Page 85 of The Viscount's Seduction
She heard a loud audible sigh that did not echo in Bakeley’s chest.
“You’ve sent someone to watch him?” Shaldon asked.
“I borrowed Bink’s groom, Johnny.”
“A good man. Sirena, my dear, are you all right?”
She had squeezed back the tears, though her face must be blotchy.
Bakeley looked down on her. “I’m glad you’ve not got my coat wet.”
“My dear.” Shaldon was next to her, freeing one of her hands from Bakeley, his grip as firm and as solid as his son’s. There was none of the papery smoothness of old age in that hand, or in truth, anywhere about the man. He pushed her chair closer to the desk and seated her again.
“Bakeley, pour us all a brandy. You’ll have one, my dear?”
“Only a bit.” She sat up straight. Brandy weakened the mind. So could a sneaking man’s kindness. “Did you know all of this about my cousin already?”
“That he tried to molest you? No. That he’s the worst sort of villain? Yes.”
He accepted the glass from Bakeley and looked hard at him. “You’ve done well, son.”
Bakeley’s mouth dropped open, but he quickly recovered and handed Sirena her drink.
“Let us drink to the next Lady Shaldon.” His lordship lifted his glass, took a drink, and promptly had a fit of coughing.
Perhaps the stories of his illness were not entirely unfounded. “Are you unwell, sir?” Sirena asked.
Shaldon shook his head and cleared his throat. “We shall send someone to take a room at that inn.”
“Kincaid?” James asked.
“Even in disguise, he’s too well known, I fear. Besides, he’s not back yet from Little Norwick. I’ve another man, just returned from the Continent.”
He got up, went into the hallway and spoke to someone, someone who hadn’t been there when they’d entered.
“Good heavens,” she whispered.
“Yes. Will you have another?”
“No.” She handed him her glass and glanced back. Shaldon was still in the hall. “Shall we have a look at that file?”
“He means to show it to us, else it wouldn’t be there.”
But there wouldn’t have been time since Shaldon soon returned and took his seat. “Sterling was in the army, did you know that?”
His abruptness took her by surprise.
“Yes, I’d heard that,” she said.
“He was in the cavalry for many years and never made it past captain.” Shaldon frowned. “A squirrelly, unreliable fellow during the Irish troubles, and one who had a dodgy period of service in the Peninsular campaign, managing to get himself shifted back to England. He was about to be sent to America when Napoleon escaped. Much to his chagrin, Hollister wound up at Waterloo.” He took a drink and his frown deepened. “As did his brother.”
She thought back to the short twenty-four hours she’d spent with the man. “He never mentioned a brother.”
“Gareth Hollister was the elder, first in line for the Glenmorrow title. Gareth had studied law and had a small income, but otherwise lived the useless life of a landless gentleman. Got caught up in the patriotic fervor and followed his brother to Brussels. He wasn’t regular army, but he took his horse out with the cavalry anyway.”
“And was killed.” Sirena felt sick. “Was he also a villain?”
“He was mainly a fool.”
