Chapter Twenty-Seven
Alexander crossed his legs and took in Damon, waving at Barstow. “A brandy, Uncle?”
“Yes, thank you.” He looked askance at Alexander. “You won’t be joining me?”
“I’m enjoying this fine, French vintage.” He held up his glass of well-watered wine. Terrible tasting. He’d no desire to indulge further which was the point. Alexander could sip on one glass the entire evening and no one was the wiser, but brandy? He was deeply afraid he’d drink an entire bottle.
“You detest wine.”
“I’ve acquired a taste for it as of late. The duchess approves. Tell me about Oakhurst.” Alexander wanted answers. Why hadn’t Damon told him he suspected Oakhurst of such deceit?
“I’d hoped—that is to say, I meant to tell you of my suspicions,” Damon paused. “But I wasn’t certain, not for some time. I didn’t want to bother you with it. And frankly, I could hardly believe it myself. I confronted him—” Damon’s words grew thick. “I think he hoped the trollop at that brothel—”
Alexander’s eyes widened. Oakhurst tried to have him murdered?
“At any rate, the girl admitted as much to the man I had following Oakhurst about. I hadn’t thought he’d flee abroad so quickly. Or that Lady Maxwell was helping him. And then you compromised Canterbell’s daughter and I had more pressing matters than chasing Oakhurst.”
The scent of the brandy filled Alexander’s nose. If ever there was a time to have a brandy, it was now. Finding out your closest friend not only stole from you, but also planned to have you killed would make anyone drink.
But Sophie would be disappointed.
I wish to never disappoint her.
“You were already at The Pillory when I received word that Oakhurst was in France. My man was searching for him, and I was so distraught over the entire affair, I thought I would do a little trout fishing to clear my mind after everything that had happened. I could have sworn I told Lady Falmouth of my whereabouts.”
Alexander said nothing for a moment. “He sent me a letter. Oakhurst. Confessed everything.”
Damon placed a hand on Alexander’s arm. “At least he was honorable at the end. I’m truly sorry. I should have told you of my suspicions. But, frankly, I’d hoped you’d never find out. He betrayed you horribly.”
“You never did like him.” Alexander gave a bitter laugh.
“No. I never did. He hung off your coattails. Encouraged your poor behavior. And now it appears I’ve failed you again in the matter of your unwanted duchess. She’s manipulated you, hasn’t she?” Damon shook his head. “Cut from the same cloth as your mother, Marianne.”
Alexander heartily disagreed.
Sophie was the only thing that had ever eased the lonely ache inside him, that vast hole inside that spirits, trollops and cards used to fill.
Her presence calmed him. Aroused him. Made him…
purposeful. Sophie did not treat him like an overgrown child, plying him with liquor and indulging his every whim, something he decided not to point out to his uncle.
If anything, Alexander’s wife was a small, plump force of nature who refused to back down, even when they argued.
Flippant. Disobedient. Terrible. And Sophia had absolutely no reservations when it came to the marital bed.
If anything, Alexander found her to be highly creative and open to any manner of suggestion.
“She isn’t,” Alexander said softly. “Manipulating me.”
“You’re a poor judge of character, nephew. Just look at Oakhurst.” Damon sipped his brandy, something unkind flickering in his eyes. “I’m sure her ruination was well planned. I’ll try to fix it, but I’m not sure if I can. It’s obvious you’ve bedded her.”
“The ruination was not a grand scheme, Uncle. Sophie was as much a victim of circumstance as I. Nor does it matter any longer.”
I love her. Madly, as it happens. Who knew I was capable of such emotion?
“She failed to inform me about your accident.” Damon’s lips pursed. “Deliberately, I think.”
Well, that much was true. “I’ll remind you, Uncle, that you weren’t in London, thus it would not have mattered if she wrote you right away or not.”
“Bah,” Damon waved his hand. “You could have died, Alexander, and I wouldn’t have known. Her behavior is deceitful. Possibly…murderous.”
“Are you suggesting Sophia had something to do with the attack on my carriage?” Alexander laughed. “You’ve got to be joking. She would never do such a thing.”
Damon swallowed down the brandy in his glass.
“She is capable. How could you be so stupid? I warned you not to bed her or I would not be able to secure an annulment. There might be another way, perhaps. I will not allow you to—perish in the same manner as your father. At the mercy of a scheming woman. One who seeks to control our dukedom. Send her away.”
“Hmm.” Alexander watched as his uncle fretted over Sophia, annoyed. Damon was not his keeper. And Sophia might murder him one day, but she’d be blunt about it.
Control. That was what this entire conversation was about. What Damon Viceroy was about.
Freeman stated plainly that Damon reviewed every line of every ledger.
He knew where every pound went, which is likely how he discovered Oakhurst’s thievery.
But why not confront Oakhurst sooner? Why allow him to do more damage?
And while Alexander was grateful for his uncle’s oversight and appreciated his counsel, Damon was not the Duke of Roxboro.
The estate did not belong to him. Roxboro was Alexander’s birthright.
And I mean to make it my own.
“I promise you, Uncle. Should I suspect Sophia of any deceit, you will be the first to know. I’ll have her drawn and quartered on the lawn.”
“This isn’t a jest, Alexander.”
“I am quite satisfied in my marriage.” An edge of command bled into his words, unintended, but there all the same. You could dictate to a sot, but not a duke.
Damon’s face reddened. “You don’t mean that.” He placed a hand to his forehead. “This is the same as Charles. Again, I must relive it. Marianne had him convinced as well of her affection. Do not be stupid, Alexander. The girl has ambitions.”
Alexander’s lips pressed together, afraid of what he might say.
“You will not disparage Sophia to me. I realize I’ve given you every reason to treat me as a child, but I am no longer your libertine of a nephew who stumbles about inviting disaster.
I am not stupid. Cease behaving as if I can barely feed myself without your direction. ” He slapped the arm of the chair.
Damon fell back, sputtering.
Interesting. I’ve never seen him at a loss for words before.
Damon had raised Alexander as his own. Given him Aunt May, Violet and Rose to be his family.
But Damon had also kept him isolated save for Oakhurst. Ignorant of matters Alexander should be familiar with, out of the need to protect him.
He understood, he did. Damon had loved his older brother Charles and despaired endlessly that he had not stopped his murder.
But Sophia was not Marianne.
“No, of course not. It is only that—” he turned away. “I do not wish to lose you as I did your father. It would be the end of me, Alexander. I couldn’t bear it. You are…my son.” His face fell between his palms. “I simply could not bear it.”
“I know, Uncle.” Alexander stood. “But I am the Duke of Roxboro, and it is time I behaved as such.” He placed a hand on Damon’s shoulder. “I would be lost without you and your guidance, but I have matters well in hand. I’ve met with Freeman.”
Damon lifted his chin. “Freeman? He came to The Pillory?”
“Yes, and I’ve explained that I will be handling my affairs with your guidance.
I don’t want to—disregard everything you have done for me.
I am deeply appreciative. Nor could I continue without your help,” Alexander said in a rush.
“I am not my father, Damon. Nor is Sophia Marianne. Besides, stepping back from my affairs finally allows you the chance to pursue your ambitions in politics, which you have put aside on my behalf for far too long. Lord Canterbell can be a useful ally, don’t you think?
Prime Minister Viceroy has an excellent ring to it. ”
“It does,” Damon agreed, pouring another glass of brandy. “I—suppose it’s time. If you’re sure.”
“I am,” Alexander insisted. “Now, your rooms are ready. Barstow will bring you something to eat. We can talk more in the morning.”