Chapter 2 #2
“Someone does,” Anthony muttered as he looked at the drawing again.
The face of the young woman at the inn flashed across his mind again.
He couldn’t help but believe she was the key to this particular question, though what a young woman like that had to do with the diary or the caricature, he had no idea, for she was obviously well-bred.
Whether Miss Mandeville had taken the diary for herself or handed it off to someone, she was the one Anthony needed to speak with. “Do you know the Mandevilles, Harris?”
“Mandevilles . . .” Harris’s eyes narrowed. “Stoneleigh folk?”
“Yes. Bellevue House.”
He nodded. “Family of daughters—pretty ones too. None too plump in the pocket, though.”
“Oh?” Anthony said with interest. If that was the case, Miss Mandeville’s tongue might be loosened with a bit of money.
And a bit was all Anthony currently had, for he had not only lost his brother Silas that dreadful night—he had lost the money he had invested in Lord Drayton’s business.
His jaw clenched at the mere thought of Drayton.
Anthony folded the caricature and put it in his pocket again, ignoring the way Harris’s hungry gaze followed his every move.
“Given that it is your fault that I find myself without the pivotal piece of evidence I require, I must insist you work to discover more information about the Mandevilles as well as seeking other possible avenues to exonerate my brother.”
Harris’s gaze widened. “But, Mr. Yorke, sir. You haven’t yet paid me for the diary.”
“Neither shall I until it is in my hands. What good is it to me otherwise? Perhaps next time you will listen when I request you to hand it to me directly.”
He was coming to accept that Silas’s exoneration would cost a small fortune.
Of course, he couldn’t complain. Not when it was his fault Silas required exonerating in the first place.
He had let Silas and their business partner Langdon go without him to the meeting with Drayton—and all so Anthony could pursue a pretty face.
It made him sick every time he thought on it.
“I shall do my best, sir,” Mr. Harris said, “but . . .”
“But what?” Anthony asked when the thought remained unfinished.
“I was only thinking, sir, that Drayton is a powerful man, and we would stand a better chance against him if we had your brothers to—”
“No.” Silas had begged Anthony not to confront Drayton, nor to involve anyone else, least of all his family.
As one of the wealthiest peers in the country, Drayton was simply too powerful and too dangerous a man to confront.
He had killed Langdon in cold blood, then framed Silas for it without a second thought, knowing well that the public was aware of Silas and Langdon’s disagreements.
Even when Anthony had tried to broach the subject of Silas’s innocence with William and Frederick, it had quickly become clear they believed him guilty.
Silas’s strained relationship with and suspicions of Langdon, Drayton’s assertions of what had happened that night, and Silas’s escape to France had been enough to convince them.
Anthony’s defense of the brother he had always indulged meant little, particularly when he had not been there to witness the night’s events.
“As you wish,” Harris said, his wide eyes on something behind Anthony. “I shall send word when I have anything.”
Before Anthony could follow the direction of his gaze or respond, the man disappeared into the bushes again, leaving Anthony blinking.
“Is that my dear nevvy?” a woman’s voice called.
Anthony clenched his eyes shut and swore before turning to face his Aunt Eugenia.
She wore a smart riding habit of jonquil hue, with a matching hat set at a jaunty angle on a head of graying hair.
She sat alone in an enormous barouche Anthony had never before seen—undoubtedly a new purchase, as he had seen her just a month ago.
She was as close to a mother as he or his brothers had possessed, as their mother had died shortly after Frederick’s birth, and their father two years ago.
“Aunt Eugenia,” he said, walking over. “What a pleasant surprise.”
“None of your fiddle-faddle now, Anthony. You never could manage to school your expressions.” She leaned forward and patted the seat in front of her. “Come. Sit up beside me as though you were pleased to see me.”
Anthony obeyed, motioning the coachman away from helping him in. Normally, he wouldn’t mind seeing his aunt. He simply couldn’t find it in himself to be glad she had seen him when he was in company with Harris.
“Who was that you were talking to?” Aunt Eugenia asked as she placed an extra fur rug over Anthony’s legs as if it were December rather than April, and he a quivering invalid. “He looked to be a seedy sort of fellow. Not in a scrape, are you?”
“No, Aunt.”
The carriage lurched forward as the horses began their forced stroll around the park. Meanwhile, the woman’s gaze surveyed him intently. “Good. We’ve had enough scandal in this family.”
Anthony forced his muscles to unclench, just as he had to do anytime someone referenced Silas’s plight.
One of these days, he would inevitably snap when someone spoke of him as ignorantly as they all did.
They all thought him a bad apple, and it grated Anthony to no end that it had to remain that way for the time being.
If only he could get his hands on that diary, then the end of his silence—and Silas’s unmerited ignominy—would be within sight.
He would be able to prove what no one seemed willing to believe.
Heaven knew Silas’s suffering had lasted long enough.
The few letters Anthony had received from France had contained an air of forced nonchalance and resignation.
But the last one had nearly broken Anthony.
“Do you think it is safe for me to return to England? Not home, of course, but perhaps somewhere up north. Scotland, even.”