The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(8)
I’m thankful that I get to spend a few afternoons every week looking after the family’s pieces displayed in such an elegant setting. I think Grandfather would approve of the location. I feel closer to him when I’m there with the art he loved so. One day I hope to have a gallery of my own, where I will stroll past familiar paintings and say good morning to them like they’re old friends.
—Isabelle
? ? ?
The words on this page drew Reginald Grapling in more than the previous entry, the information calling to him like a siren’s song. His pulse quickened with the possibilities held there in feminine script. He’d read the page twice already, as the details of a new plan strung together in his mind.
He’d come here seeking knowledge. Either of the Fairlyn girls would have suited his needs, but only one girl had written out her every thought as if baring her soul for him. On this cold winter night, he’d found more than what he’d been looking for—he’d found the perfect path forward. Soon the weather would warm and the season would draw the last of society from their country homes. It was too perfect.
“This diary is a treasure trove,” he mumbled to himself as he stroked his fingers down the page in admiration. “My most sincere thanks, Lady Isabelle.”
By coming here, he’d hoped to discover one of the girl’s interests, where she might be found alone, what he could use to lure her away from her family, anything that might help him turn the tables on their father, Lord Knottsby.
“Knottsby,” he breathed. “Even his name reeks of entitlement and arrogance.” Soon, he promised himself, focusing instead on the looping, ornate lines of text in front of him.
These sweetly written words changed everything.
*
Spring 1817
Fallon took the stack of old files from the shelf in the corner of his library and turned back to his desk. Although he could remember every detail of the Westminster boardinghouse incident far too well, even four years after the awful event had occurred, he needed to read his own words on the matter once more. Whether he liked it or not, Grapling was back. The knowledge made his heart speed up even as his footsteps slowed on the thick rug that covered the floor.
“Revenge or unfinished business? Perhaps both?” he asked the portrait of the kind-eyed man on the wall between the towering bookcases. He wasn’t certain who the man was other than a predecessor in this house he now called his home and headquarters for the Spare Heirs Society, but he found his presence somewhat comforting nonetheless. Paintings were the best friends a man could ask for. They had the ability to listen to one’s musings, yet never divulged a single secret—a quality he admired.
“I’ll discover the truth,” he assured the painted man as he clutched the files tighter in his hand.
Crossing the remainder of the room, he tossed the packet to the top of his desk, reached for the teapot that always resided on the corner, and tipped it up. Empty. “Mrs. Featherfitch!” he called out, knowing the housekeeper was just outside his library door.
“Never in my days have I witnessed such caterwauling over picking up a few hats,” the older woman said in exasperation as she stepped into the library, dusting her hands on her skirts. The woman never gave up her stance against household clutter, yet her efforts only thinned the amount of hats, notes on scraps of paper, and miscellaneous debris from twenty different gentlemen’s pockets that landed in the main hall. The housing of the Spare Heirs who needed rooms was a constant at headquarters, and something his housekeeper grumbled over at every opportunity. “And I overheard a few of them laying wagers on how long it would take to drive me mad with the mess. You would think I’d asked them to ship off for war!”
“Apologies,” Fallon said as he moved around his desk to take his seat once more. “I’ll speak with them.” He added the item to the ongoing list in his head.
“Dear me. Are you out of tea?” she asked, crossing the room. The rectangle of early-morning light that spilled from the front window farthest from the hall illuminated his desk in its corner.
“It’s bone dry,” he confirmed with a thin smile.
“That won’t do! How are you to keep all of society from turning on each other with no tea?” She lifted the tea service from his desk but didn’t leave.
She was studying him, as she often did. Waiting for his armor to crack, he supposed. If she wanted them to share some sentimental moment that involved a long talk about loss while dabbing at tears with a handkerchief, it wasn’t going to happen. Especially not today, no matter the date on the calendar.
Pearl may have been gone ten years today, but it was a lesser-known loss he was concerned with this morning—that of a common prostitute whose only crime had been coming too close to Mr. Reginald Grapling four years ago.
Mrs. Featherfitch swallowed and blinked away the mistiness in her eyes, the teapot rattling against the silver platter she held. She could always be counted upon to be emotional when no show of the heart was required, but in an odd way, he liked that about her. It reminded him that ingrained loyalty—not to a cause but to an individual—still resided somewhere within the walls of his home. That, on some level, this was a normal house, even if sentimentality only existed belowstairs.
“Would you like a bite of something while I’m off to the kitchen?” she asked as she shifted the tray in her arms to steady the rattling china.