How the Scoundrel Seduces (2 page)

Father would survive. He must!

“One more thing, lad,” Father rasped. “Put down that Fowler will . . . train you as his . . . assistant.”

As George swore under his breath, Tristan hastily scribbled the words. Father had talked for years about Tristan’s learning to be a land agent under the present one, but Tristan had never dared hope for that. He couldn’t imagine anything more wonderful than working with Fowler, and perhaps replacing the older man one day.

When he was done, Father reviewed the paper, then thrust it at George. “Sign it . . . and put ‘witness’ beneath your name. No one will . . . question the codicil . . . if
you
sign. It goes against your . . . interests.”

George crossed his arms over his chest. “Aye, it does. Which is precisely why I
won’t
sign.”

A shrewd expression crossed Father’s face. “I may yet . . . live, boy. The doctor is . . . on his way. If I survive . . . I’ll make you regret . . . defying me.”

Father could do it, too. If he chose to sell off unentailed portions or mortgage the lot, George would spend the rest of his life digging out from under the debts. Besides which, George depended on Father for money until he inherited.

Tristan held his breath. As long as George couldn’t
see the rapidly spreading red stain hidden beneath the heavy covers, he might acquiesce.

The sound of hoofbeats outside apparently decided him. George grabbed the codicil and the quill from Tristan and signed. But then he just stood there staring at the paper.

Father held out a trembling hand. “Give it to me.”

George hesitated.

“Give . . . it . . . to . . . me . . .” Father choked out, but his voice was clearly weakening.

Tristan leaned forward to raise Father’s head and plump his pillow. “Hold on, Father.” His stomach lurched. “Help is nigh. You can’t leave us. You can’t!”

Father’s eyes clouded over. “Get . . . the . . . paper, Tristan. Promise me . . . you’ll give it . . . to Dom.”

“Quiet now.” A chill wracked Tristan at seeing Father’s struggle to speak.

“Promise me!” his father said through clenched teeth.

“I promise. Now be still.” Tristan held his hand out to George. “Give it to me, all right? Can’t you see it’s upsetting him?”

But George stood frozen, his eyes fixed on the damned piece of paper. Then they both heard a gurgling sound, and George jerked his gaze up. “Father?” He went to stand on the viscount’s other side. “Father!”

Blood trickled from Father’s mouth, and Tristan’s pulse faltered. “No, this can’t be happening! No, no, no . . . Father!”

He cradled Father’s head in his hands, but Father’s eyes were fixed now, and his chest didn’t move.

“We have to help him,” Tristan told George. “We have to do
something!
” 

“Move away!”

Tristan backed off. George set down the codicil, then bent to shake Father’s shoulders. “Father,” he said firmly. “Damn it, wake up!”

When the glassy stare didn’t alter, George grabbed a hand mirror from the dressing table and held it over Father’s mouth. Then he let out a low curse.

“Well?” Tristan asked fearfully.

George’s face looked carved in stone. “There’s no breath. He’s dead.”

“That’s a lie!” In a frenzy, Tristan tried to revive his father, chafing his hands and rubbing his chest, but that eerie stare never altered. For once, George was telling the truth.

Tristan’s blood ran like sludge through his veins. Father was gone. They would never again attend races together, never go hunting grouse or deer. There would be no more lazy evenings at the cottage while Father regaled them with wild tales of his travels.

Ruthlessly, Tristan fought back tears. His half brother would mock him, especially since George wasn’t crying himself—though he stared fixedly at Father as if to glower the man into reviving.

“What do we do?” Tristan whispered.

“
We
do nothing. I’ll mourn my father’s passing and see to his burial.
You
will leave this house. Now.”

Shock gripped Tristan. “You wouldn’t . . . Surely you can’t mean to banish me from—”

George reached over to close Father’s eyes and pull the cover over his face. “I mean to do whatever I please from this day on. I own this house and everything in it.” He fixed Tristan with a look of pure vitriol. “So you are to get out and never darken these doors again.”

The command wasn’t entirely unexpected. Tristan had only ever been welcomed inside by Father and Dom, and now even Dom would hesitate to go against George.

Thinking of Dom reminded Tristan of his promise. Dom was studying to be a barrister and thus knew about legal matters. That was why Father wanted
him
to have the codicil.

Tristan rounded the bed, heading for the side table where George had set the paper down, but George blocked his path.

“Let me pass,” Tristan said.

“Not on your life.”

Fear froze Tristan’s spine. If George didn’t honor the document . . .

No, surely even George wasn’t
that
awful. “I promised Father I’d give Dom the codicil. Surely you won’t prevent me from keeping my promise.”

Like a crow feeding on carrion, George pecked at his hopes. “If you think I’ll let you and your whoring mother cheat me out of one penny of my inheritance, you’re mad.”

Whoring mother.
Damn it, Tristan had heard those
words far too often from George. He thrust his face into his brother’s. “If you ever dare to call my mother a whore again, I’ll beat you to a bloody pulp.”

George snorted. “You can try. But I was always able to trounce you. That hasn’t changed.”

The hell it hadn’t. Tristan lunged for the document, hoping to take George off guard, but George anticipated the move and tossed the codicil into the fire.

“No!” Tristan cried, turning for the hearth.

George caught him from behind, hanging on no matter how Tristan fought to get free. “You’ll never see Blue Blazes again, you hear me?” George hissed. “And you’ll damned well never be trained as a land agent, if I have anything to say about it.”

Tristan’s heart constricted as he watched his hopes burn. “Father wanted me to have a future.” It was proof of his love, and God knew Tristan had few enough of those. “You would go against his dying wish?”

Now that the document was ashes, George shoved Tristan aside. “He wasn’t in his right mind. And I’m not going to put up with you hanging about Rathmoor Park for the rest of my life, fomenting scandal everywhere we go.”

Scandal. Tristan was sick to death of it. Thanks to the Manton fear of scandal, Mother had never had a chance at a decent life. He couldn’t let George do this!

“So why not give me Blue Blazes?” At least then Tristan could race the animal and perhaps support his family that way. “You have plenty of other fine horses. You don’t need Blue Blazes, too!”

“You wouldn’t know what to do with the beast even if you did own it,” George spat. “It’s not as if you’ll have the money to take care of it.”

“I could race him—”

“Where?” George’s cold gaze flicked dismissively over Tristan. “Do you actually think racing gentlemen will allow a Frenchy bastard like you to move in their circles? They only tolerated you because of Father.”

“That’s not true!” Tristan cried, though he feared it was. “Everyone says I know a lot about horses. Father told me his friends were impressed.”

“By your ability to pull the wool over his eyes, perhaps. But even if I
did
allow you to have the gelding, you have nothing else to impress them with.” George sneered at him. “Why do you think Father never had you educated beyond the Ashcroft dame school? He knew there was no point. You’re too stupid to do anything but live off his generosity, and I’m putting a stop to that.”

Bile rose in Tristan’s throat. Without the annuity or even the horse, how would they survive? What would happen to Mother and Lisette? “I’ll tell everyone what you’ve done.” Might as well use the family hatred of scandal against George. “You won’t get away with it!”

George laughed. “Who will you tell? The servants? The villagers? It’s your word against mine, and you’re naught but a bastard. Even if they did believe you, they know whose money pays for their very lives, so they won’t dare act on it.”

“Dom would.” Tristan balled his hands into fists.
“He’ll never stand for this. You burned up his inheritance, too.”

“I’ll take care of my legitimate brother,” George said icily. “I would have fought the codicil legally anyway, and you would never have seen the money.”

“Then there was no need for you to burn it,” Tristan shot back.

George shrugged. “It saves me from waiting months for a court proceeding. That’s why Dom will side with me—because he needs my fortune to live. He certainly won’t defy me over the likes of you and yours.”

“Forget the legalities! I’m still your blood. So is Lisette.”

George went rigid. “Only because of an accident of birth. You are nothing to me. And I want you out of this house
now! 
”

When Tristan just stood there, George strode past him into the hall. “Hucker!”

Tristan tensed. The brutish man of affairs was always at George’s beck and call, and John Hucker appeared in the doorway within moments.

“The doctor ain’t arrived yet, master—”

“It’s ‘my lord’ now, if you please,” George clipped out.

That seemed to shake even Hucker. He glanced beyond Tristan to the bed and paled. “I see.”

“Take this bastard,” George went on, “and get him out of my sight. I don’t want him within a mile of this place.”

“Yes, m’lord.” Hucker squared his shoulders, then approached Tristan with a frightening deadness in
his features. “Come along now, boy. You heard the master . . . I mean, his lordship.”

Tristan glared at George. “You haven’t seen the last of me. I’ll make you pay for this if it takes the rest of my life.”

“Get him out of here, damn it!” George ordered Hucker.

When Hucker took Tristan’s arm, Tristan wrenched free. “I’m going.” Then he marched into the hall.

As he strode downstairs, each echoing step further fueling his anger, he could hear Hucker following him. To hell with George and Hucker! And to hell with Father, too, who’d neglected his duty to his children until it was too late.

Instantly, guilt seized Tristan. What was wrong with him to be thinking ill of Father, who wasn’t even cold in the grave? None of this was Father’s fault. It was George’s, all George’s.

Once outside, Tristan expected Hucker to let him go on alone, but the infernal arse fell into step beside him, swinging a lantern at his side.

“You don’t have to dog my steps back to the cottage,” Tristan grumbled. “I can find my own way in the moonlight. Leave me be, damn it.”

“If his lordship says he wants you a mile off, then I’m making sure you’re a mile off.”

“Shall we hunt up a yardstick so you can measure?” Tristan snapped.

Hucker said nothing, just kept stubbornly beside Tristan the whole way across the lawn.

Hucker had once been a halfway decent fellow, back when he’d worked for Father as house steward. George was already in school and Dom was still at home, so Hucker used to sneak treats to Tristan and Dom whenever they set out for their adventures in the cave near Flamborough Head. It was Hucker who’d taught Tristan the rudiments of accounting, Hucker who’d given Tristan his first cigarillo at the tender age of eight.

Then George had come home after finishing at Harrow. While Father had been on one of his trips, leaving George in charge, George had promoted Hucker to his personal man of affairs and everything had changed.

Now Hucker was as mean as George. Dom liked to say Hucker had been infected with the George and wasn’t likely to recover.

“I don’t know how you can work for him,” Tristan said. “He’s a cheat and a liar.”

“He’s the master. I do as I’m told.” Hucker slanted a glance at him. “If you was wise, you’d do as you’re told, too. There’s naught to be gained from going against him. You ought to have learnt that by now.”

“So I’m supposed to forget that he stole my inheritance from me, that he means to destroy my family?”

Hucker didn’t even ask him to explain. “You’re a bastard. There weren’t much chance for you anyway. It’s just how things are.”

Tristan was well used to being called a bastard, but the fact that Hucker could be so cold stoked his temper. They were passing the stables now, and Tristan tensed.
Blue Blazes was in there.
His
Blue Blazes. It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair, damn it!

They were halfway to the cottage when Hucker finally left him. Tristan walked only far enough to be out of the wretch’s sight. Perhaps he should wait for Dom to arrive, in order to warn him about what George had done.

Then what? George was right about Dom siding with his legitimate brother. Dom had no choice; as long as he stood with George, he’d be safe. And it wasn’t as if Dom could do anything to help them. He had no property of his own.

Which meant that Tristan and
his
family would starve. The cottage belonged to the Rathmoor Park estate, as did most everything in it. Bloody hell, if George wanted to, he could throw them out tomorrow.

How were they to live? Where could they go?

The sound of violins drifted to him through the forest, jerking him from his dark thoughts. It was the Gypsies—or as they preferred to call themselves, the Romany people. Having a nomadic spirit himself, Father had always allowed them to camp on the land, but that would no doubt change once George was in charge. They, too, would be kicked out, if not tomorrow, then soon. Perhaps he should warn them.

He headed through the forest toward their campfires. At least his friend Milosh Corrie, the horse trader, would understand the injustice of his losing Blue Blazes. Milosh appreciated the beauty and spirit of such a beast.

Damn George. All right, so perhaps Tristan could never have afforded to keep Blue Blazes, but he still could have sold the horse to Milosh for a good price, and then . . .

That stopped Tristan in his tracks. Milosh would be eager to buy such a fine gelding. He’d have the money for it, too, perhaps enough to enable them all to live until Tristan could find work. And the horse
was
Tristan’s by right, no matter what George said. If Tristan took it, he’d only be honoring Father’s wishes.