Unveiled (Turner #1)(75)

“Oh, God,” Dalrymple moaned from the side of the room. “Ethics. At ten in the morning. And you wonder why you were so constantly set upon at Eton?”

Mark and Ash turned to Dalrymple as one. “He’s championing you, you dolt,” Ash remarked.

“I don’t truck with what’s happened to you,” Mark added. “But if you ever wondered why Smite outdid you so consistently at Oxford, here is one explanation. It’s because you are an idiot. And perhaps because you feel free to suspend your ethics before breakfast.” Dalrymple flushed.

“If you must know,” Ash said, turning back to Mark, “I don’t regret what I did to the Dalrymples one bit—this incomparable ass over here deserved it. And while no doubt it hurt Margaret temporarily, once I’ve married her it shall all be resolved.”

Dalrymple stepped forwards. “Like hell you’ll marry her.”

“As if you have anything to say on the matter. She’s of age. She’s chosen me—or at least,” Ash added with a grimace, “she will.”

“She won’t choose you over her own brothers, you uncivilized brute. And once word gets out that you’re the sort of man who ruins a lady—”

Ash wasn’t quite sure how he got across the room. But he did—slamming Dalrymple against a wall for the second time that day. Eggs and pickled fish went flying.

“How,” he growled, his arm at the man’s throat, “do you imagine word will leak out?”

Dalrymple, held against the wall, up on tiptoes, squeezed his eyes shut. “I don’t know?” His voice was very high.

“Because if you were suggesting that you would sacrifice your sister’s reputation to serve your own purposes, think again. If you do, I won’t just steal your title and your lands. I will run any bank that holds your funds into the ground. I will bribe your servants to slip nettles into your bed. I will hire trumpets to stand outside your home every evening, where they will sound notes at irregular intervals. You will never have a solid night’s sleep again.”

“You’re mad.” Dalrymple licked his lips.

“Perhaps. But as the putative head of the family, I can have you declared mentally incompetent and committed to an asylum, if you choose to say one word against Margaret.”

“I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t hurt my own sister.”

“Ash,” Mark said from behind him. “Give over. You don’t have to do this.”

It was either the threats, or he’d bodily pull the man to pieces. Margaret probably wouldn’t approve of either. Ash lowered his arm, and Dalrymple’s heels thumped to the floor.

He let out a sigh. And then he cast his brother a reproachful look.

“I’ll send you both to asylums,” he growled.

Richard bit his lip and stepped back in fear. But Mark knew him rather better. He rolled his eyes in unconcern. “Choose a quiet one for me. I should like to get some writing done.”

ASH HAD NEVER ENTERED the north wing of the house before. The chambers there had been shut off during his visit. He had understood they belonged to the Dalrymple offspring; he had just never realized that one of them still resided in the household.

With Margaret’s charade at an end, she’d moved back to the room that was rightfully hers. The maid had guided him to her chamber—and then stayed.

So they were to have a chaperone. It seemed rather late for that.

Margaret sat at a table in her parlor, writing a letter. She was dressed in dark silk—not quite black, but a gray sufficiently dark to pass as storm clouds. A two-inch fall of dark lace touched her elbows. Her hair was no longer pinned up in a serviceable knot; instead, it had been braided and curled and arranged in an intricate pattern.

She wore the same gold necklace. He still wondered about that locket.

When he cleared his throat, she looked up at him. She held her pen, her eyes wary. She looked different—tidy and coiffed and sleek. But her eyes were still the same.

“My God, Margaret,” he said.

“It is a bit much to comprehend, I am sure.” Her voice seemed smooth and unruffled. It had taken him weeks to understand that this was just her way of hiding deep emotion. “This is the first time you’ve seen me as Lady Anna Margaret. Well.” She shrugged, and spread her arms. She’d looped a knit shawl over her shoulders, and it slipped as she did so. “Here I am.”

Lady Margaret’s gown fit rather better than those loose gray frocks. The fringe of her shawl shaped itself to her bodice, outlining curves he’d held early this morning.

“There are a great many things I don’t understand,” he said.

“I suppose you should like to know why I lied to you.”

He just looked at her. Now that he knew who she was, that secret sadness she always carried with her made sense. She’d told him in the very first hour why she disliked him. She’d never given him lies. Just truths that he hadn’t truly heard.

“If you must know,” she began, “and given what has transpired between us, I suppose you deserve the full story, the plan started weeks ago, when—”

“Hang the plan, Margaret. I don’t care about any of that. I want to know—she was your mother. Not the duchess. Not your employer. Your mother died. And you…you blame me. For good reason.”