Page 48 of Dukes Do It Better
“Language, Malachi,” she barked, finally looking at him.
“Don’t worry about my language, worry about why someone is breaking into your bedchamber. Mother, what is going on?”
Her mouth pinched, but one hand fluttered near her neckline before returning to her lap in a white-knuckled fist.
“Your father kept a record book. The king wants it. Certain people think I am misusing the information within this book. Since I’ve ignored their demands to deliver it, they are clearly resorting to stealing it. I spent too many years with your father in service to not recognize the escalation of events.”
A lovely way of saying her attempted manipulation was backfiring and biting her in the arse. Part of him wanted to laugh at the poetic justice of it all. But someone robbing the house was serious. Invading her bedchamber in the middle of the night was an outright threat. At least Malachi wasn’t the only one who wanted to find the damn thing. “So give them the book.”
“If I had it, don’t you think I would?” she snapped.
“Then tell them you don’t have it.” He waited to see if she’d admit to her full culpability.
“I can’t. I already claimed the opposite when I used the book to get you home to do your duty. It’s unconscionable for them to treat me in such a manner.” Mother avoided looking at him, focusing instead on picking a piece of lint off the lace of her wrapper.
No, Malachi thought that part was actually reasonable. When one threatened the British government, there did tend to be consequences. Not that he wanted his mother to suffer the sentence for treason. He sighed. “What can I do to help?”
“We need to find your father’s bank book, so I can turn it over and prove my loyalty. Now that you’re home, I have what I need from them.” Mother rose and straightened her spine. “This room is the logical place to keep the book, but I’ve already searched here. I’m hoping fresh eyes will reveal a hiding place I overlooked.”
His knuckles ached a bit where he’d landed that satisfying punch to Lord Roxbury’s jaw, and the herbal tea and late-night snack he’d enjoyed were sitting in his stomach nicely, urging him to find a bed and sleep. The late hour chimed from the mantel clock as he climbed to his feet. “You aren’t going to discuss the fact that you lied to the Admiralty to get my command pulled out from under me? Because that’s what happened. And now you want my help to save your neck, in the middle of the night.” The longer he stood there, the more aware he became of a headache blooming behind his eyes.
His mother huffed an exasperated sigh like she used to when he disagreed with her as a child, and she claimed he was throwing a fit. “I did what I had to do, otherwise you’d have stayed on your blasted ship forever and neglected your title. You belong here, in London. You’ll marry, sire an heir, and do your duty to the family. The time for playing sea captain has passed.”
That ache at his temple grew to a pounding throb, thudding with each pulse of his heart. “I’m not playing anything, Mother. I am the captain of my ship, and I worked damned hard to get there. I don’t give a flying frog fart about the bloody title. It can die with me for all I care.”
She went pale. “You don’t mean that.”
“I mean every single word.”
“George knew to protect the family line. The Trenton title was all that mattered to him.” Her harsh whisper cut through the room.
The fight seeped out of him, replaced by the familiar dull, hollow knowledge that he would never be enough for his family. “George was perfect. I know.”
“You were never supposed to be Trenton,” Mother said, bitter grief soaking her voice.
“No. I wasn’t. But we are all stuck with me being Trenton now. And I’ll handle the title my own way.”
Her lips tightened even more, making her face pucker as if she’d smelled something foul. The grief gave way to familiar disdain when she snapped, “Marry. I don’t care who. Beget a son off a dock whore for all I care, as long as he’s legitimate. But you will do your duty to the Trenton title, Malachi.” Steel wrapped her voice.
“Like you are? Staining the title with acts of treason?” He let the jab fly, then turned. “Have fun finding Father’s book. I’m going to bed. Tomorrow I’ll coordinate with Ivan for more security. Intruders in your home is a threat I’ll take seriously. The rest of this is your problem.”
“Malachi, come back here this instant,” his mother cried.
Turning, he pasted on a carefree grin he didn’t feel. “Hush, or you’ll wake the servants. You wouldn’t want witnesses, would you?”
* * *
It came as no surprise when Malachi felt like horse poop the next morning. The kind that had been smashed into the bottom of a shoe and tracked over uneven pavement, then scraped off on the edge of a step.
As the sun rose over London, making a valiant effort to bully through the morning fog, Malachi blinked at the walls of his bedchamber from his seat next to the window. A cold cup of coffee rested in his hands, long forgotten.
Burning grit abraded his eyes with every slow blink, but he didn’t have the energy to rub at them.
It was a humbling thing, to face the boundaries of this relationship with his mother. Yes, he resented the hell out of her machinations and desired to see her face consequences for her actions. But crossing the British government—with a potentially deadly outcome—was another matter.
Last night’s so-called emergency confirmed his suspicion that she’d bluffed her way into manipulating the Royal Navy. Whatever was in his father’s journal was serious enough for the government to act without proof. Dangerous enough for George to hide the information from their mother.
At this moment, the only thing standing between Lady Trenton and a potential treason charge or, worse yet, a quiet accident, was him—the misfit son she hated, who was also her only hope of retrieving that damned book. And what stood between Malachi and said damned book? George’s grave.
