Chapter 2
T he house of the Marquess of Pentaghast was just the same as Silas remembered it from growing up here.
It was cold, for one, sophisticated without ever allowing tenderness inside.
His memories here were mostly unpleasant.
There was the loneliness, the isolation, the fear, the pain and the absolute knowledge that as the marquess’s illegitimate son, he didn’t belong.
He almost felt like that child again as he stood in the front parlor, nursing a whisky he’d poured for himself while he waited.
It didn’t take the edge off nearly enough.
“Mr. Windham?”
Silas turned toward the butler watching him from the door. The same one who had served his father, it seemed. Hateful creature who had always treated him as what he was…or perhaps what he wasn’t. “What is it, Russell?”
“Lord Pentaghast will see you,” Russell said, and then shifted with what seemed to be discomfort. “However, he is abed, sir, and you will have to meet with him in his chamber.”
Silas blinked at that revelation. His brother had never been so informal. “Is it…is it that bad?”
For a moment, true worry crossed the butler’s expression. “I-I cannot say, sir.”
Silas wasn’t certain if he meant he wasn’t allowed to share, he didn’t know, or he feared too much to repeat. Whatever the answer, it was disquieting. Silas smoothed his jacket and said, “I see. Well, if Charles will see me in the chamber, I’ll meet him there.”
“I’ll escort you,” Russell said.
Silas tilted his head. “I know where the chamber is.”
There was a moment of quiet, of memory for them both. Then the butler surprised him by executing a small bow. “Of course.”
He exited the room, freeing Silas to do as he would. He wanted to move, wanted to go up and get this over with, but his feet didn’t seem to be capable of going forward at present. He finished his drink, took a shaky breath and forced them to do so.
Just as the parlor was the same, the rest of the house also remained unchanged.
He made his way down the winding halls and up the large staircase to the private chambers.
The family rooms were to the left at the top.
His had been to the right. A guest in the home he’d been raised in after his father dragged him from his mother.
What did that room look like now? Was any remnant of him left here or had his brother erased them all in the last six years?
He blinked and made himself turn left, past the doors to his siblings’ rooms. Portia’s first, then Reggie’s and finally the room Charles had inhabited when he lived here and eventually when he came to visit after he’d reached his majority.
At the end of the hall was the big room. That was what Silas had called it as a boy. The prick’s chamber was what he’d called it later. He flinched and lifted his hand to the carved double door and finally managed to force himself to knock.
There was a hesitation and then the door opened to reveal a servant. Charles’ valet, perhaps. Like Russell, he appeared pale and worried.
“Mr. Windham,” he said softly. “The marquess is ready for you.”
He motioned to the open door on the left side of the antechamber. Silas nodded at the man and then made his way across the room where he’d received so many punishments over the years and into the bedchamber that had once been his father’s.
It also looked the same. It seemed even after all these years, Charles was too afraid or meek to change anything in the house, down to the bedclothes. But that wasn’t the main thing that Silas noticed. It was the man himself who drew all his attention.
Charles was fifteen years older than Silas. That was bound to happen when one was the bastard half-brother stolen from his mother as a child and raised amongst the real children. When Silas had last seen him, he’d been in his late thirties, the morning he’d become marquess.
He’d aged far more than half a decade since. He looked like he was in his sixties now, not his mid-forties. In fact, he looked just like their late father. He also was pale and frail, too thin and stretched by whatever illness plagued him.
“Silas,” he said softly, Charles’s gaze flicking over him from head to toe.
It was not the same green as Silas’s. No, he’d inherited that from his mother.
Charles had their father’s eyes, as did the rest of his siblings, though the result of that gaze was somehow softer.
Kinder? Silas wasn’t certain. “You are here.”
Silas cleared his throat and inclined his head. “I was called here, my lord.”
Charles stiffened a little and an almost imperceptible twitch rippled across his cheek. “Is that the only reason?”
Silas bent his head. “What is it you want me to say, Charles? Should I pretend away the past for you? When we last saw each other, we had a falling out. I left as you asked me to. I now return as you ask me to. I am, apparently, your servant.” He cleared his throat.
“But I’m also still not what you wish me to be.
And I’m still a bastard. So here we are. ”
Charles didn’t respond, but darted his gaze away. He cleared his throat and then began to cough, something raw and painful-sounding.
Silas found himself taking a step closer to this brother. “Can I do anything?”
When the fit ended, Charles shook his head.
“How are you?”
His brother spit into a handkerchief before he said, “They tell me the worst is over, but I’ve felt better a few times before and the illness returned.”
Despite his complicated feelings for this man and the title he now held, anxiety still worked through Silas at that statement.
Charles had been out of the house by the time Silas had been brought in.
He’d not had a relationship with him like he’d had with Reggie, who’d lived at home for a year after Silas made his appearance.
Or Portia, whom he was closest to. But when his mother died, Charles had been kind about it.
At least until their father ordered him to stop speaking about the topic.
Silas blinked. “I’m not certain why you wished me to come here.”
“Wasn’t it Portia who asked you?”
“Yes.” Silas gritted his teeth. “She told me it was on your behest. If you’re telling me I sailed thousands of miles for nothing, that will be of great irritation to me.”
“God forbid you be irritated,” Charles muttered.
Silas folded his arms. “If you’re about to imply that I was the spoiled one of the four of us, I would remind you that I never had the advantages of your name, only the disadvantage of being despised by almost everyone in this house.”
Charles jerked his head up and the two brothers locked gazes for a long moment. Years of hurt flowed there, too sharp for Silas, drawing him back to long stretches when he’d had no power. He didn’t want to return to those days.
He smoothed his jacket. “Charlie, I’m here.
You’re obviously unwell and I shouldn’t make it worse by arguing.
Why don’t you think about exactly what it is you want me to do and I’ll return in a few days to check on you?
I’m letting a place on Camberley Park, I’ll leave the address with Russell if you have need of me. ”
He moved to the door but not quickly, allowing his brother time to call him back if he wished to do so. He didn’t. So Silas sighed and turned without being asked.
“I do hate that you’re ill, Charlie,” he said. “For whatever that’s worth. Good night.”
“Good night, Silas,” Charles said softly, and let him go.
But as Silas made his way back through the house of his nightmares, his hands shook. How he hated what this place and these people made him feel. And he knew one way to take the edge off it all.
* * *
W hen Arabella had marched herself to Simone Stanhope’s fine London townhouse and demanded she be trained in the arts of a courtesan, she had walked away from everything in her old life.
Her father had cut her off in a rage so deep it still terrified her.
Her sisters had been, albeit briefly, torn away from her.
She’d lost her clothes and her money and everything but her own wits and charms.
Except for, that was, Aunt Caroline. Although Caroline had cautioned her against what she’d done, although she hadn’t ever been able to support her financially or risk the consequences of a public connection, she had never withheld her love of Arabella.
Nor of Evelina and Julia when they’d joined Arabella in London and on her chosen path.
These suppers, like the one Arabella was currently attending, were a monthly occurrence between the women. A little glimpse back at the life they’d all departed and a way to keep in contact with the aunt they all treasured.
“Aunt Caroline,” Julia was saying. “Did you ever determine why your book kept getting moved from its place in the library?”
Caroline laughed. “It was my maid, Peg. She thought I had finished that one because the title was so similar to the next by the author. She thought another servant must be sneaking a read of it and kept putting it away. It’s all resolved now.”
“It’s disappointing it wasn’t a ghost after all,” Evelina said with a sigh.
“You were the only one who ever considered that possibility,” Arabella said. “And it’s because you read far too many gothic novels yourself.”
“You sound like Harry now,” Evelina said. “He keeps trying to convince me to stop reading them. He even threatens to empty my library.”
“He says he’ll take your books?” Arabella asked, unable to keep the sharpness from her tone.
Julia shot her a look and then burst out, “Did either of you tell Aunt Caroline that Simone gave her regards?”