Prejudice in Regency Society. Michelle Styles
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yourself!’
‘I simply feel there are other better places where I could go.’
‘You do, do you?’ Henry jabbed his finger at her. ‘Let me tell you this, Miss Butter Would Not Melt in Her Mouth! Should you fail to bring Lord Thorngrafton up to the mark, I will marry you off to the next person who asks. In fact, I am tempted to marry you off to the next person— Lord Thorngrafton or whomever—after this latest outburst. I have it on good authority that Mr Lynch is currently on the lookout for a wife, or should I say nursemaid, for his brood of seven children.’
Lottie stared at her brother in horror. He could not do that. Could he? She fought against the panic that swept over her, struggling to breathe against the confines of her corset.
‘Where is Mama? Let me speak to her. You cannot do that, Henry. I forbid it. Mama will be distraught when she learns of your unkind and uncharitable attitude.’
‘Mama is at Shaw’s Hotel, waiting for your arrival. And despite Lucy’s misgivings, I must conclude that it is the best place for you. You will catch a titled husband there, so help me God.’
‘Why are you doing this, Henry?’ Lottie asked in a small voice. ‘Why are you doing this to me?’
‘My sister’s marriage is a matter of business. You have two weeks, Lottie. I am not an unkind man, but it is all the time I wish to be away from my family. You and our mother together…’
‘But…but…’
‘Perhaps we send for Mr Lynch now?’
Lottie stared at her brother. Once she had thought him a god, but now she knew he was a hard, unfeeling monster. He did not care for her future happiness, merely for what prestige or power her marriage could bring to him. What business opportunities might arise. Her value on the marriage market. Lottie refused to cry or give way to temper. That, she knew from bitter experience, would not help the situation. She had to be calm. Somehow, she would find a way.
‘I will go,’ she whispered.
‘Good.’ Henry turned his back on her. ‘Now, Aunt, may I have another of your esteemed muffins?’
‘Lottie, dry your eyes.’ Cousin Frances patted her shoulder. ‘Things like this are always happening in my Minerva Press novels and they turn out all right in the end.’
Lottie gave a small hiccup. Somehow, Cousin Frances’s sudden solicitude made everything worse.
‘Time to wake up, Lord Thorngrafton.’ Tristan strode across the darkened room, pulled apart the curtains and let the fresh air enter the wine-soaked room. ‘Or should I say, Cousin Peter? I had wondered who I might find at Shaw’s and had suspected that it might be you.’
The prone figure on the bed groaned, mumbled a few incoherent words before pulling the pillow over his head. ‘Go away. It is the middle of the night.’
‘Time to be up, Peter. Three o’clock in the afternoon. Play time has finished.’ Tristan controlled his fury at his first cousin. ‘Quit your shamming or you will have cause to regret it. Can you give me any reason why I should not summon the parish constable?’
At the mention of the parish constable, the man sat straight up. His florid complexion paled as Tristan regarded his first cousin with a dispassionate eye. There was a vague family resemblance, but nothing remarkable.
‘You…you…you are supposed to be on the Continent. Or, better yet, dead in some alleyway.’ Peter’s hand trembled as he passed it over his eyes. ‘I was sure you would never return to England. And Uncle swore it when I changed my name from Burford to Dyvelston.’
‘Changing a name and being acknowledged as his heir does not change the order of succession, Peter.’
‘I know that, but…’
‘I returned, Cousin, as I promised I would.’ Tristan stared at him. ‘I always keep my promises…unlike some.’
‘Allow me some moments to dress. This is quite a shock to me. You here. Alive.’
‘Not as big of a shock as it was to me to discover that Lord Thorngrafton had been responsible for a variety of actions. What amazes me is how brazen you have been about it.’
His cousin stood up and started to dress.
‘Don’t begrudge me, Tris,’ he said. ‘I thought you dead. I was sure you were dead. Uncle Jeremiah swore it as well. He told me that you were seriously ill in Florence… or was it Venice? Don’t matter, but I didn’t expect you to appear.’
‘Reports of my demise were premature.’ Tristan paused and brushed a speck off his frock coat. ‘And never call me Tris. It implies a familiarity that does not exist between us.’
‘But I am your heir. There ain’t no other and if you were dead…’ Peter ran his hand through his hair. ‘Be fair, Tristan. Uncle’s obituary, of course, made the papers and everyone naturally assumed that I would be the one… Who am I to dissuade them?’
‘And who are you charging all this to?’ Tristan made a sweep of his hand. ‘The best suite at Shaw’s is ruinously expensive.’
‘You need not worry. I only borrowed the title.’ Peter shook his head. ‘I am not that let in the pocket. And one has to speculate to accumulate.’
‘Good use?’
‘Exploring business opportunities…’ Peter gave a practised smile. ‘I have a plan about lead mining, and I just need a little capital. There is a piece of property.’
‘And it has nothing to do with the card game I heard about being arranged at Mumps ha’ not a mile from here. Or the two aged widows Lord Thorngrafton pursued without success last month.’
Peter winced and ran his hand through his hair, making it stand up on end. ‘You heard about that.’
‘Certain parties were keen to inform me of this development once I enquired. I am not without friends, Peter.’ Tristan regarded his cousin. ‘I warn you, Peter, the current Lord Thorngrafton will be above reproach, his name unblemished. I intend to restore the estate to its former glory, to undo the damage our uncle did.’
‘But…but scandal dogs your footsteps.’ Peter blinked. ‘It is why you went to the Continent. You killed a man.’
‘He failed to die.’
‘But you shot him.’
‘For cheating at cards. I had had too much to drink and my aim was less than true.’ Tristan gave a cold smile. ‘It has improved. Now your exploits are at an end.’
‘You remind me more and more of Uncle Jeremiah! He had the same aptitude for a chilling phrase. The same ice-cold eye.’
‘Shall I forget we are related?’ Tristan asked, raising an eyebrow.
‘Please, Tristan, for old time’s sake, let me do this one thing. I have prospects. There are three youngish widows whose heads are turned at the thought of a title. Then there is this businessman, whose mother is impressed with titles, but if I can persuade him to invest in the old lead mine, it will return a thousandfold…’ Peter laid his hand on Tristan’s shoulder. ‘When we were young, we used to help each other out. I helped you escape to the Continent. You can’t deny it. You owe me, Tristan. I was the one who aided you and Suzanne. Made things possible.’
Tristan regarded his cousin. Peter’s body was already starting to run to fat and his face showed a certain thickening. Perhaps the widows and the businessmen deserved what they got. But neither was he ready to forgive Peter’s observation. He and his uncle did not share a temperament.
‘You did indeed. Perhaps I do owe you for that. I recall precisely why I was there as well.’
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