Chapter Thirty-two
In London that same evening, Valentine de Luca, the Earl of Southerby, sat by the fire in Lord Mason’s study, a look of quiet satisfaction resting on his handsome face.
“Then I believe our business is concluded,” he said. “An excellent outcome, though it goes without saying my anonymity in such dealings would be appreciated.”
“As always,” Mason replied with a wry smile. “Before you go, might I persuade you to have a drink with me? There’s a delicate matter I wish to discuss.” He was already at the cabinet, lifting a decanter in silent invitation.
Southerby inclined his head. “Oh?”
“Yes, and please understand I only ask out of concern. Under ordinary circumstances, I would not involve myself in such affairs, but I do not believe these are normal circumstances.”
“Right?”
“I know you to be a man of honour, Valentine…”
“Debatable,” Southerby murmured. “Depending upon whom you ask.”
“Hmm. Quite.” Mason chuckled, handing him a drink. “Though I trust what we are about to speak of will remain between us.”
“That will depend upon the subject.”
“Lord Westland. Angus. Your friend, and my son-in-law.”
Southerby looked up slowly, studying Mason as he settled into the chair opposite.
Their acquaintance stretched back many years, forged through shared political and social interests and the occasional discreet alliance to steer events to mutual advantage.
Yet never had their dealings strayed into the personal.
“What of him?” he asked lightly, outwardly casual but inwardly alert.
“I’m concerned about him, Valentine. You may know, or perhaps not, but his father, Charles Westland, was a good friend of mine.
For his sake, and for Angus and Sylvie’s, I wish only to see them happy.
Not six weeks past, in this very room, I told Angus that Charles was one of the finest men I have ever known. ”
Southerby’s glass paused mid-air, then lowered slowly. “You… you spoke with Angus about his father?”
“Well, no. Not exactly. When I mentioned Charles, Angus shut me down very abruptly. Such a tragedy to befall a boy so young, and no doubt his aunt, Augusta McDonald, filled his head with her vicious nonsense. I thought little more of it. The circumstances of his marriage to my daughter were not how a father would wish it to be, yet I have never seen her so happy. As young and nonsensical as she may appear, skipping around with her head in the clouds half the time, Sylvie is a fiercely loyal and loving creature. Seeing them together, the way he is with her, so gentle, so patient, I truly believe he cares for her.”
“I believe he does,” Southerby murmured cautiously. “More so than he would wish to admit.”
“Indeed. I’m not normally one to meddle in such matters, although I will confess to a touch of scheming when I insisted they live together for two months before Sylvie is sent away.
I hoped proximity might encourage affection…
and I thought it was working.” He smiled wistfully.
“I, too, was the consummate bachelor before my Anne came along. Call me a sentimental fool, but twenty years of happy marriage makes one hope others share such fortune. If I believed Angus was truly indifferent, then we would not be having this conversation, nor would I be so concerned… for his sake, you understand.”
“Right,” said Southerby carefully, “and that would be… because?”
“Because of what transpired this afternoon…” Mason began and proceeded to relay the same story his wife had imparted about the painting and all that had followed.
When he finished, he sat back heavily, his brow furrowed.
“I have to wonder what tales Augusta put in his head. If it is what I fear, I worry the poor man is living with a demon and will find no peace?”
Southerby sat quietly, his gaze fixed upon the glowing embers of the fire. To speak the truth might be tantamount to betrayal, yet to say nothing might be worse. At length, he turned slowly back to Mason. “Poisonous tales,” he said quietly, “that have been gnawing away at him for years, is what.”
“I see,” Mason’s voice was low and troubled. “Please tell me he doesn’t believe his father…? No… no, he couldn’t.”
“Mm? Am I to understand that you do not believe the late Marquess had a sickness of the mind that turned him to madness, and in a jealous rage murdered his wife, then took his own life?”
“Hell’s teeth, no!” Mason set his glass down with a sharp clink.
“Charles was as sane a man as any… and he adored Isabelle. Her death was ruled a misadventure, and one can only begin to imagine the depth of despair that would force a man to take his own life. A sin in the eyes of God, perhaps, but I cannot judge it so. To be in such pain and torment that death seems a mercy… it’s a tragedy, if that is indeed what happened.
To this day, I cannot believe he took his own life intentionally.
It has never sat easily with me… that pistol…
no… no it’s all wrong. Charles would never… .”
He trailed off, shaking his head before he continued.
“It was Augusta’s vicious web of lies that had Charles a madman and a murderer.
With no witness to refute her claims, her hellish story took hold for a time…
though no one who knew Charles believed such rubbish.
The woman was bitter to the core at being passed over for her younger sister, Isabelle, and she finally took her revenge by discrediting his good name. ”
“Really?” Southerby’s tone was mild, though his eyes had sharpened. “Is that so? I did not know that.”
“Well,” Mason nodded, “that was how Augusta saw it. Convinced herself… and half of Society that their match was fait accompli, but Charles only ever had eyes for Isabelle.”
“I see.”
“And from what you are now telling me,” said Mason slowly, “she’s convinced Angus his father was a vicious monster. It would certainly explain his reaction to seeing that painting. Yet I still cannot fathom why he will not give his own marriage a chance.”
“Well,” Southerby replied, “that, I can explain… though you understand I tell you in the strictest of confidence.”
At Mason’s solemn nod, he went on.
“Angus adamantly believes his father’s madness to be hereditary.
He lives in fear of losing his own sanity.
To love, as his father loved his mother, terrifies him…
fearing the same fate that befell his mother will befall the woman he loves.
That he will become his father… and kill as he did.
The Westland Curse, to love is to madness and suffering to all. ”
“Good god, man. You cannot be serious!”
“Regrettably, never more. Of course, Angus does not believe in an ancient curse… a tale of some vengeful sorceress cast aside by the first Marquess of Westland. But his father’s madness, a sickness of the mind, in that, he does believe.
Yet I can assure you, Angus is no more mad than you or I, nor would he ever harm your daughter.
The only madness is his unreasonable fear of becoming so, of harming those he loves, and that, dear Mason, is the reason he insists Sylvie be sent away to Wales, out of harm’s way. ”
“You misunderstand me, Valentine. I do not fear for Sylvie. I fear for Angus. I may not have made a study of people as you have, but I know he has a gentle soul. To live thinking such a thing… well…”
Southerby smiled faintly, a hint of sadness in his eyes. “Indeed, once you break through the gruff exterior, there is no better man.”
“So, what can we do?”
“Do?” echoed Southerby.
“To put his fears to rest. To help him open his heart, so that he may find peace. Sylvie would smother him with love if he only let her. And from one who knows the happiness such love can bring….”
Southerby let his head fall back against the chair and closed his eyes before exhaling deeply.
“Ah, Mason… if only I had the answer. I believe, as you do, Sylvie could be his salvation. But trust me when I tell you, I have tried everything. I even had a lead on someone who was there that fateful day. A witness.”
Mason sat upright. “Good God! There was someone there! Well? What have they to say?”
Lifting his head slowly, he opened his eyes and fixed the older man with a look of defeat as he lifted his glass.
“I’ve not spoken to them. Their identity and whereabouts will be disclosed only to Angus.
A condition of my acquaintance, you understand.
Though I believe as you do, the circumstances surrounding the former Marquee and Marchioness of Westland were not as they seemed. ”
“So why in heaven’s name has Angus not sought this person out?”
“Because he does not trust the word of my… umm… acquaintance. In Angus’s words, he will not ‘lower himself by asking for that man’s assistance,’ nor will he ‘embark on a hair-brained search for a truth that he already knows.’”
“Why, in god’s name! Why would he not….” Demanded Mason.
Southerby took a slow breath. “Because my acquaintance… is Louis. The Comte de Roche.”
Mason froze, glass suspended mid-air, his mouth falling open.
Southerby smiled faintly. “Mm, your reaction mirrors Angus’s… when I told him who my source was.”
Shaking his head, Mason spluttered, “The Comte de Roche. Louis! The man is… well, beneath the charm and sophistication… he is a dangerously tricky customer, to say the least.”
“He can be,” allowed Southerby, “though, in this, I trust him.”
“Trust him?” Mason scoffed. “Yes, but if he holds the key, and Angus will not take it…”
Uncrossing his legs, Southerby leaned forward, the faintest glint of cunning in his eyes.
“Louis is simply biding his time. The man is very complex, and his motives are interminably obscure, but he would not have gone to the immense trouble of finding this person, nor offered the information, if he wasn’t prepared, eventually, to relinquish it.
Once he has derived sufficient from his little game, he will give up the whereabouts. ”
“Good heavens, man, what does he want in return?”
“Louis? Louis wants what he always wants…” said Southerby rising smoothly from his chair, “… he wants the upper hand.” He set his glass down.
“But trouble yourself not. Now he knows Angus won’t take the bait, he’ll change tactics.
If I may have your assurance that his name will not be mentioned outside of this room, I shall bid you good night. ”
“Indeed you may. The mere thought of aligning myself against the Comte de Roche unsettles me enough without bantering his name abroad. I heard a rumour that after all these years, he had finally returned to England. Is he in London?”
“No, I believe he’s at Hayford Abbey, near Southend at present.”
“Good,” murmured Mason. “Well… you’ll let me know if there is anything I can do, won’t you?”
Southerby gave a courteous incline of his head. “I will be in touch and thank you, Mason. You have been exceedingly helpful.”