length of it as he gripped the door handle just a little tighter.
For a second, he thought of closing the door, blocking out whatever was coming his way this time.
He stopped only when he heard Walter add, “This is Henry Beaumont, and he has information the duke needs to hear.”
The last time George had heard Henry’s name uttered, the conversation had turned to Lord Greystone.
Though a part of him wished never to hear the man’s name uttered again, he knew what that might mean, never seeing nor hearing of Cecelia again, either.
Were they to forever align themselves in marriage, he would never find himself in her presence again; he was almost certain of that.
Something in Lord Greystone’s gaze the day before had said as much.
And though George had been unable to find the moment or the words to tell Cecelia the truth, he wasn’t at all ready to give up on her just yet.
He pulled the study door open the rest of the way just as his butler started to say, “His grace is working and is not to be dist—”
“It is alright,” George said, marching down the hall to the foyer beyond, where – through an archway – he saw Walter, Henry, and, surprisingly, his solicitor, Mr Stephen Browning.
Both Henry and Browning looked uncomfortable, almost as if they had been dragged there by the ear, and George got the sense that whatever they had to impart, it was nothing good.
“Let them through,” George insisted as the butler and all three of the men before him dropped into bows at the sound of his voice.
“Your Grace,” Henry said, sounding a little nervous, his head still bowed. “Please, forgive us the disruption. We can return at a better time.”
“Nonsense, Henry!” George insisted. He hurried forward, grabbed the old man, and hugged him as if they were brothers. In a way, they were: brothers in arms and friends since school. He clapped him haughtily on the back as he added, “It is good to see you!”
He felt the man relax in his arms, and Henry finally returned his embrace. Yet, when George pulled away, he still looked quite pale.
“Come now,” George insisted, tapping him on the shoulder, “we are old friends. Why do you look at me so?”
“Henry seems to think you’re all high and mighty now that you have inherited your father’s title, and he does not wish to be seen as a bother,” Walter said, nudging their friend in his side with his elbow. “I told him you would most certainly wish to hear what he has to say.”
“And you, Mr Browning?” George asked, turning to the solicitor who remained in the back of the group, his gaze at the floor, his spectacles hanging low on his nose. “Why is it that you darken my doorstep, sir?”
Mr Browning nervously cleared his throat, pushing his spectacles up his nose as he lifted his pocketbook and said, “I umm … I have the evidence you may require, Your Grace.”
“Evidence?” George echoed, stepping back. He blinked in surprise. “This does sound serious.”
Gesturing back the way he had come, he added, “Come. We will talk in the study.” He looked to the butler and added, “See that we are not disturbed.”
The man dipped his head, taking each of the visitors’ coats and hats before they all shuffled into the study behind George.
“What is all of this about?” George asked the moment he had clicked the door closed behind him.
Walter needed only to utter one word for George to immediately be alert: “Fitzwilliam.”
George’s throat constricted. He shoved his hands into his pockets in an attempt to hide how he stiffened. “You mean, Greystone?”
It was Henry who responded, though not in words. Instead, he made a point of spitting as if the mere name was disrespect itself.
Stunned by Henry’s out-of-character gesture – remembering what a mild-mannered and polite gentleman he had always been – he blinked at his friend and waited for further explanation.
“Forgive me, Your Grace, but there has never been a man less deserving of a title,” Henry said, his entire body trembling visibly.
“Please, sit,” George insisted, waving his arm to indicate the several seating options for the other men, “explain.”
George took to his own seat behind the desk once more, his hands hidden beneath its surface to hide the way his fists began to clench as Henry started to tell his story.
“Fitzwilliam is a liar, a coward, and a criminal,” he said as all the men took to their seats. “He is a smuggler and a blackmailer, and perhaps everything in between.”
Walter and Mr Browning sat with their heads bowed as Henry explained how he had been acquaintances with people in association with Fitzwilliam, people who had trusted him and been betrayed by him, people who he had used to fund and work an illegal alcohol smuggling operation, using extortion, blackmail and all other manner of things to get the right men in the right positions to do his bidding with the help of several high-ranking British officers.
The more that George heard, the more his nausea began to rise.
And just when he finally thought he was finished, Walter added for him, “And that is not the worst of it.” He looked between Henry and George and back again. “Tell him how he came to be a viscount.”
“He did something heroic in the war,” George said quickly. “I don’t need to hear about all of that again. Lady Westmere has been practically bashful about mentioning it whenever she hints at her daughter’s marriage to the man.”
“That’s just it, Your Grace,” Henry said, and George wished he could tell him to stop calling him that, but he feared if he did, his friend might clam up. “Fitzwilliam never did anything heroic in the war. Quite the opposite, actually.”
“So Fitzwilliam did not rescue Lieutenant General Godfrey when he was left unconscious and bleeding on the battlefield?” George questioned.
He had heard the story a hundred times of how Fitzwilliam had dragged the man three miles from the battlefield, making it within metres of a medic tent before he himself succumbed from exhaustion.
Godfrey’s close ties with the crown, and his life being of great value to the royal family, whose blood he shared, had been what had led to Fitzwilliam gaining his title, and had even earned him a small estate to go along with it.
Henry shook his head.
“How do you know this?”
“I was there,” Henry said, dipping his head as if he couldn’t meet George’s eyes for a moment, “in the medic tent, receiving treatment for my own injuries. From my position, I could see right out of the tent when Godfrey was dragged to where they found him. It was not Fitzwilliam who dragged him there.”
“How can you be certain?” George asked. If this were true, if Fitzwilliam had lied about saving a man – any man, not just one with ties to the crown – he was perhaps the lowest of the low.
“Because I knew the man who did,” Henry said, and when he looked at George, there was such sadness in his eyes. “Samuel was a good man, a poor man, a hero. He rescued several dozen men on the battlefield that day, including myself, before he himself was laid low.”
“Why did you not shine light on this before?” George demanded, his hand tightened into a fist that he had to try so hard not to slam down on the desk.
“I am just one man,” Henry pointed out, shrugging. “No name, no title, no fortune or rank to make anyone listen—”
“Then why come forward now?” George asked, his frustration growing. Though he believed his friend, he also knew he was right. A man with no title or reputation could never hope to stand alone against a viscount, even one of an honorary title.