Unveiled (Turner #1)(63)

“Of course not,” Smite said in disdain. “Mark would know better than to ask me to stay.”

“But—”

“Mark asked me to come here to…meet Miss Lowell. For you, you barbarian, as it appears that when it comes to her, you are intent on diving off a cliff, headfirst. I came for you. Not for him.”

His brother spoke those words as he always did, clean and crisp, with just a hint of wry humor. Ash stared at him, not quite able to comprehend what he’d just said. He wanted to hug him. Or, more like, to barrel him over and pin him to the ground. But so much exuberance would make him uneasy.

Instead Ash reached out his hand and lightly tapped him on the shoulder. It would have to do, as embraces went. “Thank you,” he said. It seemed inadequate to the moment.

Smite looked up at him, his features held very, very still. “You know, Ash,” he said quietly, “you cannot buy me back my childhood. It’s not your fault I lost it, nor is it something you could purchase in any event.”

They never talked of those years. Never. For Smite to bring it up on his own… Ash held his breath. Whatever had transpired in his absence, Ash knew he could not make up for it. It didn’t stop him from wanting to try. From wanting to throw everything he had in his brother’s direction, just to try to win a smile from him.

“You can’t purchase my childhood,” Smite repeated. His hands spread, and he flattened them on the table in front of him. He seemed distinctly uneasy. “But perhaps there is something you can do for me as an adult. Some two things.”

A peace offering. After all these years of spurning Ash’s attempted gifts, there was a peace offering. “Name them,” he said hoarsely.

“I’d like to be a magistrate.”

“Done. Hell, when I’m the Duke of Parford, I’ll see you appointed to the Queen’s Bench. Do you fancy being Lord Chief Justice?”

Smite smiled and shook his head. “Stop embellishing on my dreams, Ash. A magistrate. I have no desire to sit in the assizes. I’d be satisfied to be a small dispensary of justice—someone who sees little people, and who, from time to time, might make a difference in someone’s life. I know that small is not your style. But it is mine.”

Ash nodded. “Why?”

His brother smiled faintly once more. “Because what happened to us… I want to make certain it won’t happen again. Not on my watch.”

“And the second thing?”

Smite’s gaze slipped away. “I’m sure Mark has shared his feelings on this point. But we both know how Mark is.” His fingers drummed against wood. “It’s about Richard Dalrymple. I want you to take away everything he has ever cared for. Turnabout, after all, is only fair.”

MARGARET KNEW SHE NEEDED to talk with Ash, but he’d been busy up until dinner, in anticipation of his brother’s departure. It was almost ten in the evening when Margaret stood in her father’s room, her hands on her hips, listening to him complain.

“Why,” he demanded, “is it still so warm? It’s September. Autumn should be coming on.”

The weather over the past few days had not cooled. Instead the heat had built, a furnace stoked by each passing day. The air had grown still and stagnant. Even if Margaret had opened the windows, no breeze would have ruffled the curtains. Instead, the air hung thick and humid, like some bloated creature hunkered sullenly in one corner of its lair.

Her father continued. “It’s time for fires in the fireplace, and autumn chills and the like.”

“Would you like me to build you a fire?” she asked dryly.

“Don’t be a ninny. I would like you to alter the weather.” He looked at her implacably, as if a strong enough ducal command might cause storm clouds to gather.

“Well, then. I’ll just snap my fingers and make it so. I hope that will satisfy you, Your Grace.” As she spoke, she dabbed gently at his face with a towel. Since she had been left alone at Parford Manor, his incessant demands had become worse, even less reasonable. Had he ever loved her at all? Had she ever loved him? Perhaps there had never been anything between them but duty and obligation.

“Worthless girl,” he muttered, rubbing the side of his cheek.

Margaret’s hands closed around the towel. She wasn’t performing tasks for pay. She wasn’t a bear, to dance at the end of a rope.

If she’d been confused about Ash, she was utterly discombobulated when it came to her father. If she was worthless, it was because he had made her so—because he’d engaged in bigamy, and because he had simply ceased to play the charade of father, once the truth was revealed to the world.

“What was that you said? I couldn’t make it out.” Her voice was low and fierce in her ears.

Her father’s hand came to a standstill. But if he had ever had the capacity to hear the dangerous note that touched Margaret’s voice, he’d lost it with age and illness. Or maybe he’d always had that irritable lift to his chin, and she’d not noticed.

“I said you were worthless, girl.”

He was ill. He was old. She turned away from him, her hands shaking on the laudanum bottle with the sheer effort of restraint. She was not going to abandon him. Damn him, she would not do to him what he’d done to her. If she did, she’d be almost as worthless as he called her. She set the cloth down on the table.