Chapter Nine
Eric settled his battered body onto the soft squabs across from Fletcher.
For a moment, he considered asking the man how an investigator could afford to own such a fine vehicle.
But what was the point? It wasn’t any of his concern, and in the long run, he didn’t give a whit about Hugh Fletcher’s carriage.
Maybe Fletcher was rolling in blunt because he was married to Lord Chesterhill’s daughter. Or perhaps the marquess paid him handsomely to search for his bastards.
Eric scoffed at his ridiculous thoughts.
Why was he still brooding when he didn’t give even half a shite about Fletcher’s finances?
His association with this family was for one thing, and one thing only—his share of their massive pile of riches.
He had no intention of spending any of the douceur on himself.
However, he would swallow his pride so that he could free everyone who worked at The Pink Petal.
“Bloody hell.” Fletcher leaned forward to examine Eric’s face. “Someone beat the shite out of you last night.”
Earlier, when Eric had looked in the mirror, he’d averted his gaze so as not to stare at the burst blood vessel in his eye.
Although difficult to look at, it was hardly a serious injury.
But his nose? The damnable thing was probably broken.
He ran his thumb across the bridge, sucking up the sting.
And his jaw looked like someone had taken a hunk of wood to it.
“Who did you fight last night?” Fletcher asked.
“Thumbs McCartney.”
“Heard he is a decent up-and-coming fighter,” Fletcher said, “Who won?”
Eric folded his arms over his chest and closed his eyes. “Me.”
Chesterhill Manor was practically a palace. Ornate, massive, and extravagant. Despite its grandeur, Eric did not favor the ostentatious country house in the least. Give him a small cottage surrounded by trees, and he’d be as content as an ape with a banana.
He and Fletcher followed a man wearing livery through the foyer and up a curving staircase. Once they reached the third floor, the bloke escorted them into a brown and cream-colored study. A gentleman with wiry gray hair sat behind a stately desk. His monocle toppled from his fingers as he rose.
Good day, my lord,” Fletcher said. “As I promised, Eric Stone, The Stone to the fancy. Stone, may I present your father, Alexander Beckett, the Marquess of Chesterhill.”
His father. His. Bloody. Father.
Eric stood face to face with the fuckrat who’d abandoned him, and he felt nothing. No connection. No affection. Just a hollow numbness. Not even a mandate from heaven would induce Eric to return the marquess’s smile.
“Please sit,” Lord Chesterhill said. “Warrington, a round of whiskey, please.”
Eric held up a staying hand. “Water.”
He and Fletcher sat across from the aristocrat, who regarded Eric with unfettered curiosity, his gaze seeming to flick over Eric’s injured eye, then travel the length of his nose.
“Eric had a mill last night,” Fletcher said.
“Ah, I see.” The marquess clapped. “I wager you won, because Chesterhill blood flows through your veins.”
He’d won because he worked his arse off training. Ignoring his desire to throttle the arrogant pile of ancient dung, Eric shifted in his seat.
“I’m sure Fletcher has filled you in on the gift I am offering you,” the marquess said. “You no longer have to take a beating to put a roof over your head.”
“I enjoy fighting,” Eric said, his tone icy and flat. Perfect really, since this was precisely how he’d intended it to sound.
The marquess waved a hand. “Then by all means, continue fighting. Hire yourself the best coaches.”
Eric scowled. He already had the best coach in London, as long as he didn’t terminate Calder Valentine for sticking his much-too-concerned nose in his business.
Warrington, who must be a butler, not that Eric knew much about such things, handed glasses to each of them before taking his leave. The marquess studied Eric with an intense scrutiny while he sipped his drink. Returning an equally earnest perusal, Eric chugged his water.
The marquess tapped his fingers on his desk. “I believe Fletcher explained why I want to meet you.”
“He did,” Eric said.
“Splendid, splendid,” the marquess said. “I am grateful that you agreed to come. I intend to make up for my past flippancy with a generous gift to be spent however you see fit.”
In what world was abandoning a woman carrying your child mere flippancy? The gift had better be bloody generous and available instantly since Eric had agreed to endure this humiliation. He sucked on his cheek to keep from spouting a string of blasphemies.
“I suppose you are angry with me,” the marquess said. “You probably want to know why I waited until now to reach out to you.”
This wasn’t any great mystery. Chesterhill was your typical selfish aristocrat who went through life doing whatever he wanted without facing the consequences. Eric shrugged.
“I was young and foolish,” the marquess said.
No shite.
“My conscience seems to have awoken these last few years. Although, in my defense, long ago, I offered to set your mother up and ensure you had a comfortable life. However, she declined.”
It was as if toxic venom shot up Eric’s esophagus. “She did not decline your offer. She couldn’t read, and knowing how loyal my mother was, she didn’t ask anyone to decipher the note because she was trying to keep your relationship secret. To protect you. And then she was murdered.”
Unshed tears misted the marquess’s eyes. “Fletcher told me. Utterly heartbreaking. Poor Cleopatra.”
The man could dispense with the theatrics. His callous actions proved he’d never cared for his mother. “Her name was Celine,” Eric hissed.
The marquess exhaled, then nodded in what appeared to be humble acquiescence. “According to Fletcher, her killer was never brought to justice.”
“I will find him, and I will ensure he pays for what he did.” A moment after his declaration, Eric balked. There was no point in admitting his intentions to a man who clearly didn’t care.
“Fletcher is at your disposal,” the marquess said. “He is the best investigator in England. There isn’t a puzzle he can’t solve or a person or item he can’t find.”
Dumbfounded, Eric blinked. Was he truly to have assistance in his search?
The marquess opened the ledger sitting on his desk and wrote a notation. “Fletcher, make this your number one priority. I’ve added your fee to this month’s payment.”
“Yes, sir.” Fletcher stood. “I promised Charlotte I’d be home tonight. As soon as the horses rest, I’ll be on my way.”
“Please tell her I miss her,” the marquess said. “Be sure to stop by the kitchen before you head out. You never know when a winter storm will delay travel, and you don’t want to have an empty stomach.”
“Thank you, sir.” Fletcher downed the rest of his whiskey and placed the glass on the sideboard. He caught Eric’s gaze. “I’ll be in touch the moment I learn anything about your mother.”
“By the by, the man you are looking for is missing fingers,” Eric said. “The night I saw him, he had a dark mustache and sideburns. I assume he is probably gray by now.” If he was even alive.
Fletcher nodded. “That is actually quite helpful.” He strolled out of the room, leaving Eric alone with the marquess.
Awkwardness hung heavily as Eric studied his father, searching for a hint of companionable sentiment.
Eric was still quietly searching when a man about his age entered the study. “I just spoke with Fletcher. I hear you are my newest sibling,” he said.
Eric did a double take. It was as if he were looking into a mirror.
Although not quite as muscular, this visitor had Eric’s tall, lean build.
They had the same square jaw and heavy brow.
Before Eric’s nose had been broken, they even had the same straight nose.
If it weren’t for their different coloring, they could pass as siblings, which made sense, since they apparently were brothers.
Grinning, the man thrust his hand in Eric’s direction. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Alexander.”
They even had the same toothy grin, although this man was much better at smiling than Eric. Feeling the first inklings of kinship since he’d arrived, Eric shook his hand.
“Eric, this is my heir,” the marquess declared, as if he needed to remind Eric of his place.
Of course, there was no need for this because Eric knew without question that he was an illegitimate child born to an unloved prostitute.
“Alexander, this is your half-brother, Eric Stone, a champion pugilist.”
“A pugilist?” Grinning, the younger Alexander pointed at Eric’s eye. “I hope your opponent got his just dues.”
Thumbs was probably still seeing double. Eric grunted.
“I also hope you will spend the next couple of days with us,” his half-brother said. “In all honesty, when Father first undertook this mission, I was none too happy. Horrified, to be precise. But I find that his quest seems to be doing his health good, and for that, I’m exceedingly grateful.”
Guilt turned a man’s soul black, but his supposed father’s torment was not Eric’s concern, and he would not carry the weight of this horrible excuse for a parent’s health on his shoulders.
“I have held up my part of the bargain,” Eric said. “I’ll be leaving in the morning, hopefully with the blunt I was promised.”
Frowning, the younger Alexander nodded. “I understand your reluctance to stay. I might do the same in your shoes. However, please know that you are welcome. Any time. At least you are staying long enough to enjoy our evening meal. The women are insisting we play charades after dinner. Our father is rather terrible.” Alexander chuckled.
“I think it’s only fair that, for once, I have a decent partner. ”
Charades? Over Eric’s dead body. “No, thank you.”
“Wait until you meet Emily and Juliet,” the marquess said. “You won’t be able to say no. They are quite persuasive.”
Eric must be hearing things, because it sure as hell sounded like the marquess had just said, Juliet.
“Emily is my wife, and Juliet is her sister,” Alexander said. “Juliet arrived last night, and they have been inseparable ever since.”
Surely, this couldn’t be Eric’s Juliet. There must be hundreds, maybe even thousands, of Juliets in England.
The marquess rubbed his chin. “I don’t want my concerns to leave this room, but I fear something is worrying our dear Juliet. Normally, she is so full of life. A breath of fresh air. Last night she seemed utterly defeated.”
“Marriage whim-whams if you ask me,” Alexander said. “I thank God every day that I’m not a chit. I can’t imagine being engaged to an insufferable arse like Riley. I’d run away too.”
Eric’s heartbeat stuttered then beat like a drum. There couldn’t be that many insufferable Rileys engaged to breath-of-fresh-air Juliets. This had to be his fair-haired obsession.
“I look forward to meeting the ladies,” Eric said. “And a game of charades sounds just the thing.”