Then her green eyes narrowed, her lips and chin firmed, and she looked at the young gentleman. “William John...?” Her tone was both questioning and demanding.
Judging by William John’s expression, all sorts of unwelcome thoughts were tumbling through his brain; they left him looking faintly terrified. He glanced at his sister, and guilt was added to the mix.
What is going on here?
Rand laid a firm hand on the reins of his own temper. He glanced past the pair into the house; the steamy haze was evaporating. Evenly, he asked, “Is Mr. William Throgmorton at home?”
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He looked back at the younger man, apparently William John Throgmorton.
Finally, William John focused on Rand’s face and somewhat sheepishly said, “Ah. As to that...”
When, apparently lost for words, William John fell silent again, Rand looked to the virago.
Briefly, she raised her eyes to his, then dipped in a curtsy. “Lord Cavanaugh. I’m Miss Throgmorton, and, as you’ve no doubt guessed, this is my brother, William John Throgmorton.” She paused, then clasped her hands before her, tipped up her chin, and met Rand’s eyes. “As for our father, I regret to inform you that he passed away in January.”
It was Rand’s turn to stare. In his case, unseeing, while his thoughts turned cartwheels in his head. Eventually, his accents clipped and curt, he stated, as much for himself as anyone else, “William Throgmorton is dead.”
It wasn’t a question, and no one replied.
Rand blinked and refocused on William John. “In January?” Despite his hold on his temper, incensed incredulity underscored his words.
Helplessly, William John stared back.
From the corner of his eye, Rand saw Miss Throgmorton, her gaze fixed on her brother, her expression close to an open accusation, confirm that telling detail with a decisive nod.
Rand returned his attention to the pale and blinking William John. If William Throgmorton was dead, then presumably William John was his heir—legally and financially. The question burning in Rand’s brain was whether William John was his father’s successor intellectually as well.
If he was, then...
There might—just possibly—be a way out of the fire William Throgmorton’s death, his son’s failure to tell Rand of it, and the rapidly approaching exhibition in Birmingham had landed Rand in.
The three of them remained staring at each other, weighing each other up in various ways. Then Rand drew in a long, deep breath and looked past the open door. “Perhaps,” he said, his tone crisp and rigidly even, “assuming it’s safe, we might take the discussion of our dilemma—the business arrangement my investment syndicate had with your father—inside.”
The virago glanced into the hall, then looked out at the staff and called, “All’s clear.” Then she glanced at Rand; he was perfectly certain he saw wariness in her eyes. “If you will follow me, my lord.”
She led the way inside.
With an awkward wave, William John gestured for Rand to precede him.
As Rand crossed the threshold into the well-appointed front hall and the telltale scent of overheated metal reached him, he counseled himself that his first step in sorting out this mess had to be to learn all he could about the true situation at Throgmorton Hall.
“The boiler exploded, you see.” Trailing behind Rand, William John apparently thought that part of his explanation was the most critical.
Following Miss Throgmorton across the hall tiles toward the door of what Rand assumed would be the drawing room, he glanced back to see William John deviating toward a plain wooden door—the sort usually found at the bottom of tower steps—that was set into the wall to the right of the front door and presently stood ajar.
Rand halted. Beyond the door, he glimpsed stone steps spiraling down. The metallic scent was emanating from there.
“Oh no.” Miss Throgmorton brushed past him. “You are not disappearing down there.” She clamped her hands about her brother’s arm and forcibly dragged him away from the partially open door. “The drawing room, William John.” Her tone was stern. She didn’t look at Rand as she towed her brother past him. “You need to explain what’s happened to Lord Cavanaugh.” She uttered a small humph. “I’d like to hear your version of that as well.”
Rand felt his brows rise. He fell in behind the Throgmorton siblings, inwardly reflecting that the next hour was bidding fair to being significantly more fraught than he’d anticipated.
The drawing room possessed a similar ambiance to the front hall—well lit, comfortable, and unostentatious. Unfussy, yet feminine—or at least bearing the imprint of some female hand. The armchairs and long sofa were well stuffed and covered in flowery chintz. The walls were a very pale green, and the white painted woodwork gleamed. Long windows opened onto a flagstone terrace that overlooked the long south lawn and allowed slanting summer sunlight to illuminate the room.
Miss Throgmorton all but pushed her brother down to sit on the sofa, then moved to claim one of the chintz-covered armchairs—the one that faced the door. With a wave significantly more graceful than her brother’s, she invited Rand to take the armchair that faced the sofa across a low table.
Rand sat, strangely aware that he was dressed informally, wearing breeches, riding jacket, and top boots, rather than his customary trousers and well-cut coat. Why the thought popped into his mind, he had no idea. As matters stood, he had far more to worry about than the figure he cut in the Throgmortons’ eyes, and he seriously doubted William John would notice.