Page 28 of The Dove
“Bertram, I am not in the mood to have another row with you,” she replied. “Besides, I know that you tried to provoke him. What could you have been thinking?”
His lips tightened, nostrils flaring as his entire face flushed. He turned red all the way to his scalp, hands shaking as if he wanted to hit something. Hit her.
“While he was at it, did he tell you that he’s moved into his new townhome in Grosvenor Square?” he retorted. “Everywhere I’ve gone today, I’ve had to hear about it.”
Wrinkling her brow, she shook her head. “What does that have to do with us?”
Coming closer, he reached out to grasp her shoulders and gave her a little shake. “His new home is Fairchild House, Daff.”
Shock stole her breath for a moment—her words. She could not make sense of what Bertram was saying. It couldn’t be true. The papers had reported that Adam had taken up residence at a Mayfair hotel. He didn’t own a London residence, as he preferred to remain in Scotland—something she now knew to be because he wished to stay close to his sister.
Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, trying to bring her racing thoughts under control. He had just warned her—hadn’t he?—that his next move would make itself known to her soon. Had this been what he meant? That he had publicly proclaimed his ownership of her family home?
It was so good, she almost laughed in Bertram’s face. Adam was rubbing her brother’s nose in his defeat, publicly flaunting her at his side, and ensuring he, and everyone in London, knew that he’d purchased the home their father had been forced to sell. If she weren’t so bloody weary of all the games and schemes, she might have been amused by it. As it was, she only experienced a sense of foreboding, because she knew this was not the end of it. Bertram’s pride would not allow him to take this lying down, which meant she could expect him to retaliate, and for Adam to act accordingly.
“Have you heard a word I’ve said?” Bertram snapped, releasing her and backing into the nearest armchair before falling into it with a huff. “The blackguard is making certain I can never set foot in any respectable establishment or home ever again … not without becoming a laughingstock.”
“Perhaps you ought not have incited him,” she replied, sinking into the couch across from him. “If you had just left well enough alone …”
“He ruined you, and then publicly flaunted the fact,” he countered. “You would not expect me to appear a coward in public, would you?”
“Yet, you are surprisingly content to act as one in private,” she muttered, leaning back in her seat and pressing her fingers against her throbbing temples. “Leave, Bertram. I am not interested in listening to you whine and moan about Hartmoor. You’ve brought this all on yourself, you know … and me, as well. He isn’t finished with you. If you were smart, you’d leave London quietly and pray he does not come after you. Perhaps then, we might all be able to get on with our lives.”
He gaped at her in silence for a long moment, red splotches painting his face. He appeared like a petulant child, prepared to throw a tantrum. It only made her despise him more.
“I cannot believe you would turn your back on your own family,” he whined.
Shrugging one shoulder, she rose from the couch, determined to see him out herself if he would not leave. “You saw to that with your despicable actions, Bertram. Now, we have nothing left to say to each other. I trust you will not return here again.”
Their gazes met and held, her brother seeming to vacillate between anger and disbelief. It truly amazed her that he’d seemed to think she would eventually forgive him. He clearly operated under the belief that he’d done nothing wrong … that she was the one being unfair by not wanting to have anything to do with him.
Finally, he moved, shaking his head with a derisive snort. He glared at her as if she were some loathsome creature he wished to smash beneath his heel.
“You have always been so high and mighty, thinking yourself better than the rest of us,” he hissed, venom lacing his words “Do you think I do not know about your wanton behaviors? Even before Hartmoor, you were always a shameless tart. I know about you and Robert … all those summers the two of you would sneak off to be together without me … you coming home with grass stains all over your gowns. Yet, you have the nerve to look down your nose at me, judging me, finding me to be beneath you.”
Instead of the shame his words had been meant to inspire, she experienced only anger, her palms itching to slap him, to ram those words back down his throat. That he could think the follies of her youth comparable to his sinister actions proved to her how delusional he truly was. There was no reason she should allow it to get to her, to let him needle her into flying off the handle.
Taking a deep breath, she gestured toward the door. “I asked you to leave. If you need help locating the door, I am certain my footmen can help you find it.”
His gaze became downright murderous as he swept toward her, then past her, putting her behind him as he made for the drawing room exit. “You are going to regret this … mark my words.”
She followed him to the door, watched as he thundered through the vestibule and out the front door—which Rowney held open for him. As the panel closed behind him, she swallowed past the lump of anxiety his words caused. Not because she truly believed he would harm her, or that he could ever be strong enough to hurt Adam, but because it only confirmed what she’d known to be true for quite some time now.
This thing between Bertram and Adam might never end … not until one of them was dead. Considering the hell both men had put her through today, she was not certain she cared which of them killed the other, so long as they did it quickly and left her out of it.
Turning to Rowney, she put both men out of her mind for the moment.
“I will take tea in my personal drawing room,” she declared. “Oh, and in the future, Mr. Fairchild is no longer welcome in this house. Should he turn up on my doorstep again, you are to turn him away.”
“Yes, my lady,” the butler answered as she turned and made her way up the stairs.
CHAPTER SEVEN
dam took a sip of champagne while he stood perusing the occupants of the crowded ballroom. What he wouldn’t give for something stronger—brandy or port—and perhaps a room without quite so much light or as many people. Who on Earth had thought it was a good idea to light hundreds of candles in a room crammed with people wall to wall? It was too bright, and the din set his teeth on edge. The music harmed as much as it helped, the pleasant strains of the various country dances, quadrilles, and waltzes nearly overtaken by the voices. Greetings, gossip, politics, planned assignations … all of it jumbled together in a continuous sound that made him want to take a dagger to his ear.
Someone, hundreds of years ago, had decided that not only was this a good idea, but that all people of title and wealth should indulge as often as possible. They had called these abominable events ‘balls’, and every young debutante he’d ever met thought of it all as being romantic. He found it a waste of time, but his presence here tonight had a purpose.
After moving into Fairchild House that morning—while most of Grosvenor Square swarmed with those making morning calls, ensuring that everyone would see him coming—he had set Niall to work determining if Daphne had plans for the evening. He had it on good authority that she’d received several invitations and wanted to know if she’d accepted any. While a chit with even a lick of self-preservation might have chosen to hide away at home, his little dove was built differently. She would wish to boldly show him that she wasn’t frightened, that his threats would not rule her every action. As well, being cooped up indoors was sure to have driven her batty by now.
