Chapter 23 #3
“There was no clause about me living here unchaperoned.”
“No, but it is not promising that you are so ignorant of basic propriety to even consider allowing a man to stay here without one, let alone to do it. That is Mr. Beckett’s point,” Carlyle said.
“Do not lecture me on morals,” Mouse hissed. “There was no clause about my reputation. This is the bloody twentieth century.”
She met Beckett’s eyes, begging him to say something, anything.
“Mr. Carlyle is quite right,” he said.
Mouse could barely hear him over the ringing in her ears.
She’d lost Thistlemarsh, even after all Thornwood’s help. Even after everything she had bargained away. What would Roger do now? What would she do?
She was in shock, she knew. Still, she tried to battle against it and the rising desperation that threatened to choke her.
Mouse stood. She had to do something. There had to be a way to salvage the situation.
“Please, if only you would look again, I’m sure you’ll be satisfied. We can bring back the taxidermy. We’ve made significant structural repairs—”
Beckett clicked his briefcase closed. “I am afraid that your uncle’s will was very specific about the taxidermy.”
“If you would not mind, I would like a private word with you, Mouse,” Carlyle cut in.
Mouse held back her flinch at the nickname coming from his lips, and she saw Thornwood tense.
Beckett’s lips pursed, and she was not sure if he would count it against her further if she refused Carlyle.
She knew she had to tread carefully, but she was not sure how to do so.
“It’s all right,” she said, her hand landing on Thornwood’s shoulder. “I will hear what he has to say.”
“I will be outside, should you need me,” he said quietly, then turned to Carlyle. “This is not over.”
Carlyle snorted.
“I will call,” Mouse said, clutching Thornwood’s hand.
The door closed behind him, and then it was just Mouse and Carlyle, a mere five feet between them. He stood, closing the space quickly, stretching toward her like a spider closing in on its prey.
“How crushing this must be for you to stumble at the last hurdle over a technicality.”
“Did you keep me here to gloat, or did you have anything interesting to say?”
“Forgive me. The last thing I would want to do is waste your valuable time. After all, I am keeping you from packing.”
Mouse bit her cheek, trapping the words bubbling up behind her teeth. Carlyle slunk closer to her, pinning her between the bookshelves and his body like a butterfly on display. She could not move if she wanted to avoid touching him.
“I will say that I enjoy seeing you squirm more than I expected. You barely look related, but in your eyes, I see glints of Bertie spitting back at me.”
“I will do more than spit at you if you come any closer,” Mouse hissed.
Carlyle laughed; the sound slithered over her skin and made her flesh crawl. She could feel the brush of his breath against her face, warm with brandy and tea.
“Why are you wasting both of our time?” she said around the knot of fear tightening her throat. “Say what you want to say and be done with it.”
“There is something strange about this house and how quickly you repaired it. I’m not sure what it is, but it is not honest. You may try to fool old Beckett, but you cannot fool me,” he breathed, leaning close to her again.
“It will come out, somehow. And even if it doesn’t, you’ve lost. How does it feel to be completely powerless? ”
“You should know. I understand that Roger taught you a bit about the feeling when you were at school. I see that your nose is still crooked.”
Fury flashed through him, and he lifted his cane as though to strike. Unbidden, Mouse’s hand flew up to protect her face.
“You need to learn when to hold your tongue,” he said coldly, regaining his control before following through with his threat.
His cane snapped back to its position at his side, then tapped as he prowled to the desk.
Carlyle sat in her uncle’s chair, then languidly began to open the drawers, inspecting the contents as one might examine a horse bought at market.
Mouse watched, violent fury and despair warring in her chest.
“Roger was right,” Mouse said at last.
Carlyle glanced at her before he focused back on the papers. “What are you muttering about?”
“Roger was right,” she repeated. “You are nothing more than a coward.”
As she expected, the word “coward” got his attention, as it would for any Eton boy.
“I am an officer,” he said.
“An officer who would lift a hand to a lady. A coward who would blackmail someone who thought they were your friend. Who ruined boys whose only real crime was defending themselves from you.”
“Shut your mouth, you stupid bitch.”
“No,” Mouse pressed on. “I know all about your machinations. You couldn’t stand it, could you? Because despite how my uncle treated me, he loved Bertie.”
“You don’t know anything. Your uncle was a blubbering fool when I last saw him. It took mere moments to convince him to write me into his will.” Carlyle’s eyes went wide, like a startled horse, and his body curled downward into itself, despite his bold words.
“Moments and a fair amount of blackmail, I’m sure. Wasn’t that your trick for manipulating Bertie before Roger caught on?”
“Your Bertie was a deviant,” Carlyle snarled.
“Keep his name out of your mouth,” Mouse hissed back.
“He was a perverted, twisted accident of nature, and yet the entire world loved him: the boys at the college, the teachers, and even his father. They all knew what he was in the end and still loved him. How could I possibly be the only one who saw him for what he really was?”
“I know who Bertie was. He was kind, smart, and loving,” Mouse said, her voice raw. “And he is still loved. He still wins, even in death.”
“Ah,” Carlyle said, his face twisted into a feral form halfway between a grin and a scowl. “But you still do not see. I’ve won. The house is mine, the title is mine, and best of all, your silence is mine.”
Mouse scoffed. “What are you talking about? I won’t let you do what you did to my cousin to someone else.”
“You seem very sure of yourself.”
“There is nothing left for you to hold over me. Thistlemarsh is lost, and Bertie is dead. He is beyond the reach of archaic laws and ignorant social stigma. How exactly do you think you can stop me from telling people about your blackmail of my uncle? I think the War Office generally frowns on that sort of thing from their officers, but if they will not believe it, the papers will be only too happy to have the story. I am sure your father will dislike that.”
“You understand nothing. I did not use Bertie’s perversity to blackmail Lord Dewhurst. Bertie was already dead, and Lord Dewhurst would throw himself on the sword rather than bow to me. No, it was the name of his son’s lover that struck fear into his heart.”
Mouse froze, and Carlyle read her face as easily as newsprint.
“You know as well, then. Your uncle certainly did. He was only too happy to comply when I threatened to come forward, as I am sure you will be. I suspect that Reverend John Martin’s parishioners would be less accommodating than your uncle was, should they find out what he is.”
In the furnace of her belly, Mouse’s fear melted into a hot core of disgust that tightened her fist and rooted her in place. When she spoke, her words were crisp.
“You are pathetic.”
Carlyle stood and was halfway to her in the blink of an eye. Mouse rushed forward to meet him.
“Hit me, then, you toffee-nosed bastard.” Her father’s accent bloomed in her words, like flowers unfolding in the sun’s heat. “Hit me, knowing that you can’t hurt me in any way that matters. Knowing that, all things being equal between us, you would still lose.”
Carlyle faltered, trembling.
“You were right,” he said. “This conversation was a waste of time.”
He took deliberate steps to the door, then turned back to her.
“I will return at the end of the week. Make sure you and your possessions are not here to greet me.” He dug a piece of paper from his pocket, tipping it toward her. “I will know if anything is missing that belongs to the house.”
He opened the door. Thornwood filled the space as soon as it swung out fully. Carlyle bowed and motioned for Thornwood to move into the room.
“It was lovely to see you again, Mouse.” With that parting jab, he closed the door behind him, leaving Mouse and Thornwood alone.