“No. I fear the duke’s obsession with me poisoned his mind. I left because it became intolerable, because I feared for my life. One cannot remain in a destructive environment.”
In the dim light, it was hard to see the scar on her cheekbone. She has not aged well, he thought. He wanted to believe it stemmed from the distress of leaving her son. He wanted to. But couldn’t.
“I begged him to let me take you away, too,” she said, yet her tone lacked conviction. “But you belong to the duke—”
“I belong to no one,” Lucius snapped.
If anyone had a right to make such a claim, it was his friend and mentor. The person who taught him how to be a man. Or Katharine Fontaine. The stranger who had enabled him to prosper.
“Tell me about my grandmother.” Many times, he had tried to form a mental picture of the benevolent lady. “What was she like? How did she come by such a fortune?” Why had such a generous woman allowed her daughter to become a courtesan?
Julia Fontaine looked as if he’d asked her to name every Home Secretary since William Petty. She opened her mouth, mumbled incoherently before saying, “I’m not sure where to start.”
“Was her hair as dark as mine? Did she think of me? Why did she not attempt to visit?” He had a catalogue of questions.
She pursed her lips and seemed to consider her answer carefully. “I don’t remember her,” she finally admitted. “My mother sent me to live with an uncle when I was five.”
Lucius fell silent, lost in a moment of confusion.
“She died a year later,” Julia added.
“Died?” Lucius reeled from the shock. “That’s impossible. She died a month before my eighteenth birthday. My inheritance was held in trust until I reached my majority.”
“Lucius, Katharine Fontaine was destitute when she died.”
“Destitute?”
“She was buried in a pauper’s grave.”
“Then who in blazes left me a fortune?” As soon as the words left his lips, he knew the answer. A conniving, manipulative devil, that’s who. A father who couldn’t give love or affection but could give money freely.
“It can only be the duke,” she said, echoing his sentiment. “He has the means to trick you. He would see it as his duty to provide for you financially.”
“His duty to control me, to prove I need him,” Lucius corrected. Hatred raced through his veins. He might have sat there and let animosity fester. He might have plotted and planned a way to repay his father. And he would repay him. But the urge to get this meeting over with and return to Bronygarth, to Sybil, led him to say, “On the subject of manipulation, you said the duke made it impossible for you to return.”
She cradled the mug between dry, cracked hands and stared at it for a time. “Melverley chased me from town. Ensured no one extended me credit. Had me barred from every social event. Prevented me from becoming another man’s mistress. Indeed, no man dared make me an offer.”
Oh, Lucius knew the bitter, domineering devil only too well.
The duke would do anything, anything to get his way.
He studied the frail woman before him, all limp limbs as she sagged in the seat. He found it rather ironic that the picture on the wall behind was of a weeping willow. The drooping foliage dangled close to the water. His mother’s hair hung loose, the ends an inch from her full mug of ale. And yet another image invaded his musings—that of a woman sobbing by a lake.
Sybil!
A shudder of fear shook him to his core.
He needed to get this meeting over with.
Every nerve in his body said he needed to leave the Black Swan.
“So you went north,” he said, though his mind was elsewhere now.
“Yes, to Scotland. There’s something about crossing the border that makes one feel safe. Free.”
Scotland?
Why did the mere mention of the country set him on edge?