Chapter Three
Felix made the short trek from his chamber to the main staircase, and from there down to the dining room.
And the entire time, he looked neither right nor left.
He kept his gaze focused firmly ahead of him.
He had learned long ago that to glance from the corner of one’s eye or to peer into the shadows at Hayton House posed its own unique kind of danger.
It was a house that tortured one’s imagination.
It offered glimpses of things that could not and should not be.
And he was a man of reason. If he were anywhere else in all of England, and you asked him if he believed in spirits or hauntings or specters or any other fantastical thing, he would say—quite firmly—no.
But if he were standing on the grounds, or God help him, inside Hayton House, and you asked that same question, he would not be so quick to answer.
All he wanted was to get this weekend over with—to get through the reading of the will, to get through the service, and to find out what Miss Fortune’s decision would be regarding the contingencies of his aunt’s will. Because her choice would ultimately dictate his future.
As he reached the dining room, he heard voices from within and knew that the Denworthys had already gathered.
He hoped, for their sake, that neither Miss Fortune nor Miss Burnham had already arrived.
He didn’t like the way Alistair had looked at either of the young women, but Miss Burnham especially seemed to have caught his eye—and his attention was almost never wanted or welcomed.
In fact, there had been numerous occasions in his younger days when it had been left to Felix to clean up some scandal or other that one of the Denworthy boys had created.
And he had done so for the love of his aunt, to spare her the scandal her wretched stepchildren would bring to their name.
He had wanted to spare her those indignities.
A well-placed bribe, a strategic offer of restitution, aid in getting someone a job or a new place to live—all of those things had been done in order to keep Alistair and Archibald from facing the consequences of their own actions. And those sins were now on his head.
Opening the door, he stepped inside and saw that it was only the Denworthys. Neither of the young ladies had joined them just yet. He breathed a sigh of relief.
It was Amaris who spoke to him first. “Good evening, my lord. You seem quite pleased with yourself, now that you’re lord of this desolate manor. Tell me, do you intend to live at Hayton House, or will you return to your country estate when all is said and done?”
Felix seated himself at the head of the table, as was his due by right of his title, and when he answered, it was not in the way she had imagined.
“I believe that is really none of your concern. Whether I choose to live here, or whether I choose to return to Essex, has no bearing on you. In fact, once Aunt Edith’s will is read, I will consider myself quite pleased to be firmly shed of all three of you. ”
It was as if he had thrown down a gauntlet. All of them turned on him then.
“You’ve no right to speak to us that way,” Archibald said.
Alistair just stared quietly, with the menace he always seemed to project.
Felix faced them unflinchingly. “I have every right. And there will be no further cover-ups. There will be no further sweeping under the rug of your misdeeds if you decide to indulge in the same sort of wretched and immoral behaviors that you have in the past. I will not be paying to get you out of them. I will not be doing whatever is necessary, nor using the power of my title, to spare you the consequences of your actions. I did that only for my aunt—to spare her the scandal of being attached to such individuals as you, even by marriage. But she is gone now, and I am under no such obligation to continue.”
*
Caris took note of the tension the moment she entered the dining room.
It was clear to see that the Denworthys and the viscount had squared off, but she wasn’t certain which one of them was the aggressor.
Normally, she would have placed her money firmly on the Denworthys.
They loved a good fight—spoiled for one all the time, in fact.
But there was something in the rather obstinate set of the viscount’s jaw—already squared, rough-hewn. It was positively challenging in its tension. Perhaps the Denworthys were not the only ones who were spoiling for a fight.
She glanced over at Grace to see that her friend and companion had taken note of the same very uncomfortable circumstances. Neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to.
Mr. Fitzsimmons appeared, his gaze darting around the room, encompassing everything. “Ah, I think we’ve all grown true to form—everyone at one another’s throats and ready to commit bloody murder. Lovely. You should make for a fine evening and a most enjoyable meal.”
The viscount spoke then. “Miss Fortune, Miss Burnham, please take your seats. We will get this farce of an evening meal over with and move on to the reading of the will, so that we can put all this behind us.”
Caris nodded. “Certainly, my lord, I would be most pleased to do so.”
They stepped deeper into the room, each of them taking their assigned seats.
It rankled no small amount to be seated so far at the end of the table.
The viscount sat at the head, Archibald to his right, Amaris to his left, and Alistair directly beside Amaris.
Mr. Fitzsimmons sat next to Archibald, and she and Grace occupied the other end of the table, seated across from one another with one empty seat between Grace and Alistair.
No doubt that was by design. The only woman safe in his presence was his sister, after all.
Course after course of the meal was served, and for every single one, each person consumed less and less—not because they were full, not because their appetites had been satiated, but because their appetites had been utterly ruined by the company they were all forced to keep.
When the last dish had been cleared away, Mr. Fitzsimmons broke the stony silence once more.
“We will adjourn to the study, if you will, please. Let’s just get on with it, shall we?
We’ll read the will, and everyone may discuss to their heart’s content how slighted they feel by it.
I will assure you that it is unimpeachable, an unbreakable document by its very design.
Your aunt saw to it that every ‘i’ was dotted and every ‘t’ was crossed.
Her illness may have weakened her body, but if anything, it sharpened her mind.
I suppose”—he glanced at the dinner guests—“because it made her aware of just how vulnerable she was. After all, if ever there is a time to keep one’s wits about them, it’s when weakened and in the midst of those who cannot be trusted. ”
With that, they all rose and made their way to the study. All seven of them moving like they were being marched to the gallows.