Chapter 31
The following morning, Julian arrived in London before dawn.
He had slept very little.
Piers had slept even less, judging by the expression on his face when he entered the private sitting room at their solicitor’s offices and found Julian already standing at the window with a sheaf of papers in his hand.
“You look dreadful.”
Julian did not turn. “Good morning to you too.”
“I thought physicians were supposed to be observant.”
“Physicians are observant. Brothers are merely rude.” Piers closed the door behind him. “I brought coffee.”
“I don’t want coffee.”
“I didn’t bring it for you.”
Julian finally turned.
Piers held up a cup. “I brought it for myself. I have no intention of sacrificing good coffee merely because you have decided to spend the night staring at paperwork.”
Julian looked back down at the papers. “I have not spent the night staring at paperwork.”
“No?”
“No.”
“What have you spent it doing, then?”
Julian folded the top sheet in half. “Thinking.”
“That is considerably worse.” Piers crossed the room and dropped into one of the chairs. “Come and sit down before you make yourself ill.”
“I am perfectly well.”
“You have been saying that for three days, and I have yet to believe you once.”
Julian ignored him.
Piers took a sip of his coffee. “Have you written it?”
“Yes.”
“Are you entirely certain of this, Julian? Once the statement is made, there is no taking it back.”
“I have never been more certain of anything in my life, Piers.”
“You are prepared to admit publicly that our father falsified evidence to ruin an innocent man. That he conspired with Vane to cover a scheme that destroyed a family and drove a good man to an early grave.” Piers watched him carefully from the chair opposite.
“Some will never forgive the family for it, whatever grace they might have extended to you personally.”
“Then let them withhold their forgiveness. I would rather carry the weight of the truth than the comfort of a lie our father built at another man’s expense.
” Julian sighed heavily. “I have spent a week turning over every possible way to soften this, and I find I have no wish to soften it any longer. Whitmore’s father deserves to have his name cleared. Nothing less will do.”
“Then I shall stand beside you when you deliver it.”
“You needn’t.”
“I know I needn’t.” Piers rose, straightening his coat with rather more solemnity than he brought to anything. “But I am your brother, Julian. Whatever this costs our family, I would rather face it at your side than read about your courage in a random newspaper.”
Piers watched him for a moment. “You have not heard from Louisa.” It was not a question.
Julian’s expression shuttered. “No.”
“Have you written?”
“I began to.”
“And…?” Piers prompted.
“I stopped.”
“Why?”
Julian looked down at the statement. “Because there is nothing I can put on paper that will make what I said disappear.”
Piers was quiet for a moment. Then he asked, “What did you say?”
Julian’s jaw tightened. “That I was only trying to give her the life she asked for.”
Piers winced. “Ah.”
“I know.”
“That was a particularly unfortunate sentence.”
“I am aware.”
“Possibly the worst one you have ever spoken.”
“I am aware of that too.”
Piers studied him. “And what did you mean?”
Julian stared at the papers for a long moment. “I meant that I wanted her safe.”
“That is not what you said.”
“No.”
“Why didn’t you?”
Julian had no answer.
Piers nodded as though he had expected as much. “Then perhaps you should stop trying to write to her.”
Julian looked up. “What?”
“If you cannot say what you mean in a letter, don’t send her a letter full of things you do not mean.”
“I know.”
“Good. Now, let us go ruin our family’s reputation.”
Julian gave him a look.
Piers smiled. “There. You almost laughed.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
“I assure you—”
“Come along.” Piers gathered the papers. “Mr. Harding is waiting.”
* * *
Mr. Harding was already at his desk when they entered, a stack of papers squared before him with the particular precision of a man trying to look calmer than he felt.
Julian saw Thomas Whitmore first. The man was standing at the window, his back half-turned, one hand braced against the frame as though the daylight beyond it were the only thing in the room he trusted.
Julian stopped in the doorway. Behind him, he heard Piers stop as well.
Thomas turned. For a moment, neither man moved. Then Thomas straightened, and the stillness in him hardened into a formal look.
He bowed. “Your Grace.”
“Mr. Whitmore.” Julian inclined his head.
He hated how strange the exchange still felt after the last time they had spoken.
Piers moved past them to the desk, already reaching down to shift a chair into place and slinging his coat over a chair. “I assume everything is ready?”
“As ready as these things can be, My Lord.” Mr. Harding rose halfway, then seemed to think better of standing on ceremony and sat back down, drawing a single folded sheet from beneath the others. “I have made the alterations Your Grace requested.”
Julian crossed the room and took it. The paper was still warm from the desk, the ink barely dry at the last line. He did not look at Thomas as he read it, though he was aware that the man had turned fully from the window and was watching him do it.
“You are certain, Your Grace?” Thomas asked when Julian had finished.
“Yes.”
“You understand what this will mean for your family and your reputation?”
“Yes.” He said it plainly, without weight, because he had already carried the weight of it for three sleepless nights and had no wish to carry it again now in front of witnesses.
Thomas’s jaw worked. “I had not intended—”
“You did not ask me to do this,” Julian cut him off with enough finality that Thomas clamped his mouth shut. “I chose it.”
Thomas looked down at his hands.
“You asked for your father’s name to be cleared,” Julian continued, quieter now. “That is what I intend to do.”
Something flickered across Thomas’s face—gratitude, maybe, or grief wearing gratitude’s shape. “My father would have been grateful.”
“I hope so.” Julian meant it more than the words could convey, and set the statement down on the desk before his voice could betray anything further.
Piers, who had been watching the exchange with the wary attention of a man counting exits, cleared his throat. “And Vane?”
Thomas’s expression hardened. “He will not remain silent.”
“He hasn’t,” Julian grunted.
Mr. Harding shifted a paper an inch to the left, a small nervous motion. “There is something else, Your Grace.”
Julian looked up. “Go on.”
“I have located a clerk who served under Sir Edmund Vane during the relevant period.”
Julian felt the sentence land somewhere behind his ribs. “Where?”
“Bath.”
“Does he know what happened?”
“He claims to.”
“Claims,” Julian repeated the word like he was testing its weight.
“He is frightened, Your Grace. Men in his position often are.”
Thomas took a step closer to the desk, closing the distance in two strides. “His name?”
“Samuel.” Harding glanced down at his notes. “Samuel Bell, I believe. My man is confirming the surname now.”
Julian looked to Piers. His brother had already half-risen, his hand reaching for his coat, the movement so automatic it was clear he’d been waiting for an excuse.
“I shall go,” he declared.
“No.”
He stopped, coat half over one shoulder. “Why not?”
“Because you are needed here.”
“I am your brother, Julian. I am also perfectly capable of traveling to Bath without disgracing the family name on the way.”
“You are needed beside me when the statement is made.” Julian held his brother’s gaze until the argument left it.
Piers set the coat back down. “Very well.”
Julian turned back to Harding. “Send someone you trust. Someone who will not spook him further.”
“I already have. And Bell has agreed to give a sworn statement.” Harding said it carefully, the way a man delivered good news he did not yet trust to be true.
Thomas let out a breath he seemed to have been holding since the door opened. Julian looked at the tired, unguarded set of his shoulders, so unlike the man who had bowed to him not five minutes ago, and he felt his own chest ease slightly, though not enough to call it relief.
“This ends today,” he said.