‘It was my duty.’ His uncle cleared his throat, glared down into his glass as though it had dared to contradict him. ‘It was more than that. You were another son to me, you must know that.’
‘And you were the father I never really had.’ And I believed it with every fibre of my being until I was twenty. That is what hurts, more than anything. How can I live with myself, suspecting that? How can I not?
It had been a stifling August day and he was lying in a fever, hot, restless, with all the windows and doors to his bedchamber thrown open. The doctor in the next room had kept his voice low as he spoke to his assistant, but it had carried just enough through windows set at right-angles to each other. ‘I do not pretend to understand it. That young man has suffered more unexplained fevers and internal upsets than I have ever come across. And he is accident-prone into the bargain.’ The assistant had muttered something and the doctor had reacted sharply. ‘Of course not! What a suggestion. Who would wish him harm?’
Who would wish me harm? No-one except… Except my heir, the man who has devoted his life to my fortune, my estates. My uncle and his son for whom none of that labour will bring the slightest benefit. Unless I die and it all becomes theirs.
And with nothing else to occupy his mind the suspicion grew until it would not leave him. Confined to bed he had all the time in the world to review those accidents. The broken girth, the sprung plank in the rowing boat, the falling masonry, the slippery step, the mysterious shot in the woods that might have been poachers. Or might not. And the succession of fevers and stomach upsets, the violent pains and cramps, the rashes and the headaches that affected no-one else, not even his closest servants.
Cui bono? Who benefits? His uncle of course, his father’s only brother, and after him his cousin Ralph. No-one else had anything to gain from his death but they had everything. He logged the accidents against their frequent presence in the house and found patterns but no proof. Not one iota. Nor was there ever anything remotely suspicious in the way they were with him. But suspicion was like poison: insidious, weakening, impossible to eradicate once it had got a hold.
He was jerked back to the present by his uncle blowing his nose vehemently on a large handkerchief. ‘Well, you are back now. Back with your family. But almost seven years, Cal.’
‘Six and a half.’ Most carefully not seven, the period when a death might be assumed in law. Best to be cautious, even with a trail of letters to mark the fact that he was very much alive. ‘But enough of the past for now, there is much news to catch up with. Nothing dire has occurred or I would have heard of it, but my aunt is in the best of health I trust? And you, Ralph – no wife yet?’
Colour came up in his cousin’s face. ‘Not yet, but there is someone… that is, I have some hopes. Too soon to say yet, I am not certain. Mama is very well, I thank you.’
‘Where are you staying?’ Now all the awkward emotional business was out of the way his uncle had relaxed a trifle. ‘Your Town house will be under wraps of course, but you are most welcome here at Mount Street.’
‘Thank you, but the St James’s Square house was opened up last week. I wrote from Italy.’
‘We’re at war.’ Ralph threw back his brandy, then got up and took the decanters to refill all the glasses. ‘How have you managed to travel so widely?’
‘Disguise and deception added to the amusement. I must demonstrate my Swedish count and my American merchant to you some time.’
His uncle shook his head at the frivolity. His once-thick hair was thinning and almost entirely white now, although he was only in his early sixties. Guilt, worry or natural aging? ‘What are your plans? Will you go to Calderbrook at once?’
‘In a week or two. I must talk to my bankers, to my man of business – and Prescott has enough work for me to last a month. Then there are my tailors, bootmakers, any manner of tiresome affairs to be attended to. And I must do whatever is necessary to take my seat in the House.’
‘You intend to involve yourself in politics?’ Ralph leaned forward. ‘The party could do with your support. Let me introduce you to – ’
‘Not yet.’ Cal held up a hand to stay the flow. ‘I have made no decision on who I support, nor on the issues, come to that. I may well sit cross-bench.’
‘On the fence,’ Ralph snorted.
‘A place from whence I am free to follow my conscience and vote on issues as each arises. You are fiery on the subject of allegiances. Have I missed you taking your seat in the Commons, Cousin?’
‘I hope to find a seat soon,’ Ralph admitted. He had always been a Whig, passionate about politics, Cal remembered. Four years older than himself, he had seemed like an older brother, full of experience and ideas. It would be interesting to discover how that stood up against his own six or so years of hard-won worldly wisdom. ‘I would appreciate your help.’
‘Mine? I know no-one of any importance as yet.’ The whole of Society, the entirety of London, come to that, was terra incognita to him now.
‘You are a duke, Cal,’ Ralph said wryly. ‘Y
ou are someone of importance. And you have boroughs under your influence. The sitting Member for Long Fordingham is unwell and has been talking of resigning.’
Those would be rotten boroughs where bribing only a handful of electors would result in a seat in the House of Commons. Electoral reform was certainly a cause he might become interested in. But in the meantime it was his duty to support a close relative by extending his patronage. Beside anything else it would be highly suspicious not to do so. ‘Long Fordingham is yours if you want it. Just tell me what you need doing.’
Ralph’s grin was almost shocking in the serious, mature face of the man who had once been his childhood friend. Cal found himself jerked back ten years or so, found himself grinning in response. He wanted to trust his cousin. Wanted to trust them both, because this suspicion was like a cancer, eating away at his memories and his childhood and what had been his certainties of love and trust.
But there was no escaping the fact that he had left Calderbrook, and his uncle’s control, as a chronically sick and weak young man and within a month was well again, strong and fit and putting on inches and muscle. And he had never had the same symptoms again. Yes, he’d suffered illnesses like any traveller, but they were always easily diagnosed and they had run their course. It would be very interesting indeed to see what infections and accidents came his way now he was back in England. Time to toss another pebble into the pool and see what ripples it made.
‘I wish I could stay longer.’ And that, strangely, was true. He was glad to see his uncle and cousin. He had missed the two men who had once been all the family he knew, even as he had hardened his heart against them, buried the hurt and fear of betrayal behind a wall of ice. Cal shifted slightly until he could watch both their faces as he got to his feet. ‘But you know what children are like. I will be a very unpopular father if I do not go home soon.’
‘Father? You have a child?’ His uncle.
‘You are married?’ Ralph. Their expressions were almost comically identical, and then there was that rapid, flickering exchange of glances again, unreadable.
‘Yes, to both. But my wife died over a year ago, in India.’