The Mystery of Mr Daventry (Scandalous Sons 4)

Tomas and Samuel took their positions in the taproom where they were to keep watch for the next few hours and note all who entered the coaching inn. Jonah returned to Bronygarth to guard the vault, while Robert drove Lucius and Miss Atwood to Bideford Park, one of the many residences belonging to the Duke of Melverley.

Melverley’s steward, Mr Warner, an educated ponce who thought himself above the duke’s illegitimate offspring, intercepted them in the hall.

“You will have to wait. It’s simply not convenient. Sir Herbert is examining His Grace and may be some time. Carter will attend you in the drawing room until you’re summoned.”

Lucius considered grabbing the man by his high-collared shirt and driving an upper-cut to his elongated chin. Instead, he patted the steward hard on the chest and said, “I’ll show myself upstairs, Warner. Miss Atwood will take tea in the drawing room.”

Lucius mounted the grand staircase with haste, ignoring the steward’s pitiful pleas. Lingering brought back painful memories of restless nights when his mother’s shouts and sobs disturbed his peaceful slumber.

He met Sir Herbert on the upper gallery, discovered that the duke was suffering from paralysis due to cerebral apoplexy. He had regained consciousness, but the prognosis was grim.

“This could well be the last time you’ll see him.” Sir Herbert’s jowls wobbled as he shook his head in disbelief. “Best say what’s needed now. He can hear you but will struggle to respond.” With a grave expression, the physician patted Lucius on the shoulder before ambling away with his bulging black medical bag.

What was there to say to the father he despised?

Lucius had come to torment the duke, not spout sentiment.

The duke’s bedchamber was as dark as his heart, the atmosphere as stuffy as his opinions. Thick red curtains kept the daylight at bay. Bowls of dried lavender lay scattered around the room, though they did nothing to disguise the pungent smell—the smell of death and the rotten stench of a liar.

Lucius used the fading candle in the lamp to light the wall sconces, although the noticeable brightness failed to lighten the bitterness in his heart.

“For the first time in my life, I can speak without interruption.” Lucius moved closer to the imposing figure with sallow skin, resting against a mound of pillows. The man whose core was as putrid as a month-old apple. “Sir Herbert tells me you’re not long for this world, though I cannot say I give a damn.”

Glassy, bewildered eyes stared back.

“No doubt this is another one of your devious schemes,” Lucius continued. It felt strange not closing his ears to the constant criticism. “Despite hovering on the brink of death, you had to find a way to shut me out, to keep from revealing the truth about what you did to my mother.”

The duke seemed to squirm at the mere mention of Julia Fontaine.

“What’s the point of taking a secret to the grave?” Lucius moved closer and perched on the edge of the bed. “All you have to do is blink if the answer is yes.” He paused. The thought of asking the question made his stomach wrench. “Did you kill her in a

jealous rage?”

The duke lay still, frozen in stasis.

Lucius repeated the question with more vehemence.

Nothing.

“Blink, damn you. I know you killed her. I heard the piercing cries at night.” He had done everything to banish the sickening sound from his memory. “Is that why you sent me away? Did you fear I would discover your wicked deed? Do I remind you of her? Do you hate me that much, too?”

Still nothing.

Lucius thought to throttle the answer from his father’s lying lips. “Tell me!”

Frustration quickly turned to despair. He scrubbed his hand down his face to ease his inner turmoil. Focusing on one’s breathing was said to bring inner peace. It was easier said than done.

Lucius stood. Hatred and loathing consumed his heart. “I pray you have left me a legacy. For if you have made even the smallest bequest, know that I will look for every lost and lonely boy, every boy left to cry himself to sleep in a dark school dormitory, and I will fund his escape. Your money will educate the next generation of doctors and solicitors. Men who will carve a new world. A world of equal opportunity.”

The duke’s breathing grew raspy and his mouth twisted into an ugly grimace.

“No amount of money will repair the damage.” Money could not atone for those years spent without his mother. Money could not fill the hole left by an absent father. “Before you’re cold in your grave, before your coxcomb of a cousin inherits, I will dig up every inch of this garden, and I’ll not stop until I’ve found her remains. Do you hear?”

Bony, gnarled fingers clutched the coverlet.

Behind Lucius, the bedchamber door clicked open. He’d hoped to see Miss Atwood, driven upstairs by Warner’s pathetic whining, but the sour-faced steward entered as if he had every right to intrude on the last moments between a father and son.

Warner marched over to the bed. He fussed with the coverlet and pressed his hand to the duke’s damp brow. “Your presence here is detrimental to His Grace’s health.”