Page 41 of House of Thorns
“Aye,” he half growled in wholehearted agreement.
The cat flicked its ears in his direction, as if knowing what it had interrupted.
Olivia lifted the cat in her arms and strode to the door. “Then, if you’ll excuse me, Lord Blair, I’ve a good day’s work yet to do.”
He watched her open the door and set Mr. Peppers on his four furry, interfering feet. She was putting distance between them. He sighed. The window of kissing her had shut—this time.
“As you wish, Miss Mackenzie.”
* * *
Nicholas lounged back in his chair and eyed the man seated across the table. Mr. Timms was the best in the snooping business, but he never failed to remind Nicholas of a Hertfordshire boar. Today, even more so. He looked damned uncomfortable in his waistcoat, a new one obviously worn for this occasion. The buttons strained with each word he spoke. Nicholas found himself watching the middle one, mentally wagering how long the thing had before it shot off across the hotel floor.
“I shall have an answer for you within the week, I’m sure,” Mr. Timms said, mopping his sweating brow for the fifth time.
“Discretion,” Nicholas repeated, momentarily forgetting the button.
“Most assuredly, my lord,” Mr. Timms wheezed. “Lady Deborah’s reputation will not be harmed on my account.” He hefted his bulk to the edge of his seat, preparing to leave.
“That’s not all.” Nicholas lifted a finger from the table to stop him.
The man sank back, the chair creaking with the shift of weight. The button held to the cloth, desperately.
Nicholas gave the thing less than five minutes, and then focused his attention back on the man, his thoughts sobering. “In addition to the mystery of Lady Deborah’s circumstances, I wish you to investigate those of another.” He paused. Even though they were the only men in the hotel’s parlor, he leaned closer and murmured, “Lord James Randall.”
An eager gleam entered Mr. Timms’ eye. “I’ve heard of the man. Much, to be truthful.”
Nicholas cocked a curious brow. “I’ve a history with him.”
“History?” Mr. Timms fished a pencil and parchment from his inner waistcoat pocket and waited.
“When I was a lad of twelve or so, he joined his father on the Randall estate, neighboring mine.”
“Indeed,” Mr. Timms grunted, jotting down a few words.
“For a few years, we were friendly, I suppose.” Something about Randall had never set well with him, but in the remote location of their estates in Northern Scotland, Randall had been one of the few lads his age. “Of relevance are the events concerning…Henrietta.”
“Henrietta?”
Henrietta Kendrick. Nicholas hadn’t spoken of her in years, though he thought of her often enough. He closed his eyes and organized his thoughts. “I’d just finished school that year. I came home to a house party my mother was holding. Lady Kendrick and her daughter, Henrietta, were there. Along with Randall, of course. He’d been visiting daily. Henrietta was beautiful.” More than beautiful. She was his first love. He’d fallen for her the moment he’d laid eyes upon her wealth of blonde curls.
“And?” Mr. Timms prompted when the silence lengthened.
“Ah, yes.” Nicholas nodded, half in apology. “We both fell for Henrietta. Deeply. At first…” At first, she’d played them against each other. Then, she’d fallen hard. She’d chosen him. “We fell in love. We were to wed. We spoke of it often, though I hadn’t proposed to her formally. The night of the card game. That’s when Lord Randall made his move.”
That night, he and Henrietta had exchanged harsh words. She’d wanted him to dance. He’d wanted to play cards with Lord Witherspoon. He’d gone against her wishes and chosen the cards. When he finally left the card table in the wee hours of the morning, he discovered her gone. He thought she’d merely gone off to sleep.
The next morning, Lord Kendrick discovered Lord Randall in his daughter’s bed. He’d ordered them wed within the week.
Nicholas closed his eyes.
He’d been angry. He’d refused to speak with her. He’d nearly left, but then, he met a woman. Anne or some such name. He bedded her as an act of vengeance. He then stayed at the blasted party, parading her in full view of Henrietta.
Then, the day before the impromptu wedding, he’d just finished his preparations to leave when a maid began screaming. He’d never forget. How could he? He’d spent his every waking moment since, distracting himself with wine, women and song in an effort to banish the image of Henrietta’s dangling feet, hanging from the barn rafters.
The wine and women had worked, for a time. Then, after he’d made his peace with Henrietta, he kept to the habits of a rake. But now? Aye, now. Had he, at last, outgrown those distractions?
“Odd,” Mr. Timms grunted, scribbling across the page as fast as he could.
