Flowers From The Storm (55 page)

Given proof of such, acceptable to me, I might possibly be disposed to revise the abovearrangement.

Christian, Duke of Jervaulx

He thought that was what it said, anyway.

He hoped it was good enough. It had to be. Make them worry, make them stop and think and wonder if he was quite so helpless as he seemed to be.

The clerk in Torbyn’s office had never seen Christian. While he wasn’t especially lofty about going into the City, normally his business came to him, rather than the other way round, and arrived with scrapings and hustlings of no minor order. This pup merely looked up at Christian from his copying and said,

“Good morning. Have you an appointment, sir?”

Christian took off his hat and cloak and tossed them on the desk, right across the poor devil’s papers where condensed mist dripped off the capes onto the fresh copy. As the youngster sputtered, Christian flipped his card onto the pile and walked past. He went up the stairs. An instant later the clerk made a sharp exclamation and came pounding behind.

He caught up with Christian at the landing, bowing and panting apologies. Then the youth went up the second flight half-backwards, still trying to bow, missed the third step, sprawled and picked himself up and bowed again. Christian really felt rather sorry for him.

He saved his true satisfaction for the look on Torbyn’s face, and it was no disappointment.

“The Duke of Jervaulx,” the clerk announced, opening the door. “His Grace!” he added belatedly, bright red.

Christian paused in the doorway, playing it to the hilt. The land agent who acted as his receiver-general was caught in the midst of dictation—his chair slung back on two legs, his hands locked across his waistcoat, white-haired and pugnacious, a bulldog barking his directions to the manager of some far-off estate.

He did not close his mouth. For a prolonged moment, Torbyn, clerks and Christian held a motionless tableau.

Christian moved first, to keep his advantage. He’d been practicing a single three-word sentence, repeating it over and over all the way to Blackfriars. “Make…
outlays
,” he commanded.

He didn’t succeed with all three words, but Torbyn’s expression changed from shock to comprehension.

He rose from his chair.

“Pray sit down, Your Grace.”

Christian didn’t move. “Now. The checks.”

“Bring the duke’s box. This is the number.” Torbyn pulled a scrap of paper toward him and scribbled quickly. He handed it to one of the clerks. The boy slipped out behind Christian. “You understand, Your Grace, that my hands have been tied without a power of attorney.”

Christian had never allowed payments to be made out of this office without his own signature—an old cautious habit learned from his father’s mistakes. Legally, Torbyn had not had the power to disburse funds, though Christian didn’t doubt that the agent was an old bird wise enough to have reckoned a way to hold things together if he’d had the disposition to try.

“I’m delighted to see you recovered,” Torbyn said, when Christian remained silent. “Mr. Manning had given me cause to be greatly concerned.”

Outside, some porter whistled sharply. Christian walked to the window, looking down into the traffic.

“No concern,” he said.

From just below, the boy who must have answered the whistle took off running across the street, stuffing a message into his coat as he went. A moment after, the clerk’s feet sounded on the stairs.

The youth entered the office and set a large blue box on Torbyn’s desk, a carton that usually came to Belgrave Square once a month for this little ritual of check-signing. The agent opened it and began removing books. “I’m afraid you’ve caught us flat. We’ll have to write out the checks. It will take a little while. Would Your Grace care to step into the parlor with me for a cup of coffee in the meantime?”

“No.” Christian didn’t want to spend any longer in conversation than he had to do. Damn! He had not thought of this—the checks and counterfoils had always been prepared before, ready for his signature.

“Very well.” Torbyn set a chair. “If you would be pleased to sit here…”

“No,” Christian said. “I… must go.” He felt his command of his tongue slipping. “I… other… business.”

“If Your Grace will honor us with a few minutes of your time.”

“Later.” Christian began to move toward the door.

“Not long! Really, not long at all. I’ll put both boys on it. Just a quarter hour.”

Something in Torbyn’s anxiety penetrated Christian’s awareness; he thought of the whistle and the messenger boy. He stopped.

“
Damn you
!” he snarled. He swung back to Torbyn. “Sent for them!”

“Now—just a moment—Your Grace, indeed—I think you ought to consider—”

As Christian pitched books into the box, the agent tried to prevent him. Christian froze with Torbyn’s hand on his wrist. He raised his eyes.

“Do you dare?” he asked, deadly quiet.

Torbyn let go. Christian cast the book in.

He had not meant to move so soon, before he was ready, but he pulled the statement he’d written from his coat pocket and laid it on Torbyn’s desk. “Convey to… Mr. Manning.”

He covered the blue box and picked it up, escaping, striding steadily, holding himself back from breaking into a run.

He was committed now. He could not flinch. He walked into Jervaulx House without notice, gambling that Torbyn’s messenger had gone to one of his brothers-in-law and not here. It was his mother’s at-home day. Well enough: guests would keep her a little in hand. Her butler met him, coming down the stairs.

“Calvin,” Christian demanded.

The man turned utterly white. Christian reached out and grabbed his arm before he could retreat.

“Tell…
where
!”

“With Her Grace, but—”

Christian paid him no more attention, taking the steps two at a time. He rounded the upper banister and strode into the drawing room.

Ladies sat in conversation, stiff as if they still had backboards strapped to them, their hats all feathered and flowered. He walked toward his mother.

She was talking; it was the silence that he carried with him across the room that caught her notice. As her companion fell mute along with the others, she looked up at him and swooned.

It was a real one, too. Ladies gave little shrieks; Christian caught her as she slumped forward in her chair. He held her back from falling out of it, looking over her at Calvin, who had been gathering cups on a tray at the back of the room.

The faint lasted only an instant. As soon as she drooped, she began to move weakly. Between him and Calvin, they helped her upright. She clutched at Christian’s arm, blinking up at him feebly.

“I’m… Belgrave Square,” he said. He pulled free, and while his mother made incoherent whispers of entreaty, gave Calvin a long look. “Come?”

“Certainly, Your Grace.” He was still supporting the dowager duchess. “I will be there directly.”

“I… need staff,” Christian said.

“I’ll see to it, Your Grace.”

Christian gave his mother a deep bow, nodded politely at the shocked circle of feminine faces, and got himself out of there.

They arrived at Belgrave Square too soon: Manning, Stoneham, Tilgate and Perceval, with an attorney and Torbyn along for good measure. Their force of six made Christian taut with alarm, but he had a remedy for that, loaded and primed in his pocket, to even the odds.

Calvin had not come yet. Christian saw them from the window of the blue salon. Alone, he waited there, listening to them pound on the door. His lips drew back in contempt as he heard them force it and start to search.

Spurious hospitality was not within his ability, nor his mood. It was Manning who came to the salon, with Stoneham close behind. Christian merely stood watching them, lifting his eyebrows in a show of disinterested amusement at their expressions when they found him there.

Stoneham went squealing for the rest. Christian did nothing as they came in and Manning closed the door. He left the first move to them.

It was somewhat anticlimactic. Stoneham, foppish and nervous, kept fiddling at his excessive sideburns.

“You gave your poor mother a sad start!”

Christian leaned against the mantel. “Poor mother,” he said dryly.

A silence fell.

“Are you alone here?” Manning demanded. “Where is the woman?”

“
Duchess
… do you mean?”

Manning stalked to a chair, a large and florid man with a look of the squire and the hunt about him. “You don’t mind if we sit?”

Christian let his mouth curl a little. “Can I stop?”

Manning waved the others down. The attorney, a Mr. Bacon, laid a rolled sheaf of papers on the sofa table.

“Mr. Torbyn says that you took the checks and estate books,” Manning said. “I don’t think that was wise, Jervaulx.”

Christian remained standing, his arms folded.

“We’re asking you to return them.”

Christian allowed his bitter smile to grow. “Bastard.”

Manning took a breath. He leaned forward in his chair. “We’re trying to do what’s best for you.”

Christian let that hang in the air.

“Damn it, we’re trying to save what can be saved! But you and your aunt make it bloody difficult.” He sat back. “This ”settlement‘ you claim you’ve made—you don’t really think a court in this country would uphold it?“

Christian inclined his head. “You… find out.”

“You must face it, Jervaulx. Everything you do now, everything since—since your wit failed—is in question. Including this mockery of a marriage. Do you understand that? I don’t think you do. You seem—your aunt spoke of lucidity— but lucid intervals will not suffice to administer the estate in a proper manner. When the hearing goes forward as it ought to have done a month since, the testimony will cover the whole period.”

“If.” Christian smiled. “
If
.”

Manning’s voice rose. “No
if
! The hearing goes forward!”

“But, Manning—” Stoneham reached out a hand.

“Perhaps—if I might speak,” the attorney said in a conciliatory tone. “I’ve brought Mr. Perceval’s and Lord Stoneham’s proposal for a private trust, Your Grace. I would be pleased to do myself the honor of reviewing it with you.”

Christian held out his hand. The attorney jumped up and untied the set of papers, giving them over to him.

“The first page is only preliminaries and courtesies,” Mr. Bacon said. “So if—”

Christian pulled off the first page and dropped it into the fire.

“That is—” The man looked nonplussed. “If you will turn your attention to the second, you will—”

Christian fed the second page to the fire. He held up the third, smiling a question at the attorney.

“For God’s sake, he’s an imbecile!” Manning stood up. “You can’t expect rational understanding.” He moved as if to snatch the remaining papers away.

Christian dropped the whole bundle into the grate. It curled and blackened, and with a puff exploded into yellow flame.

“No…
trust
,” he said.

“This is futile,” Manning snapped. He reached for Christian. “Stoneham! Hold him!”

It was what Christian feared, half expected, and yet when it came it seemed unreal. Manning made a wild grab; Christian jerked back and drew the pistol. Stoneham, who’d made no more than a timid advance, stopped in his tracks. Torbyn had been more aggressive: he was frozen a close foot away, with the attorney sheltering behind him.

Christian meant to order them out, but his blood was pounding in his ears. He could not command a word. They wanted him; they would take him if they could do it. He felt how close it was—how he would wake up in the jacket, with the Ape and the garrote and madness.

“Careful,” Torbyn said. “Careful, Mr. Manning.”

Manning slowly dropped his hand.

“He’s gone mad,” Stoneham whispered.

Christian gave an enraged laugh. “Bumble… amateurs!” The Ape would have had him, twice over. He felt sickness and fury in his throat.

“Lay it down,” Manning said, with a little move of his head. “Lay it down on the mantel, Jervaulx. It will only make things worse.”

“Get out,” Christian said.

“We’re here to help,” Manning answered, with a coaxing reason that put him in more mortal danger than he knew.

“Out,” Christian growled.

“Put down the gun,” Manning urged.

Christian saw that his brother-in-law was going to force it—Manning either had no idea of what a real madman could do, or was counting on quite enough lucidity for Christian to see the obvious: that he couldn’t commit murder in his own salon and get off as a reasonable man.

“Put it down,” Manning said. “You aren’t going to shoot anyone.”

Christian knew he should have waited. He should have had Durham. He shouldn’t have let them corner him alone. His brother-in-law had reason on his side of a bluff. Christian had the madhouse, had losing his money and Maddy and his mind in that place.