Page 57 of When a Lady Desires a Wicked Lord
“Oh, dear, he’s here somewhere. I’ve no idea where that husband of mine has gone. I suspect he’s regaling some unfortunate fellow with the dreary details of his latest expedition.” She framed her features in a solemn expression. “I have been meaning to properly express my condolences. Sir Gavin and I were deeply saddened to learn of your father’s untimely passing.”
Raymond adopted an equally somber expression. “I have not yet come to terms with the shock to the system. I’ve tried to distract myself from the grief.”
“Might I ask how your brother is taking the news?” Alex spoke up.
A slight curl of his lip betrayed his initial reaction to the question. He quickly reined in the response, but he’d already made his derision clear.
“Harold has used our father’s demise as an excuse to remain thoroughly foxed. The fool has crawled into a bottle of whisky.”
Sophie cast her a speaking glance. Harold Stockwell was generally considered to be a scholarly, level-headed fellow. Had his father’s death taken such a great toll on him?
“How very sad,” Sophie said. “I’d heard he might be in attendance tonight.”
“He’s here. Somewhere.” Raymond pointed to the stairs. “Last time I saw him, he was huddled in his room with his favorite companion—a bottle of Scotch. I must admit I am thankful he has not yet indulged his taste for absinthe.” Idly, he adjusted his cravat. “I should not have besieged the two of you with such unpleasant details. I do beg your pardon.”
“Please, think nothing of it. I’m sure this has been a difficult time,” Sophie said gently.
“Facing our father’s death has been an ordeal for both Harold and myself.” Stockwell turned to Alex. “I know how fond Father was of you. He held you in the highest regard.”
“The news of his death was a terrible shock. I have still not quite come to grips with it,” she said truthfully.
“Indeed,” he said.
A sudden commotion pulled their attention to the area of the ballroom occupied by the musicians. A metallic crash interrupted the strains of a waltz. A man raised himself from the spot where he’d landed on the floor.
Harold Stockwell brusquely shook his head, as if that might clear away the effects of far too much liquor. His black trousers had escaped the effects of the tumble, but his paisley waistcoat and black jacket were a rumpled mess. Dragging his fingers through dark strands that were far too long to be fashionable, he stared into the crowd.
“Why don’t you watch where you put those blasted things?” he bellowed at a violinist who took several steps in retreat. Stumbling past the musician, he managed to knock the top hat off a weasel-faced duke’s head while nearly tripping over a ruby-bedecked matron.
“Bloody hell,” Raymond Stockwell muttered under his breath. “Ladies, if you will excuse me.”
Before he could take his leave, his brother lumbered toward them. Harold’s gaze settled squarely on Alex. She swallowed against a wave of sudden apprehension. The towering man resembled an angry bull.
Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Benedict. He started toward them. Did he think to intercept the elder of the brothers?
Alex briskly shook her head. She did not require Benedict’s intervention. Not yet, at least.
Harold Stockwell made his way to where they stood. Sketching an exaggerated bow, he greeted them in turn.
“Miss Quinn, it has been far too long.” He badly slurred the words. “I had not expected you to be here tonight. If I had, I would have made my entrance well before now.”
“It is good to see you again,” she said, hoping her tone did not betray the falseness of her words.
“No—it is not. I look like bloody hell, and I feel far worse. My father should not have died as he did. I should have been there. It’s my fault, damn it.”
The expletive drew shocked gasps from the guests who stood within earshot. He shot them a scowl.
“It could not have been your responsibility. Do not blame yourself,” Alex said, choking back a fresh wave of emotion.
“Ah, but I do, Miss Quinn. How can I not?” Once again, he tore his fingers through his hair. Tears glistened in his red-rimmed eyes. “If I had not learned of that accursed tomb… If I had not told my father of the legend… He would still be alive. He would not have been murdered.”
Chapter Eighteen
“Well, that certainly did not go as planned.”
Sophie’s assessment of the evening’s events was spoken in her usual, no-nonsense manner. As Alex settled into a comfortable chair in the Stanwycks’ parlor, Sophie poured tea into delicately enameled porcelain cups.
“That may be the understatement of the year,” Alex agreed as she accepted a steaming cup of Earl Grey from Sophie’s outstretched hand.
