A Perfect Scandal. Tina Gabrielle
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Bones turned his back on Dante and walked to the corner of the room. He picked up the wrapped Gainsborough painting and made to leave.
“Where are you taking that?” Dante asked. Despite everything, Dante was a true art lover, and the mere thought of what a rancid criminal like Robby Bones would do with such a masterpiece disturbed him.
Bones stopped and shrugged dismissively. “’Is lordship knows Hawksley wanted it and that’s why ’e’ll keep it. Ye can hide from Hawksley, but don’t leave London, Dante. Next time, if the chit gets in the way, I’ll take care of ’er.”
Chapter 8
Marcus went up the steps of the impressive mansion on Berkeley Square with the foreboding enthusiasm of a front line foot soldier marching into battle. He had wanted to put off the visit for another day, but duty prevailed. Gritting his teeth, he banged the solid brass knocker.
The door swung open to reveal a heavyset, glum-faced butler. The servant’s mouth pulled into a sour grin as he stared at Marcus.
“Mr. Hawksley, sir. Lord Ardmore was not expecting you.”
“I’m certain my father will want to speak to me today, Bentley.” Marcus stepped past the butler and into the hall. “Where is he?”
Bentley blinked and hurried to close the door, his formal demeanor abandoned as he rushed to catch up with Marcus. “Perhaps you should wait in the parlor while I advise Lord Ardmore of your visit.”
“Good idea,” Marcus replied. “If you would be so kind as to advise my brother of my presence as well.”
Marcus walked down the hall and paused in the parlor doorway, watching Bentley rush off in the opposite direction. As soon as the butler was out of sight, Marcus spun on his heel and headed for the library.
Wait in the parlor like hell, Marcus thought.
He suspected Bentley was under strict orders not to summon the master of the house if his younger son was to pay an unannounced visit. No doubt Bentley would return advising Lord Ardmore was indisposed, but would send a note when he was available. Marcus refused to wait around like a secondhand guest only to be turned out.
This was, after all, his childhood home—no matter what his father’s current attitude was toward him.
He found his father sitting behind a massive desk, reading the latest issue of The Regal Hound. The library, with its rich mahogany furnishings and bookshelves lined with priceless volumes, was as opulent as the rest of the home.
“Good morning, Father.”
Randall Hawksley, the Earl of Ardmore, stiffened, and his eyes snapped to the doorway. His mouth thinned with displeasure as he spotted Marcus. Although the earl was close to sixty, he appeared younger with a full head of dark hair, just graying at the temples. Shrewd brown eyes beneath thick brows glared at his younger son.
“What are you doing here?” Ardmore said tersely.
Marcus stepped into the room. “It’s always a pleasure to see you, too, Father.”
Footsteps echoed down the marble hall and Bentley appeared at the door. “I requested he stay in the parlor, my lord, until I could find you and advise you of his presence, but—”
“No matter, Bentley,” Ardmore said with a wave of his hand. “Marcus was never good at following instructions.”
“Not true, Father,” Marcus said as he took a seat. “Just your instructions.”
Bentley, discreet as always, disappeared from the doorway.
Ardmore slapped down the hunting paper in his hand, irritation written on every line of his face. “Have you come to torment me in front of the hired help or is there another reason for this untimely visit?”
“I apologize if I’ve disturbed your reading,” Marcus said, a bitter edge of cynicism in his voice, “but I’ve come to give you good news. I’m to marry.”
Ardmore looked at him in surprise. “To whom?”
“Lady Isabel Cameron, the daughter of Edward Cameron, the Earl of Malvern.”
“You’re jesting.”
“No. Why would you think that?”
“I heard about the scandal at the Westley mansion. It explains everything,” Ardmore said.
“What do you mean?”
“Why else would a titled heiress marry you?”
Despite anticipating his father’s response, Marcus’s temper flared. “What? No toast to celebrate your son’s impending nuptials?”
Ardmore ignored Marcus’s hard tone. “I always said you would bring shame upon the family name, and I was right. First you became a reckless gambler, a drunk, and a womanizer. Then there was that distasteful incident with that girl, that commoner, who killed herself rather than spend a lifetime with you, after which you completely lost whatever breeding was instilled in you by entering trade. Now you blackmail a titled lady into marriage just to clear your name from stealing a—”
“That’s enough, Father.”
At the sound of an authoritative voice, both Marcus and Ardmore turned to the door of the library. Roman Hawksley, heir to the earldom and Marcus’s older brother, eyed the occupants of the room. Tall, dark, and broad-shouldered, there was an inherent strength in his face. Where Marcus had jet eyes, Roman had deep green eyes, which seemed to blaze in his bronzed face. Women had always flocked to him, and Marcus had suspected it was due to his physical appearance even more than his status as the heir.
Roman walked forward and extended his hand to Marcus. “I overheard. I believe congratulations are in order.”
Marcus met his brother’s green gaze. A silent battle of wills raged between them, before Marcus stood and reluctantly extended his own hand. “Thank you, Roman.”
Roman strode to the liquor cabinet. “Let’s drink to the lovely Lady Isabel Cameron, shall we?” He poured three glasses and handed the first one to their father.
“Yes,” Ardmore said. “I can use a strong drink right now.”
“There’s no need for hostility, Father,” Roman said. “It’s not every day one of your sons gets engaged.”
Randall Hawksley’s glare moved from Marcus to Roman. “I had expected it to be you. Perhaps Marcus can give you a few pointers on how to ensnare an heiress.”
Ah, Marcus mused. Isn’t that just like Father to pit brother against brother to serve his needs.
A sudden anger lit Roman’s eyes. “No lady has appealed to me of late. Perhaps I find myself yearning for the type of marriage you and Mother had,” Roman said, his tongue heavy with sarcasm.
Good one! Marcus thought. That should put the old dog in his place.
Their parents had despised each other. Their deceased mother, who had been passive by nature and had hated conflict, had been dominated by their father. The only matter in which their mother had prevailed was in choosing her sons’ Latin names. She had loved mythology and had chosen both—Marcus, the Roman God of fertility, and Roman, a man of Rome.
Ardmore downed his glass and slammed it on the desk. “I’ve had enough of my offspring for one afternoon.” He rose and strode to the door. Turning back, he glared at Marcus. “I await the wedding invitation, Marcus. I admire Edward Cameron and thus approve of the match, however it came about.” The door slammed behind him.
“Well, that’s as close to a compliment as I have received from him in my adult memory,” Marcus said dryly.
“Be glad of it,” Roman said. “He’s been ruthless in his quest for me to marry this past year. He’s quite pleased by your choice and will incessantly throw it in my face, you know.”