A Gentleman's Curse (Avenging Lords 4)

Her reply came in the form of a curt nod, and yet he wanted her to say she would do anything for him, that she would support him even if he wasn’t paying her a penny.

“You should know a little about my mother before we enter.” Hester Lockhart knew how to lure the unsuspecting into her trap. “She will appear distraught, yet she will turn her pain and anger towards me. She has a vicious tongue when the mood takes her.”

Claudia smiled. “I am used to dealing with those who seek to intimidate. But I appreciate the warning all the same.”

Her reply roused his ire. He imagined many people sought to take advantage of the young mistress in charge of Falaura Glen. “Should you need any assistance at home, you only need ask.”

She struggled to maintain her smile. He knew her well enough to know something troubled her. “That is most gracious.” She shuffled forward. “Come, let us tackle your parents and see if we can discover anything that might help make sense of the night you fled to India.”

Lockhart knew a distraction technique when he heard one, but she was right. They could not linger in the carriage all day, and so he assisted his wife to the pavement and escorted her to the front door.

“Welcome home, sir,” Simmonds said. The butler’s brown eyes flashed with warning, a signal to alert Lockhart of his mother’s precarious mood. He inclined his head to Claudia. “Madam.”

“I trust Terence visited this morning.”

“He did, sir.”

Terence had always been the favourite. “Then my mother is expecting us.”

A mournful cry exploded from the room on their left. The prolonged wailing sound expressed his mother’s crippling anguish.

Simmonds glanced at the ceiling before saying, “I am sure you know the way, sir.”

As Lockhart guided Claudia into the drawing room, it struck him that his mother’s latest obsession extended to purchasing anything pale blue. The curtains, the new coverings on the chairs and sofa, and the swirling blue and white pattern on the rug made a man feel as if he were floating above the clouds.

His mother lay stretched on a pale blue chaise with gilt legs. A house cap, tied tightly under her chin with a blue silk bow, covered all but a few grey curls. Her white dress made her look pasty and drew one’s gaze to the puffy red rings around her eyes.

She looked up although continued to twist and wring her handkerchief in her hands. “So it is true,” his mother blurted. “We received word you were dead. Dead, for pity’s sake, dead. And now look at you, standing there as if you haven’t a care in the world.” She flapped her handkerchief in his direction. “Do you mean to put your mother in her grave?”

Feelings of emptiness returned. “As I have already explained to Terence, Lord Greystone acted prematurely in sending his correspondence.”

“Greystone? That son of a whoremaster? Can the foolish boy not tell the difference between the living and the dead?” She broke into another ear-piercing sob just for effect.

Lockhart gritted his teeth. A minute had passed, and he was ready to leave and never return. Had it not been for the dainty hand taking hold of his arm he might have acted on impulse. Miss Darling was there to remind him why he had come—purely for information. And yet a small part of him longed for his mother’s embrace, ached to hear words of love and comfort.

“Lord Greystone is an intelligent man whose abilities in business led me to make my fortune.”

His mother lowered her handkerchief and narrowed her gaze. “So you left England in pursuit of money. You abandoned those who supported you, turned your back on your family, your responsibilities.”

It didn’t matter what he said, what excuses he gave, his mother would find every reason to express her disappointment. He could drop on bended knee and explain how he was framed for a murder he did not commit, how he’d been forced to flee, confused and alone. But ultimately she would lay the blame at his door.

“How else was I to survive when Father cut off my funds and struck my name from his will?”

His mother scrunched the handkerchief in her fist. “You forced that poor man to act as he did. Heaven knows why you chose to live with heathens. I’m only grateful our estate is not entailed. When the time comes, I daresay you would lease it out and use the money to buy goats.”

Goats?

The matron focused on everyone else’s failings rather than accept her own. But the conversation raised one crucial question.

Whose name had his father marked next to the estate in Warwickshire?

Terence Lockhart?

Justin Perigrew? Surely not.

There was only one way to find out.

“Being named the heir, I thought Terence would have moved into Alveston Hall,” he said, making the obvious assumption. “Selina favours the countryside I seem to recall.”