Page 96 of The Duke and the Lady in Red
“Whit!”
Hearing the joy in her voice, he turned from the portrait. “Mother.”
Crossing over to him, she gave him a quick hug, then held him at arm’s length to study him as though she possessed the power to read his thoughts. He wondered why he had failed to notice during their last visit how her hair had faded to silver and the lines at her eyes and mouth had deepened into wrinkles. Before Rose, he noticed so few things.
“You’re looking well,” his mother said now. “Yet you’re troubled. What’s amiss?”
“Nothing really. I just— May we sit?”
“Oh yes, of course. Forgive my lack of manners. Shall I ring for tea?”
“No, I—” He almost told her that he wouldn’t be there that long, but what he wanted couldn’t be explained easily. “Scotch if you have it.”
Her mouth formed a moue of displeasure. Still, she rang for the butler. When tea, biscuits, and scotch had been delivered, Avendale savored the fine amber liquid while his mother sipped her tea. Leaning forward, his elbows on his thighs, holding the glass between two hands, he said, “I have a favor to ask. While I believe I could get assistance from my acquaintances—” Rose was correct. His only friend was Lovingdon. The others were merely acquaintances. “I believe I would have more success if the request came from you.”
“What do you require?”
Just like that. No hesitation, no doubt, as though he’d been a good son, as though he deserved her loyalty, as though he weren’t taking advantage of her influence, the goodwill others had toward her. Her face was wreathed with hope that she could assist, that she could help him acquire what he sought.
During the past decade, how often had she—with the same hopefulness—waited for him to arrive for a special dinner, waited for him to visit? How many invitations had he ignored? Once he’d been old enough to move out, he’d rarely crossed her threshold. Setting aside his glass, he stood. “I’m sorry. I made a mistake in coming here today.”
With swift movements, he headed for the door.
“Whit, my darling son, whatever you need, whatever trouble you might be facing, we are here for you.”
Stopping in his tracks, he knew if he walked through the door, he would never, ever be back. He could no longer live without the truth. He just wasn’t certain he wanted it. He thought of the truth with which Rose dealt. She was going to lose her brother. Yet she courageously faced each day. Compared with her he was a blistering coward.
Turning, he faced his mother, watched as the hope returned to her eyes. He was going to dash it, bluntly and cruelly. It was the best way. No mincing of words, no more dancing around something that should have been faced years ago—when it had happened. “I saw you kill my father.”
She staggered back as though he’d thrown the mass of his body at her. Probably felt as though he had. Tears welling in her eyes, she cupped a shaking hand over her mouth, shook her head, and sank onto the settee.
Where was her anger, her offense, her repudiation? It infuriated him that the tiny seed of doubt he’d nurtured all these years was crushed beneath the weight of horror marching over her features. “You’re not going to deny it?”
Her mouth moved, but no words sprung forth, as though she couldn’t decipher where to begin. Finally, in a barely audible tone, she asked, “How is it ... that you think you saw ... something so horrible?”
“You’d taken me to Lovingdon’s but after we were put to bed, I slipped out and raced home, because I missed you. I came in through the gardens, but sensed something wasn’t right and became frightened. The door into the library was opened. As I approached, I saw you bash him with a poker.”
She shook her head more briskly, held up a hand as though she had the power to stay his words. “I didn’t mean to kill him, only to stop him.”
“But why would—”
“She was protecting me,” a deep voice cut in quietly but forcefully.
Avendale jerked around to find himself facing the wrath of Sir William. He’d always thought the man gentle, almost too kind, but at that moment, Avendale saw a man who would kill to protect what was his. And the duchess was his.
“She was protecting me,” Sir William repeated.
“Because you and my mother were lovers?” he spat. “You were found out, so you sought to rid yourself of my father?”
“No!” his mother cried out. “Is that what you thought all these years?”
“What else was I think to when Sir William was always about?”
“That you and she were in need of protection. Your father was a beast. We tried to rid your mother of his presence once; it didn’t work.”
“We?” He looked back to his mother.
“She had nothing to do with it the first time.”
