Imperturbable, George Beaton had been with him for nearly fifteen years, a loyal servant who probably knew more about him than anyone else. They rarely discussed personal issues, but he’d found Beaton to be intelligent and well-read, a man who enjoyed life to the fullest.
Colter lifted the snifter, took another sip. Brandy heated his throat, pooled in his belly like liquid fire.
“Can I get you anything, my lord?”
“Where the devil is Martin?”
“I took the liberty of giving him a night out to visit his family, since I assumed you would be gone for the evening. If there is anything you need, I’m available to procure it for you.”
“No, there’s nothing you can get for me. I’ve endured enough good intentions tonight.”
“Very good, my lord.”
After lighting another lamp and turning down the covers of his bed in the adjoining room, Beaton tactfully withdrew from Colter’s sitting room just off the main bedchamber, and left him alone with his dark thoughts.
Orange and gold light danced across the ceiling and walls. His mind drifted again to Celia St. Clair. He hated mysteries, and she was proving to be one. Was she what she seemed, or was she somehow involved with men like James Carlisle? It just didn’t make sense, dammit. She had little to gain from being involved, Mowry’s sly innuendoes be damned. He could smell radicals a mile away, and while Celia may be as patriotic as the next young woman, she was no fervent zealot out to bring down the monarchy.
Nor was she as indifferent to him as she pretended. Another sip of brandy rolled on his tongue as he smiled.
Beneath her cool e
xterior lurked a sensuality that was promising. She was too young and inexperienced to hide her interest or her response, but not too naive to make it clear she was interested in a casual tryst. A disparity of character.
No innocent miss at all, but a woman aware of a man’s touch and needs. He’d wager a thousand pounds on it. He’d never been a particularly patient man and the pursuit of a woman’s favors held no allure for him. He rarely bet on the uncertainties in life, preferring guarantees.
Celia St. Clair was an uncertainty, a contradiction to herself, and he was damned if he knew why she intrigued him. Yes, he hated unanswered questions. Trouble always came hand in hand with them.
And trouble attended the inevitably tense interview with the earl of Moreland the following day, a discussion that began, as usual, with his father’s verbal assault.
“Bloody hell, man, you spend more time with idle pursuits than you do with business. A poor successor to Moreland lands and title, by God!”
“Thank you. Your faith is appreciated.” Colter leaned against the fireplace mantel with arms crossed over his chest, a languid pose that conveyed his utter disregard for the earl’s opinions.
“You appreciate nothing.” Moreland slammed the tip of his cane against the floor, a signal to his long-suffering valet to attend him. Brewster fetched another blanket, and silently positioned the earl’s chair nearer the fire.
Cold eyes stared up from beneath a shelf of brow as the earl regarded his only surviving son.
“What did you discover about the lost vessel? Or did you even think of it again after you left me—”
“John Carter has a full report on the sinking of the India and its cargo, and a manifest of every item aboard. It may be a loss, but not as huge as it could be. All the board members have been notified and mollified and are in complete agreement with me that monies spent on the docks are within acceptable boundaries. Another ship has been dispatched, as the India may not have taken on full cargo when the storm struck. It sank just offshore, not off the isle of Lubang, and only three hands were lost.”
Moreland looked taken aback. “That’s not what my report said. By God, if you’ve discussed it with Philip—”
“Christ, control your bile. Philip isn’t involved in construction, nor is he aware of any details concerning the India. His interests, as you well know, are with his own branch of another shipping firm, and if I’m not mistaken, he’s still traveling on the Continent and not liable to be back anytime soon. Was there anything else you wished me to do?”
Moreland’s eyes narrowed. “It took you a week to find out that little bit of information?”
“No, it took me a week to compile a complete list of the cargo and speak with all fifteen members of the board. Two were in the country.” Colter pushed away from the mantel, and moved away from the fire and his father. “I am only a token member of the board. I prefer not to be involved in any of your affairs for obvious reasons. When you’re dead, I’ll do what must be done. Until then, do as you see fit.”
“I always do.”
“Yes.” Colter returned the gaze with a steady stare. “You always do. I’ll be going to the country for a few weeks but you know how to reach me if you need me.”
“Going to the country now?” Moreland seemed startled. “It’s the wrong time of year for it. I won’t have it. You are needed here.”
“I am not needed here, nor anywhere, for that matter. I have become as you demanded, a lackey at your beck and call. You should be gratified.”
“You’ve never been amenable. Anthony, now, he knew his place, knew what must be done and was man enough to—”