Unveiled (Turner #1)(100)

“The news has traveled even to me,” Mark said. A cryptic description, but Mark seemed unfazed by the loss of the dukedom.

Ash looked at him. “I’m sorry,” he finally said. “I know you didn’t care about any of this for yourself. But—I just had this notion, see. I knew, somehow, that if I were the Duke of Parford, someday I’d have made things different for you. I didn’t want to give up on that. But then…”

“I’ve always managed to take care of myself,” Mark said dryly. “Today should prove no exception. You know I would never be angry at you for doing the right thing.”

“I’ve abandoned you enough.”

“Abandoned me?” Mark’s hand was curled about itself, and he turned to Ash with a quizzical expression on his face. “When have you ever abandoned me?”

“There was the time I went to India.”

“Which you did in order to make enough funds for the family to survive. I can hardly begrudge you that.”

“And there was that time at Eton. You’d told me that Edmund Dalrymple had begun to single you out. That he was pushing you around. And you begged me to take you home.”

“I recall. You read me quite the lecture—told me, in fact, that I had to stay there.”

“Two weeks later, I returned to find you battered and bruised, your face bloodied, your eyes blacked and your fingers broken. And all I could think was that I had done that to you. I’d abandoned you, for no reason other than my personal pique and vanity, and you paid the price.”

“Vanity?” Mark shook his head. “I thought that was one of your ridiculous instincts, Ash. Horrible to hear about. Impossible to argue with. And as usual, entirely right.”

Ash felt his throat go dry. “That wasn’t instinct.”

Mark raised one eyebrow. “Really? Nonetheless, it was still the right thing for you to tell me.”

Ash had to say it. He had to tell him, before his nerve gave out and he let another decade slip by. “That,” Ash said quietly, “was fear. You had to go to school. I didn’t want you to turn out like me.”

“Oh,” Mark said with a roll of his eyes, “I see. Because you’re so unimpressive a specimen.”

Ash took a deep breath. “No. Because I’m illiterate.”

“Well, you don’t even appreciate Shakespeare, and that does rather speak against you.” Mark shook his head and reached for Ash’s hand. “Here. I have something—”

Ash pulled his fingers away. “I meant that in the most literal of senses. I can’t read. Words don’t make sense to me. They never have.”

Mark fell silent. He looked at Ash as if his world had been turned on his head. He frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“I can’t read. I can’t write. Margaret read your book aloud to me.”

“But your letters.” Mark leaned heavily against the wall. “You—you sent me letters. You wrote on them. I know you did.” He paused, and then said in a smaller voice, “Didn’t you?”

“There are a few phrases I’ve committed to memory. I wrote them over and over, hour after hour, until the words came out in the right order. Until they said what I intended, without my having to look at what I wrote. There were some things I needed to be able to tell you, when you were away.”

“Your postscripts always said the same thing,” Mark said. “‘With much—’” he broke off.

“‘With much love,’” Ash finished hoarsely. “With more than I could possibly write.”

Mark passed his hand briefly over his face. When he looked up at Ash, he lifted his chin.

“Nobody knows,” Ash warned him. “If anyone were to find out, it would—it would—”

“You protected me.” Mark’s voice was uneven. “All these years, you protected me. From Mother. From the Dalrymples. From my own wish to go build a cocoon and stay there. Do you think I don’t know that?”

“I— Well—”

“Do you truly think that after all this time, after everything you have done for me, that I would not protect you?”

He’d been the elder brother for so long, had been carrying that burden for all these years. It wasn’t just recent events that had fatigued him. But with that light shining in Mark’s eyes, suddenly the future seemed manageable. Ash had been exhausted before; now, he felt refreshed.

“And next time you need someone to read to you, if— But, oh. You distracted me. Here. I’m supposed to give you this.”

“Give me what?”

In answer, Mark held out his fist and unfurled his fingers. Cradled in the palm of his hand was a black key—its bow a curlicue of iron, crossed by a sword. A master key. The master key to Parford Manor.

Mark smiled knowingly at him. “Margaret brought this by.”

Ash felt a dizzying flush. She’d been by? His heart rose. But then—she hadn’t stayed to see him. His stomach sank. And she was returning his gift—not good.

But what use would she imagine he would have for the master key to Parford Manor, with her brother lord there? His emotions warred between elation and despair. “What do I do?” he asked Mark. “No—never mind. I already know. I have to see her.” He was halfway to the door before Mark’s voice arrested him.