Chapter 10 #3
Away along the hallway, the door to the duke’s rooms was closed, but voices murmured within.
No doubt his father was dressing for dinner, or receiving an update on the negotiations from Master Everel, and not wanting to have to account for his absence from that day’s entertainments, Nic crept silently forward.
Barely had he made it half a dozen steps before the duke’s door clicked open. Instinctively, Nic flinched back into the shadows by the forecourt door as Lord Charborough stepped out, adjusting his coat.
Nic’s brows rose. What could be so important as to bring a guest to his host’s private rooms at such an hour? Especially when the duke had likely spent the day in his study or entertaining his guests, providing Lord Charborough plenty of opportunities to make requests.
Having closed the door behind him, the marquess headed up the worn stone stairs to the second-floor passage and, all too curious now, Nic followed, keeping his distance.
The man seemed to be making for the guest rooms—no doubt his own to dress for dinner—and Nic was beginning to feel foolish tailing him when Lord Ricard emerged from one of the sitting rooms. Arms folded tight, he blocked his brother’s way.
“Charles.”
“Ah, Ricard.”
“Don’t ‘ah, Ricard’ me. I’ve been looking for you all afternoon.”
Nic pulled back out of sight and strained his ears.
“Have you?” Lord Charborough said with a light laugh. “Whatever for?”
“I want you to invoke the Requisite Care Clause.”
“What?”
“I said—”
“I heard what you said. Here, step inside before someone else does.”
Swift steps. The click of a door. And Nic’s heartbeat had sped to an anxious flurry.
The Requisite Care Clause—the one the duke had said only that morning that he did not want them to invoke.
It was an old law, put in place after a memorable case in 1606 when a lock-in host had threatened guests with starvation if they did not agree to terms. Triggering it would bring a collection of royal vowsmiths and guards charging up from London, and Dashiell had warned there would not be enough time to complete the contract were it invoked so early.
Thus it was with a sick swirl is his stomach that Nic hurried to the sitting room door and leaned his head close, desperately hoping no one would come by and see him eavesdropping.
“—that’s a failure of their duty of care.”
“But Gillingham took his own life, unless there is something you’re not telling me, Ricard.”
Nic held his breath.
“What I’m telling you is that you need to invoke the damn clause.”
“No. Imagine the talk!”
“It wouldn’t be us they would be talking about.” A beat of silence, followed by another, then Lord Ricard snorted. “Oh you’re back at that again, are you? I thought that might be what this was all about. How pathetic. But you know what? I don’t care. You gave me your word. You said—”
“Lower your voice! Someone might hear you.”
“It makes no difference to me,” came Lord Ricard’s drawling reply. “I would as happily tell even the scullery maids that you aren’t a man of your word.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Don’t be so dramatic; it doesn’t suit you. I am merely reminding you that you made a promise not to make decisions without me, yet here we are.”
A footstep and the shifting of cloth sounded beyond the door, and in a low voice, the marquess snarled, “And I have kept that promise again and again even when I did not want to, because I meant it, but this one is for me. Whatever you may wish, I am still the head of this family. My word is final and I am saying no. I did not come all this way to invoke the damn care clause and embarrass us all. And if you use the threat of public spectacle to cow me into following your orders again, like with that damn audit, I’ll wash my hands of you. ”
“Like you could manage without me.” Lord Ricard scoffed. “Even here, you sit surrounded by your dusty old manuscripts rather than taking care of this family.”
A flutter of paper sent Nic’s heart thudding hard against his ribs.
“Stop this,” Lord Charborough said. “I know what I am doing, Brother.”
“Oh, we all know what, or should I say who, you’re doing.”
“Keep your mouth shut.”
“Why should I? You knew I didn’t want this contract, yet you went ahead with it anyway.”
“And if you had less damned spite, I wouldn’t have had to!”
The silence grew taut. Nic knew he ought to move away before one of them made for the door, but shock kept his feet rooted to the floor.
“Just let it go, Ricard,” Lord Charborough said after a time, his voice softened. “He has already suffered enough for the mistake.”
The answer was a bitter laugh. “If I could believe it was a mistake.”
“Perhaps if you tried.”
On those words, footsteps approached, and with his heart in his throat, Nic darted away along the passage. At the sound of the door opening, he forced himself to slow to a leisurely pace—just a man walking about his own home—and not glance back.
All the way to his own rooms, the conversation churned through Nic’s thoughts. And he realised that there was, of course, one very good reason to spend time in someone else’s private apartments—a realisation soon followed by another: that Nic didn’t really know his father at all.