Unveiled (Turner #1)(59)

Margaret set her hand against the door and pushed it open another few inches.

The brothers stood on the far side of the room, leaning towards one another as if in each other’s confidences. They had thrown a window open, and they were looking out, the curtains fluttering about them. They did not see her enter, as they were both engaged in gazing into the distance, their shoulders forming one uniform wall. She would have guessed they were brothers from that unity. If that hadn’t betrayed their relationship she could see some similarity in their figures. They were both lean without being skinny, tall without towering over her.

Her mother had used this parlor as a dry, stuffy place to take tea; it had the most formal arrangement of all the rooms in Parford Manor. Margaret could not recall a time when the gilded walls had ever felt a breeze. For as long as she remembered, the curtains had been tightly drawn to protect the lush carpet underfoot from the sun.

But daylight played across the window sash now, spilling carelessly from there onto the priceless carpet.

It wasn’t the sunlight Margaret minded. It wasn’t the laughter that set her stomach to a slow boil. It was the way these two men stood in such close friendship, never caring that not so far from this room their eldest brother was feeling vulnerable. Alone.

The taller gentleman—Mr. Smite Turner—appeared to be in the midst of telling his brother a story. He had shed his coat and had draped it over one arm—a trick that reminded her of Ash. He gesticulated with the other hand. His face was turned in profile. His visage was a quiet echo of Ash’s. But where Ash had dark, curling hair, this man’s was cropped close to his skull, and it was almost ebony. Where Ash’s skin was tinged in color from the sun, this man was pale.

One thing they had in common was that air of charisma. He said something, and Mark let out a cackle of laughter. At the same moment, the new fellow turned his head slightly and met her eyes. The friendly smile froze in place. His face stiffened; his chin lifted. His eyes grew harder, and he scanned her from head to toe.

Margaret was used to men looking her over. But this perusal didn’t feel like masculine admiration. It felt as if he were cataloguing her, from the half-boots still on her feet from the gardens, to the starched white collar of her gown. He nodded once, as if he’d fit her into some mental taxonomy.

“Mark,” he said quietly, “this is she, is it not?”

She? Etiquette demanded that Margaret curtsy, that she smile at this man in greeting. But he hadn’t even addressed her. He’d been rude to Ash. And he was standing here, laughing with Mark, while his brother felt unwelcome. She stared back at him and straightened her spine.

“At least she’s pretty,” he finally said.

“That went without saying,” Mark said simply. “You can always count on Ash for that.”

So the brothers had spoken not only of her, but about their elder brother. Behind his back. Margaret’s anger boiled over. She strode across the room to stand before the two men.

“You,” she said accusingly, jabbing her finger towards Mr. Smite Turner’s chest. “You may talk about me as if I am not in the room, but don’t you dare do it to your brother. He risked his life for your sakes in India, and now you two leave him alone, isolated? You speak of him as if he were nothing more than a choice bit of gossip? You make him feel as if he’s not a welcome part of your family? How dare you?” She turned to Mark. “How dare you? I thought better of you than this.”

Mr. Smite Turner held his hands up, palms out, as if to stem this onslaught. A bemused expression lit his face. That gesture was so very like Ash—and the similarity only enraged Margaret further.

“Have you any notion how much you’re hurting him with your carelessness?” He’d talked about his brothers with her, and every aspect of those conversations returned to her now. “He paid for your education. He funded your apprenticeship. He sends you a quarterly allowance, even if you choose not to accept it. And you repay him by excluding him from your tight little circle of friendship? By refusing his invitations, and then accepting one from Mark? You make this house the grounds for your own private party, and you fail to issue him an invitation. Shame on you. Shame on you both.”

That bemused smile grew. “My God, Mark. She has a tongue on her.” Mr. Smite Turner rubbed his chin with his hand. “Lady Anna Margaret, this is not what you suppose. I did not come because I wished to exclude Ash. But circumstances—”

“Circumstances? Truly? If you didn’t wish to exclude him, then where is your brother now?”

The man drew back and folded his arms, and a small smile twitched his lips. “I don’t know, my lady. Shall I fetch him and perform the requisite introductions?”

“Introductions? Why—” She choked on the rest of her sentence. Through the thick haze of her rage, she heard what he’d said—really heard. He’d called her my lady. And before that, he’d called her… Oh, God. His words seemed to echo, and her hands felt suddenly cold. He’d called her Lady Anna Margaret. Lady Anna Margaret. He knew. He knew.

She’d thought to have a few more days. A week, even.

“What did you call me?” A futile attempt. Her protest was too late in coming. “I’m not—I’m not—” A more ineffectual denial Margaret had never heard.

And naturally, he didn’t believe it. He shook his dark head, the motion quick and precise. “No point dissembling, my lady. I saw you two years prior at the theater. You were attending with your brother, and I remember everything I see. The line of your nose. Your chin. If you would like, I could recite precisely what you wore that night, down to the pearls around your neck.”