Page 50 of Ironvine

“Yes, I think so.”

They were greeted by a manservant, who took their cloaks.

“Is his Lordship at home?” Charles asked.

“Yes, sir. He’s been in the drawing room. Said he did not wish to be disturbed for any reason.”

“Very good.”

“Sir, I did hear glass crashing and such, but I did not dare enter.”

“You did well. Thank you.”

Letting out a heavy breath, Charles directed Georgina to the drawing room. “Hugh often throws objects, breaking anything in sight when he’s angry and frustrated. Something he inherited from our father.”

“I see,” murmured Georgina.

Charles opened the double doors of the drawing room. Shards of broken glass littered the floor, as well as pieces of a shattered vase. The sweet dank smell of spilt brandy wafted around them.

His spine prickled as they entered the drawing room. “Hugh?”

Georgina cried out.

His brother lay on the floor before the fireplace. Motionless.

Charles rushed to his brother’s side, his wounded arm flaring with pain. Georgina crouched next to him. Blood and bone matted Hugh’s blond hair on one side of his head. Blood on the floor. Blood everywhere. A small bronze figurine of a monkey on the floor at his side.

“No, Hugh…no,” he whispered roughly.

“This cannot be…it cannot be.” Georgina’s tiny voice faded around him. “We just saw him. We…”

Charles’s hand reached out and slid the lifeless eyelids closed. His stomach turned.Still warm.“Georgina, send for your cousin to come immediately. Compose yourself—do not tell the servants anything.”

“No. I won’t.” She darted from the room.

Charles locked the door behind Georgie and scoured the room with fresh eyes. The bottom of the broken brandy glass was on the floor. Hugh’s favourite brandy stood open on the writing desk, and he went to it. A French brandy for which he paid dearly to smugglers.

On the desk, the bottle of ink was open, the quill lay on the blotter, and ink pooled underneath it. Had he been writing a letter? Charles brushed his fingers over the textured surface of the blotter. Only Hugh’s signature was still evident.

He grabbed Hugh’s half-empty bottle of brandy and gulped, the liquor streaming from his mouth. He wiped at his face as a knock came on the door. “Charles?”

He opened the door for Georgina. “I sent word to Malcolm to come immediately.”

“Good.”

She clutched his arm. “Are you unwell? You’re quite pale and—” She brought him to a large armchair and wiped at the cool perspiration beading his forehead. She sat with him, the two of them quiet, staring across the room at Hugh’s lifeless body.

The crazy thought of William faking his death and coming here after the duel to finish off Hugh raced through his addled brain. William was always a crafty bugger. Always had to have the last word. But he’d seen the blood spewing from William’s chest this morning, heard those awful final moans of his, witnessed that slackness in his limbs.

No.

He dragged his hands through his hair. There was another jealous man, wasn’t there? The Duke of Oakley.

Although Hugh had expressed confidence that the Duke was not jealous of his affair with the Duchess, even approved of it, the three of them being friends who often lived together, it seemed unlikely to Charles and much too convenient.

And if the Duke’s wife was very much attached to Hugh and he to her, not simply enjoying a dalliance, would that not be a threat to any husband? A threat to his ultimate possession of her, his possession. Oakley was a man of great privilege and power, and the Duchess was his wife, his lawful property.

Once Hugh and the Duchess had separated, perhaps Oakley had taken the opportunity to punish Hugh.

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