Chapter Twenty-Three
When Parliament was in session, the Earl of Wintham could be found in his office every Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday from dawn until the House of Lords was called to order at a quarter to four o’clock. As it was now just past breakfast on Friday, and Nick had at last determined to speak to his father—after further prodding from Montrose—thither he went.
Upon his arrival in his father’s chambers, the clerk had called him Abingdon and told him to wait. Nick did not bother to correct his mistake. There was little point, when he would not be returning for a second visit.
“Ah, Nicholas.” His father appeared in the doorway. “You are not the son I was expecting, but you are the most welcome.” He gestured Nick to follow him.
“You cannot mean I am more welcome here than Nate. I won’t believe it,” Nick said incredulously.
Wintham blinked through his spectacles. “But it is true. He is my dear son, but he always wants difficult things. He wants the Bloody Code repealed, can you imagine? And for me to give a speech!”
“Why does he not give his own speech?”
“Abingdon hates to speak in public, you know that. His tongue ties itself in knots. I told him he has my support, but I cannot devote any more of my time to a hopeless cause. He should join forces with Colonel Kent—I told him so many times. They have the same ideals.” He grimaced. “But he refuses to do so, although I cannot fathom why.”
Nick grinned. He knew why. “Kent asked Alice to marry him.”
“You don’t say!” His father gaped at him. “Well, well. That does make things more complicated.”
This was, Nick realized suddenly, the longest conversation they had shared since he was twelve. He looked around. He had never been to his father’s office before, but it was just how he had imagined it would look. Large oak desk, heavy ruby-colored drapes. On one wall was a portrait of Lord and Lady Wintham. On the other wall were three portraits—Nathaniel, Freesia, and himself. Although, strictly speaking, two were of Nathaniel and none were of him. They had been twenty-one when the portrait was commissioned. His brother had sat for both, according to Freesia’s letter.
“Care for a brandy?” Wintham asked. He unstopped the decanter and poured two glasses. “It’s early, but it steadies the nerves. Just don’t tell your mother.”
“Thank you.” Nick took the glass but did not drink. Adelaide would be less than pleased if he stumbled through her bedroom window again, and he could not guarantee that he would not. Even sober, he was sorely tempted. A drop of pot-valor would send him in the wrong direction.
“Now, then.” His father took a long draft of his brandy. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”
“I suspect you already know.”
Wintham tilted his head. “Oh? Perhaps I do. But I would like you to explain it to me, all the same. I would hate for there to be any further blunders in our family.”
Blunder? Was that how they referred to Nick’s banishment these days? His father could go to hell.
But not until Nick got his title.
He gritted his teeth. “It seems the Prince Regent is quite happy to bestow titles on those who served the Crown during our strife with France. The Duke of Montrose, who is a friend of mine, has asked him to name me the Marquess of Rain.”
“I had heard something to that effect, yes.”
“It is somewhat unconventional for a son to have a title surpassing that of his still-living father. The Prince Regent would like to see support from the House of Lords before he signs the letters patent. Montrose believes the lords would be happy to do so if you lead the way.”
“Ah, yes,” Wintham murmured. “Do we eat our young, or do they eat us? The age-old question persists.”
“I have no desire to eat you, Father.”
“Nonsense. That is exactly what you desire.”
Nick frowned. “Is it necessary for one to be diminished for another to rise? You are still Wintham, no matter what I am.”
“Power, influence—are these things nothing to you?” He waved a hand. “They are everything, else you would not seek them. It would change nothing if you were not my son, I grant you that. But you are my son. Therefore, it changes everything.”
“So your answer is no, then.” Of course it was.
“My answer is yes.”
Well. That was unexpected.
Nick narrowed his eyes. “What do you want in return?”
“I am not bargaining with you, Nick.” He laughed quietly. “You wish me to publicly declare my support for your title. Very well, I shall do so. You served the Crown admirably, from all accounts, and I have no reason to stand against you. No, not even to prevent my own devouring. My support is freely given.”
“But you must want something,” Nick persisted. It was unfathomable that he could not.
“We all want something.” His father shrugged his shoulders and took another swallow of brandy. “But what I want from you cannot be bargained for. You cannot promise it to me, nor offer it in trade. It is something that either exists or it does not.”
Nick rubbed his temple. “You are talking in circles, Father.”
“Very well. Here it is. I want you to marry a nice girl. I want you to have children, and to bring those children to Haverly, where they will play with Nate’s children and Freesia’s children. And while the children are laughing and shouting, and our womenfolk are giving one another exasperated looks, I want to sit with you and Nate. We will drink”—his gaze landed on Nick’s untouched brandy—“tea. You will tell us of your adventures, and Nate will bore us to tears with his vast knowledge of which monarch marched where. And we will be happy.”
Nick pondered this silently for long moments. “You want absolution,” he said finally.
“I want forgiveness. Yes.”
Rage coursed through Nick’s veins, the likes of which he had never felt before. “Do you think you deserve forgiveness?”
His father arched his brows. “No one does, son. Forgiveness is a necessary evil so we do not poison ourselves with our own bitterness. When you do forgive me, it will be for your own sake, and I will be a happy casualty.”
“I was twelve when you sent me away! To protect Nate’s title. But you do not care enough to protect that title now?”
His father studied his port, his forehead wrinkled in concentration. “It was never about protecting the title, Nick. It was about protecting lives. You don’t know what it was, to live with the burden of our ancestors. I—”
Nick snorted. “I think I lived with that burden more than anyone.”
His father held up his hand. “Allow me to finish. I was the only son, so I did not have to suffer my father’s suspicions of me, as you did. But I had to bear my suspicions of him. To this day, I do not know with certainty. Did my father poison his own brother? Had his father done the same? It ate at me, twisted my mind. By the time he passed, I could not even look at him. When you pushed Nate from the tree, I knew the questions would drive me truly mad. And what of you? It seems ridiculous to say out loud, but I was horribly frightened you would learn the stories and think fratricide was your destiny, a calling from God.”
Nick stared at him in disbelief. “You cannot be serious.”
“Do you really think you would be any different if you’d had to wonder every day if I were a murderer?” his father demanded. “Would you not do everything in your power to ensure your own sons were safe?”
Nick had to concede the point…but he did so silently.
“You poisoned Nate’s mind against me,” Nick reminded him. “You made him fear me.”
“Ah, no. I never intended Nate to find out our family’s history, but that became impossible. The boy always read too much. And for this particular secret, he only had to read Debrett’s and make note of the births, deaths, and who became Lord Wintham to understand that something treacherous had occurred many times over.” His father paused. “But yes, I must say that we taught him to be careful, and my sister—who also lived in doubt about our father—was extremely forward about it.”
“I did nothing wrong.” Nick spoke quietly, straining to keep his voice from shaking. “I was innocent.”
His father looked stricken. “Yes. I blundered horribly, I can see that now. But I could not see that then, and that is what I wish you to understand. I did not act with malice or cruelty, only desperation. Forgive me.”
“I cannot.”
“Not today. But perhaps someday you might feel differently. You have my support, regardless.”
Nick stood slowly. “Do what you will. I must take my leave now.”
“Until next time, then.”
Nick felt very sure there would not be a next time. Still, he nodded his agreement. He paused at the doorway, glancing back at his father. Lord Wintham was still seated, gazing at his brandy with a melancholy expression. Suddenly, his father looked very old, as though he had aged a decade during their hour in his office. Perhaps, after all—
No. No, he could not.
Nick stepped from the building into the sunlight. He started walking, unsure of his direction, knowing only that his limbs were desperate for activity. He moved faster and faster, darting between hackneys and ladies.
And then he halted.
He blinked, and blinked again, but no, his eyes did not deceive him. There stood one Miss Adelaide Bursnell, attempting to purchase passage on the mail coach.
With neither chaperone nor protector in sight.
By God, but this woman would be the death of him!