The Bad Luck Bride (The Brides of St. Ives #1)(51)

Berkley chuckled. “So you think he’s trying to kill off all the first-born sons to enact some sort of vengeance?”

Henderson shrugged. “Foolish thought.”

“Are you a first-born son?”

Now that made him laugh. “I’m the only son.”

“Perhaps the killer is like me,” Berkley said. “My time in America changed my perspective. I have little use for titles and fortunes and far more interest in a man’s character.”

Henderson chuckled. “I wish every member of the aristocracy would spend some time in America.” Henderson hadn’t realized he’d allowed such a bitter tone his words, but apparently he had.

“I take it one member of the aristocracy in particular?” he asked, raising a black brow. Henderson could feel his cheeks flush, and he cursed his fair skin. It seemed he was always blushing lately, not a very manly reaction.

Berkley let out a sharp bark of laughter. “Only a woman could cause that sort of blush,” he said.

Henderson looked down at his drink, wishing the conversation had not turned in this direction. His feelings for Alice Hubbard would seem ridiculous to a man like Berkley. “It matters not. She’s engaged. Or nearly so.”

“Nearly so?”

Henderson swore and forced a stiff smile. “I’d prefer not to discuss this. I’d rather put my bollocks in boiling oil.”

Berkley let out another of his sharp laughs. It burst from him, starting and ending abruptly. “Perhaps I can help you on this matter. Likely more than I can help you with the famine relief.”

Shaking his head, Henderson said, “No thank you.”

Berkley leaned back and looked like he was enjoying Henderson’s discomfort. “A St. Ives girl?”

“I’m not discussing this.” His tone brooked no argument, which Berkley seemed to find amusing.

“We are already discussing this,” Berkley pointed out, sounding infuriatingly logical.

“Yes. A St. Ives girl with a very high-placed father who would not take kindly to a bastard courting his daughter.”

“I wouldn’t characterize you as such, sir. You seem a decent enough fellow.”

Henderson wondered whether the man was pretending to be obtuse. “Perhaps I should be completely honest with you if you are going to help me. My family is hardly esteemed. My grandparents are landed gentry, yes, and used all of their limited influence and quite a lot of their money to get me into Eton. But my mother had me without the benefit of marriage and I have no idea who my father is. I am, literally, a bastard.”

Berkley studied him for a long moment, so long Henderson began to feel rather uncomfortable. For many men, his birth would make a difference as to whether they associated themselves with him, and he wondered if Lord Berkley were one of them. How ironic that he’d spent much of his youth completely unashamed of his birth, when now it had become such a stumbling block. He had little doubt that if he’d had a “lord” in front of his name, he’d still be staying at Tregrennar and vying for the hand of the woman he loved.

“You think that makes a difference to me.” It was a statement.

“It would to many men.”

“Perhaps if I hadn’t spent so much time in America, it would have. But living in such a raw and wild place gives a man perspective. Some of the greatest men I knew were of low birth. And they didn’t give a damn whether I was the King of England or a beggar’s son. At first, it shocked me. Bothered me quite a lot. By the end, though, as I said, nothing mattered but the character of a man. Whether I could count on him to be honest and fair. I can tell you one thing, my father was horrified by my democratic views.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“So, you see, I am in a rare position to help you. I have a lofty title and a deep understanding of the common man. Who is this paragon who has interested you so?”

“Miss Hubbard,” Henderson said with some reluctance, but it was strangely comforting to say her name aloud.

Berkley let out a whistle. “Hubbard. He has a daughter who is of marrying age? Good Lord, I’m getting old. Allison or Alicia…”

“Alice,” Henderson muttered.

“Done,” Berkley said.

Henderson gave the man a sharp look. “What’s done?”

“Whatever it is that you want done, my good man.” He gave Henderson a smile that would have seemed oily on any other man. “My father taught me one thing: Information is power. And it just so happens I have some information that Lord Hubbard would not appreciate being made public. My father also took meticulous notes on all his transactions and I’m a curious fellow. I read them all.”

“No,” Henderson said. “I admire Lord Hubbard and will do nothing to harm him.”

Berkley widened his eyes. “Who is saying anything about harming him? I daresay we won’t even have to resort to that sort of blackmail. At least I hope not. That sort of thing doesn’t always sit well with me. Besides, I need something to take me out of my monstrosity of a house.”



*



“Now, this is strange.” Elda was holding an expensive piece of stationery in her hand.

“What is strange, Mama?” Christina asked after swallowing a rather large bit of boiled potato, winning a smile from her older sister.